ANIMA, 2024-ongoing

In March 2025 my beloved took his own life. Nothing had prepared me for this death.

I used to believe that creativity was a universal remedy — for loneliness, illness, anxiety, for the darkness of winter. But real pain cannot be healed with metaphors. I don’t know how long it will take to find new meaning. I only know this: nothing will be the same. Death rewrites reality — and now everything, even the air, tastes different.

What remains? Love, caught off guard by its own impossibility to endure. It lingers as an echo in the room where once two voices lived. To love is to eventually learn to love the absence.

It’s like a letter that will never be read. But writing it — is already a form of connection. And the point isn’t to preserve the past. It’s more of an attempt to fix the very possibility of the past in the present, to make it real. Like the light from a star that still reaches us long after the star itself has gone.