Story

To be seen
is to begin telling.

But how?
Each portrait is true.
Each portrait is incomplete.
It is exactly that — and not at all.

A photograph holds still
what never stops moving.
Each frame is a moment,
rich with shades that slip through representation.

My identity unfolds in constellations.
Changing with time.
So maybe — if I multiply the angles,
stretch the gaze across years —
I might approach something like clarity.
Not certainty,
but a kind of resonance.
Enough to say:
“This. This is me. Take it. If you may.”

At the root, there is an act of love.
A gesture repeated,
offered to those I hope will receive it —
to the familiar, the unknown, the listening.

A desire to be legible.
To be known.
So you might know
where I stand.

An impulse, again.
Not calculated. Just there.
Like light reflecting off water,
shifting with every surface,
never fixed —
but traceable.

This story grows in echoes,
like the world itself —
revealing only what you take time to see.

And in the end,
every story points
beyond itself.

To something vaster.
Something beautiful.

To what is not me,
but holds me.