Stray aimlessly through the street at night Artwork

I remembered the sound of a long, dusty, tattered flute. Forgot when I started counting. When count something, want to see the end of it, but I don't want to remember the count. What a contradiction! I paint to exist. For someone, it's just a painting, but not for me, at least not for me. Painting makes me think, they make me want to understand people. The accumulation of these problems makes me think about existence. Unlike people who hide their weaknesses, art strongly shows their limitations to living beings. There are paintings that seem to be equal, penetrating, and in some cases, animated, in front of the gaze of the beings. The gaze of these beings, orphans without families, is unfortunately unique and always avant-garde towards the world. In an age of passive beings who want to survive, who need to exist, I was able to sense life through the paintings of idols, which made me think about existence, and where Flanders and his dog converged and reached, there was nothing. They finally lay under the paint. My world was, after all, nothing, so I was restless and wandering, and I was ashamed to face my weakness. Because I could not take existence for granted, I tried to recognize the limits of existence, the desperation to survive, in the relationship between the painting and the world, including myself, and the relationship between the phases. Therefore, by escaping from the world as I saw it, from reality to painting, from painting to digital, I was able to embrace my world as 'nothingness' itself. It became my homework to translate my world and organize the troubles I found in my wanderings. I do not ask you to recognize the record, to acknowledge it. So, I want to be life and I want it, and I have forgotten why I want it, painting has become a tool to explore existence, and I do not hope to attribute its form to any language. I am not trying to be some kind of hero, not trying to be a saint. Just want to know the world and the many beings that pass through it. One day, when even this shame will cease to exist, I will be able to fully understand my world, so that I can call it like a painting with life beyond existence. Paradoxically, I hope, but I do not wish, I do not calculate, but I desire the ending. Only when the flute that mesmerizes beings begins to sound monotonous, I can move forward as a writer, as a being who longs for life.