My work is an attempt to deal with my existence, real or unreal, worthy or unworthy and the fragility of it all. It is an amalgamation of the life that I have experienced and the constant, solidified discomfort present inside the walls of my brain.

The decaying, vacant bodies of the dead birds and the abandoned, beaten stray dogs portrayed are a reflection of my inner conundrum, to exist or not to exist.

My existence, frail and limping

I am afraid, not of people or the future or the unseen but rather, of myself, my being. Breathing.

I have apprehensions, many in number concerning my state of being alive. I am very. afraid. I hope all of this paranoia that is cementing into my brain, declaring its permanence, slowly but surely, is merely a superstition.

I hope this feeling is fleeting. I hope I am more.

I used to think my problem lied with mathematics but I was always good at division and in dividing, somehow, I divided all of me. Head to knees to toes. All of me given up, to the world and its people. How must I collect all of myself? How must I build myself up piece by piece and does my problem still go back to mathematics? I was always good at dividing. How did I lose it all?