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The melancholy of my imagination

Why did I stop creating?
Did I believe in myself a lot?
Is this the ceiling?
What’s going on in my head?
Why doesn’t my imagination work with me?
Can I call my imaginary inspiration?
Another day in which the questions settle in my head.
A typical human condition and destructive to the artist in me.
I believe so strongly that we have our own imagination, the implication of our own inspiration. It is a part of us, of our soul. We enclose it in frameworks, impose restrictions on it through our own ideas. We believe that by understanding it is our development. I fell silent, stopped for a minute,
The focus was mainly on questions
It was a minute of thought, but it lasted for months in which there was a house of the mind, no synchronous answers. I never stopped shooting
The photos did not look like a finished series, they were aimless at that date. I saw them hellishly scattered.
My soul was out of sync. I was broken.
I learned over time that the formula for success stays in sync. When sadness is recognized in sadness, and happiness is recognized in happiness, then every particle works in its entirety.
This project will be unlimited, it will be my eternal search and finding, the eternal path to thought.
Fruit of my mind!