Dear exhausted and desperate self,
In those moments when despair raged within you like a storm, traces of pain and loneliness were left behind. Words that once seemed to offer hope served only as weapons for others. They tried to manipulate you, to hurt you, and to bind your heart in chains.
Yet those wounds, as painful as they were, did not break you. They moved you, forced you to feel, and ultimately set you free.
Amid the storm, you picked up the brush, dipped your hands in anger and sorrow, and threw stories onto the canvas. Every line, every stroke of color, revealed not only your wounds but also their transformation. Every piece of art you created was a step – a step away from emptiness and false friends, toward yourself.
What once seemed lost, your art has given back to you: your expression, your voice, your “I am.”
Where darkness once loomed, you answered with light. Where manipulation tried to take root, you painted honesty. Where there was pain, you created healing.
Today, when you look at your work, you no longer see only the wounds. Yes, you see the scars – but they are drawn like the lines of a map, showing how far you have come.
Your art is not a testament to weakness, but to strength. It speaks a language that reminds you: you are more than what has happened to you.
Take up the brush when you are ready. Paint not only your wounds but also your wings. For you are already free.
With deep respect for your journey,
A quiet observer of your strength
