Only the eye remains.
The part that watches. The part that never stops interpreting—past, present, and future.
This image came out of creative block, not inspiration. I didn’t start with a concept—I started with a constraint: pressure, fatigue, alienation. A triangle I’d drawn in frustration became a chamber. A containment field.
I glitched my profile photo until only the eye was left. Like a reverse mask. The rest of me dissolved into noise. That’s when the piece started speaking back.
Inside the triangle, something non-human formed—a fetus, alien in shape but not in feeling. Wires flowed out of it. Three hands gripped those wires. Not violently. Not gently. Just firmly—like securing a connection that has to hold.
The backdrop: a smear of paint, and beyond that, stars.
I don’t fully understand what I made. But I recognize myself in it—and something else, too. Something becoming.
This is a transmission. From inside. From before or after. From a version of me I haven’t met yet, or maybe already buried.
Witness.
This image came out of creative block, not inspiration. I didn’t start with a concept—I started with a constraint: pressure, fatigue, alienation. A triangle I’d drawn in frustration became a chamber. A containment field.
I glitched my profile photo until only the eye was left. Like a reverse mask. The rest of me dissolved into noise. That’s when the piece started speaking back.
Inside the triangle, something non-human formed—a fetus, alien in shape but not in feeling. Wires flowed out of it. Three hands gripped those wires. Not violently. Not gently. Just firmly—like securing a connection that has to hold.
The backdrop: a smear of paint, and beyond that, stars.
I don’t fully understand what I made. But I recognize myself in it—and something else, too. Something becoming.
This is a transmission. From inside. From before or after. From a version of me I haven’t met yet, or maybe already buried.
Witness.
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