There are no roads here.

No north.
No south.
No small red arrow telling you where the hell you are.

Just color colliding with color.
Marks that almost become something.
Shapes that feel familiar until you look at them too long.

I think I have spent my whole life looking for a place that feels like arrival.

A room.
A person.
A city.
A moment where the noise finally stops and something inside you says,

Yes.

Here.

But nothing in this painting stays still long enough to become that place.

A line starts going somewhere and changes its mind.

A color opens like a door, then becomes a wall.

Something beautiful appears in the distance and by the time you reach it, it has already become something else.

Maybe that is the point.

Maybe we are always looking for some invisible destination where everything finally makes sense.

Where all the wrong turns become a road.

Where all the people we loved become home.

Where all the versions of ourselves we left behind somehow catch up.

But there is no destination here.

No rhyme.
No reason.

Only instinct.
Memory.
Noise.
Desire.

A beautiful mess of everywhere we have been and everywhere we thought we were going.

Maybe a map to everywhere can’t tell you where to go.

Maybe it only reminds you that you are still moving.

Still searching.

Still getting lost.

And every once in a while,

finding yourself somewhere you never meant to be.

Acrylic on Canvas
14 x 18 inches