There are questions that seem to be born with us. They rest behind the eyes like hidden constellations: Who are we? Why are we here? Are we alone?

I do not remember a time when I wasn’t listening for the answers. As a child, I could already feel the world pressing against me, loud and unrelenting, yet there was something softer underneath it all—a silence I couldn’t name. While the streets outside pulsed with noise and life, I searched for the quiet corners where I could breathe. I would draw then, slowly, carefully, as if each line was a thread leading me deeper into the mystery.

The faces came first. They were not planned. They appeared like visitors—fragile, luminous, drifting into my hands from somewhere I could not see. I sketched them with the reverence one gives to dreams, afraid they might dissolve if I looked away for too long. Their eyes watched me as I worked, and I began to sense they were carrying messages I was too young to understand.

In time, I realized these faces were not just mine. They were everyone’s. Each one seemed to hold fragments of the people I loved, the strangers I passed in the street, even the ancestors I had never met but could somehow feel. They were not portraits. They were memories of something we all share—the invisible thread that binds us together, even when we believe we are alone.

There were moments when the world asked me to step away from this private dialogue and paint what was expected. I learned discipline, I learned form, I learned to create in ways that pleased others. And yet the silence was always there, waiting for me. It called me back, gently, as if reminding me that the real work was not to please, but to listen.

Listening is not easy. The world does not like silence. But when I sit with it long enough, I feel it begin to breathe. And in that breath, I find the fragments again: shadows of faces, echoes of bodies, gestures half-formed. My drawings are the record of that listening. They are not answers. They are not even questions. They are simply the traces of everything we forget to notice—the ghosts of moments, the outlines of lives lived and yet to be lived.

I think often of the hands that will hold my drawings when I am no longer here. Will they see themselves in the faces I have traced? Will they feel that they are being watched back?

Because this is the truth I have learned: we are never alone. Even in our darkest nights, even when the noise of the world makes us forget, there is something vast and wordless surrounding us. It is older than time, and it remembers.

Perhaps that is what drives me to keep creating: the hope that you will feel it too. That you will stand before one of these drawings and, for just a moment, feel the thread pulling at you from the other side.

Not everything has to be explained. Not every silence needs to be filled. But if we are still enough, if we allow ourselves to look, we might see that we are part of something infinite. And in that infinity, every face matters, every shadow matters, every fleeting breath of life matters.

This is what my work is about—not beauty, not answers, but the unspoken presence that holds us all together.

If you have found yourself here, reading these words, know that you are already part of the story. These drawings are not mine alone. They belong to the space between us, to the silence we share, to the questions we keep asking even when we know we may never hear the reply.

And perhaps that is enough. Perhaps the act of asking is its own kind of prayer.