The painting itself is dense with motion—interlaced lines like veins or vines, roots of thought or feeling coiling upward and across, constrained yet expressive. Reddish spines, bluish currents, pale ridges: they weave together like memories trying to surface through time. It’s a web of recollection and resistance. The lower blue feels submerged, aquatic, as if something is reaching from below. The top pulses with energy, but without harmony. Like music that remembers something it can’t quite retrieve.

This is not a performance. It’s not a composition. It’s not about virtuosity. I won’t polish the audio. I won’t edit out the flaws. The video only shows my hands. I won’t even try to make it into something it isn’t. Because it already is. It exists in that space between sound and silence, between memory and making, between paint and presence. The music comes from that kind of deep place—forgotten but alive, filled with both light and darkness. It aches without release. It hungers without resolution.