There are many moments when words don’t fail me because there are too few of them,

but because there are too many—more than I can carry.

They crowd inside me, intertwine, grow heavy,

then fall one by one before reaching my mouth.

In those moments, I realize that language, for all its vastness,

is still too narrow for a single feeling trapped in my chest.

I am not searching for a saving sentence,

nor for someone who fully understands.

I am only looking for something that does not ask for explanations.

Art does not ask me “why.”

It does not demand clarity,

nor does it force me to organize my pain into understandable lines.

I hold the glass.

I light the fire.

I watch the transformation—

as if what happens in my hands is also happening inside me.

Art does not heal me in a heroic way.

It does not lift me suddenly from the depths.

But it allows me to stay.

To breathe without explaining.

To be fragile without apologizing.

When words fail to save me,

art does—

because it accepts me as I am:

broken, tired, silent,

and turns that silence into something visible,

into something that says:

I was here… and I still am.