50*50 cm Oil painting on Fiber
Solitude is nothing to me, Solitude bears no pain for me. With wide eyes, she gazed into the void around, Whispering softly, her voice a faint, dusky sound: “The world is a shattered mirror before my soul, Each fragment a piece of me, yet never whole. Solitude is not emptiness, nor a hollow cry, But the naked truth of being, where masks and shadows die. Who am I? A flicker on the wall of time’s endless stream, Or a fleeting breath in eternity’s boundless dream? In solitude, I am both question and reply, Lost in the silence, seeking the self that I deny. The world spins on, indifferent, without a sound, Stars burn distant, in the nowhere they are bound. Yet I, in this solitude, am neither lost nor found, A wanderer in the vast, where meaning is unwound. O solitude, my teacher, you cradle my unrest, In your stillness, I see that to be is to quest. Each breath a step toward the unknown’s embrace, Solitude, perhaps, is my path to the self, to grace. Where is the One who knows the root of my being? In the quiet, I hear it—a truth softly fleeing.” She stared into a horizon with no beginning, no end, And in her silence, the world whispered: “You are, my friend.”
