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I often feel torn between two desires: the deep pull of my unfinished felt collages, waiting patiently for my stitches, and the quiet plea of my body, asking me to stop. Each time I try to pick up the needle, pain rushes through my arm and chest, reminding me of limits I wish I didn’t have.

I resist painkillers, perhaps stubbornly and instead let myself drift into lighter distractions, sometimes junk TV, sometimes simply silence. Yet this pause has also opened another door: the world of old books about art and the history of my homeland. Reading them fills me with inspiration, new ideas, and sparks for future artworks.

At the same time, they carry me back to my childhood world: a place of peace, beauty, and innocence. That sweetness makes me a little homesick, but it also nourishes me, as if reminding me of the roots that keep me grounded and the memories that keep my imagination alive.

So I try to see this time not only as an interruption, but as an opportunity: a moment to read, to dream, and to let my artistic interests deepen. Even when my hands rest, my imagination keeps on weaving.