Awe
This painting isn’t about beauty.
It’s about the gasp before it.
That gut-flash when instinct takes over: raw, wild, older than words.
Trypillian symbols flicker through the surface.
Not decoration, but a pulse.
A memory your body keeps even when your mind forgets.
The lines don’t behave.
They spill, shake, breathe.
This is where control slips.
Where awe enters.
Not as feeling.
As force.
This painting isn’t about beauty.
It’s about the gasp before it.
That gut-flash when instinct takes over: raw, wild, older than words.
Trypillian symbols flicker through the surface.
Not decoration, but a pulse.
A memory your body keeps even when your mind forgets.
The lines don’t behave.
They spill, shake, breathe.
This is where control slips.
Where awe enters.
Not as feeling.
As force.
This painting isn’t about beauty.
It’s about the gasp before it.
That gut-flash when instinct takes over: raw, wild, older than words.
Trypillian symbols flicker through the surface.
Not decoration, but a pulse.
A memory your body keeps even when your mind forgets.
The lines don’t behave.
They spill, shake, breathe.
This is where control slips.
Where awe enters.
Not as feeling.
As force.
