Where My Hands Learn to Heal ✏️✨
Ever since I was a child, my hands have always reached for something to draw, random objects, quiet desires, things I saw and things I wished for. Somewhere along the way, I stopped, as if life asked me to put that part of myself away. But art has a strange way of finding its way back. Now, it returns to me in the most unexpected moments. I draw when I am bored, when I am tired, when my body aches and my mind feels heavy. I draw when I cannot carry my thoughts anymore. It doesn’t ask me why. It simply lets me be. I was never the kind of artist people admire at first glance. My lines were unsure, my sketches imperfect. But I kept going, tracing pieces of the world around me, borrowing inspiration from strangers on screens and the Pinteresty things, turning them into something quietly mine. Not to be seen. Not to be praised. Only to feel a little less restless inside. There are days when the lines don’t listen to me. Especially faces, they resist me. I can shape t...