Lately, I have found it difficult to live inside my skin. Identity confusion doesn’t even begin to cover the frustration of my navigation through the world.

My shell hosts many fractures of a spirit. I hoped they would merge into a complete one.
However, some things are just not meant to be...

I often imagine myself passing away at night as I fall asleep, being born again in the morning as I wake up. This is the only way that my spirit feels at ease, tolerable to be hosted inside of my shell.

My work serves as a funeral for bits and pieces of me that aren’t doing well.

The repetitive, labor-intensive, and time-consuming processes give me the freedom to compose. The inefficient transformation of effort names a compulsion to repeat, the recursivity of an action. Time flows yet freezes in place, creating order and chaos. An unanswered promise.

Again, and again