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Waiting for inspiration

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Waiting for inspiration The air in a waiting room carries a specific kind of weight, a density that seems to swallow sound. For centuries, artists have tried to capture this heavy, invisible presence. I think of Honoré Daumier , who portrayed the slumped, weary resignation of third-class travellers. He understood that waiting wasn't just sitting; it was an endurance sport. I see that same heavy air, but my era is electrified. The figure on the left isn't just sitting; they are anchored against a storm of data. Their head is buried in their hands, face half-hidden as if they're trying to crawl inside their own mind to escape the silence. The thick, aggressive slashes of orange and gold overhead resemble a visual scream, capturing that internal chaos where your thoughts race at a hundred miles an hour while your body is stuck in a plastic chair. The green glow on their skin adds a cold, modern tension, making the whole scene feel like a pulse vibrating beneath a still surface...
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GODin Pot

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GODin Pot
In our time of relative peace, there are those who will forthrightly blame others to gain ascension.
They seek revenge through blinded principles.
But it is foolish for our society to gain prosperity from grounds of wrong.
To gain via perceive threats is untenable.
Centuries of thought have passed and still our want to employ hate lingers.
That is, to stop others and to gain our wants through forced misfortune.
And as our inflictions grow in number so does our determination.
Us theirs and ours cannot be decisively contained.
The more our empowered profiles gain clarity the less our perceived enemy is defined.
Until our enemy has no humanity that we can describe.
Until only shouts of evil and defiance describe only our state of understanding.
Within this scenario of threat, our real purpose is deliberately camouflaged.
And us we and they can no-longer see and or remember what was.
This is how our leading few maintains normalization.
Scratch this delusion and you will see that it is ourselves who are actually broken.
Our way of life is the tragedy of which we will not openly speak.
Our cost of understanding is misfortune.
Our consumption of self-hate is profitable.
We hate them for solace.





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