Death of a Unicorn resurrects a potent symbol—wild, untouchable, and misused. It asks what happens when the sacred refuses to be sacrificed and what it means to reclaim what was once hunted in you.

After years of avoidance, I'm turning my attention toward physical activity—not for fitness goals, but to understand what my mind does when I move. This isn’t about performance. It’s about contact.

After years of therapy, deconstruction, and existential crisis, I’m realizing that what looked like ADHD or giftedness may have been survival strategies. This piece explores what it means to question those labels while rebuilding identity from the inside out.

When your thoughts start watching themselves and your selfhood feels like a mask, it’s not madness—it’s a sign that something deeper is surfacing. This is what happens when lifelong emotional neglect and religious control finally get exposed.

When I pay attention to my body, what I find isn’t peace—it’s disgust. But that disgust isn’t mine. It’s inherited. It’s cultural. And it’s showing me the source code I was never supposed to see. This isn’t failure. It’s the beginning of contact.

What happens when the things that once grounded you—like weeding, working, or even binge-watching—suddenly feel hollow or compulsive? When your nervous system starts to unwind after years of override, even rest can feel like collapse. This piece explores the quiet panic of that in-between state, where the only thing left to do is feel.

This piece explores how art became mystified, why many of us feel cut off from it after trauma, and what it really is underneath the performance: a primal way to release internal pressure in a world that gave us no safe outlet.

This post explores how conceptual and performance art challenge the definition of art itself—using Paul Reubens’ Pee-wee Herman character as a case study. If you’ve ever felt confused, alienated, or curious about this kind of art, this is for you.

Watching "Dying for Sex" cracked something open in me that I can’t fully name. The tears weren’t clean sadness—they were something older, deeper, and less verbal. I didn’t just cry; I felt the shape of emotions that live below language, below memory, below time.

Lately, I don’t feel the pull to share my emotions with others. The act of translating them into words feels forced, like something I’ve outgrown. It’s a shift—away from expression and toward private integration.