paintings are abstract, intricate, and metaphorical—woven with the texture of childhood memories and time’s own wrinkles. Woolf’s prose has deeply influenced my approach. I am drawn to the stream of consciousness: I saw the lighthouse, its light concealed within, transforming into a sword. I opened the door of a long-sealed attic, my hand passed through the yellow wallpaper, reaching toward an endless sea. I have dreamt of many seas, yet none as pure as hers. I beheld a multitude of blues—bottomless, infinite—waves kissed by moonlight. And the moonlight itself, with form and color, dripped from the sky like golden drops, like the lamp by my bed, until someone ran behind the moon and turned off the light.

Then, only the sea remained. She picked up a needle and began to sew, piercing her own flesh. She stitched her childhood—dandelions, sweet-scented osmanthus, the thick, humid air—into the fabric of her life. She tried to change, but the change was futile. Or so it seemed to others; she did not think so.

The moon turned red, and the light vanished. She wondered whether it was the sun or the moon, but she could not tell. Complete circles, like eyes, gazed back at her, while many fruits ripened on the tree.

Silence.
A faint light still seeped through the curtains—a thread of hope. Her hand passed through mine, and in that moment, I belonged to the moon.