Not everything here is meant to be understood.
Some of it was instinct.
Some of it was memory.
Some of it arrived without asking.
Marks, symbols, fragments that felt more like remembering than creating.
Layers built slowly.
Shapes softened, reworked, covered, then brought back again.
Nothing forced. Just a quiet trust that it would find its own rhythm.
There’s a looseness to it; like it refused to be overthought.
Like it wanted to stay a little untamed, a little unresolved.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, a feeling settled in. Not loud. Not obvious. Just steady.
A wandering donkey carrying stories on its back.
A guitar that remembered songs no one had sung yet.
Archways hinting at places you could step into, if only you believed they were real. Scribbles and markings like notes left behind by someone who trusted you to find meaning in them.
“This Wild Love,” it says.
But it doesn’t shout it. It hums it. It lets you decide what that means.
Because this piece isn’t about a single story— it’s about all the ones you bring to it.
It’s for the person who sees a symbol and feels something stir, even if they can’t explain why.
For the one who believes that not everything meaningful needs to make perfect sense.
For the collector who knows that the best pieces don’t just fill a space, they shift it.
Hang it somewhere the light can touch it.
And over time, you’ll notice… it changes.
Or maybe—you do.