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Art by John Park

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Architectural study: “A House Like a Stalactite Cave”

This space is an architectural visualization that reconfigures visual fragments originating from memories of stalactite caves into the scale of a model. It is not a designed space, but rather a “visualization of fragmented images floating in the mind,” existing not for construction, but simply to observe space itself. It treats architecture not as something to be used, but as something to be seen, with the model scale making this act of seeing freer and more intuitive.

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James Baldwin knew love

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it's a little depressing to realize that three years ago my life just paused and all this time I exist in an alternate reality waiting for everything to finally return to normal. my subconscious still thinks that one morning I will wake up, go to the academy and write my diploma. somewhere inside I still don't understand that I got my diploma three years ago. I still don't understand that life is happening here and now

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i feel like i’m dying a little more each day, and it terrifies me. no matter how far i run, it follows. i keep wondering why i’m here, how i ended up in this place. i want so badly for it all to be a trick of my mind — just stress, just anxiety — something that will pass, something i can wake up from. and if dying is what waits for me, i don’t want him to see it. i don’t want anyone to see.

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my therapist ghosted me

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𝔱𝔬𝔱𝔢 𝔣𝔲𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨𝔰

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reread the notes from 2019 to 2021, searching for something — anything — i managed to save from the past. maybe i was crazy then, felt sick just from the first lines

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phone + charms update, new camera, tamas to fill the space 💿

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interesting, really, what will happen

when i flicker and fade like a dying bulb

when the light turns cold

artificial

nothing like the sun

nothing that could keep you warm

when you realize

you thought i was human

but i was just a toy with drained batteries

a flower pressed flat between forgotten pages

a sparrow with wings too heavy to lift

what will we do then

if even with a broken bone

i feel nothing at all?

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bleak and hollow

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when i see reflections of your past feelings in someone else’s story

i can’t help but think maybe you loved them more

maybe the words were softer maybe the silences were lighter

maybe the memories were stitched with something i’ll never touch

there’s a weight to it, a tenderness that feels just out of reach

something too quiet to name too distant to hold

like a song i was never meant to hear

but somehow i know the melody

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who would i have been if i hadn’t fallen apart?

the same as she? no, i don’t think so. we were different from the start. but still, i wonder — was there a moment she missed, the one that would have changed everything?

i remember it all. i used to think i was deeper, more interesting than others. then i met people who truly were. people with heavy pasts, minds full of things i’d never even considered. and for the first time, i saw myself without illusion. i’m grateful for that. grateful to know that intelligence is just a trick, and the real thing lies beyond it. though, if i’m honest, i still don’t know how to look beyond.

sometimes i wish i hadn’t deleted that old blog. not that i can blame myself — it’s strange to found out it was the major subject in someone else’s cigarette philosophy. but the loss is real. every year, i think back to it — do i even remember what i wrote? it feels like something important slipped through my fingers. but i never wanted their pity. still don’t. maybe that’s why i’ve never made anything truly beautiful. just images, one after another, sometimes with words. i don’t know if my work will ever feel like mine again.

and as for her — it’s almost funny. maybe i’m the biggest fool in the world. but that’s not what haunts me. watching only wounds the watcher. i would never follow myself from the outside and, honestly, i always thought being me would seem unbearably dull to anyone else.

so why did they notice?

what were they looking for?

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Louis Veray (1820-1891). Moissonneuse endormie, 1855.

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