You look at it. And something looks back. Not with eyes / with absences. With voids where structure collapsed. You call it a face, but it´s just the shell of something that lost its name.
Not an expression / an eruption. An inward landslide.
No artist made this; a pressure valve failed.
Every line is not a mark, but a fracture from what once held firm. A crater´s edge, A place where self went overboard.
The hands that shaped it weren´t creating / they were clawing, digging for air inside a drowning mind. There was no plan / only a quake within. A blackout in the will, a flickering in the seat of choice.
The maker wasn´t in control. He was a breach. He didn´t think. Didn´t feel. He endured. While something tore open, like a dam that held back the storm too long.
What you see is not a painting. It is collapse. A slow crumbling of direction. An echo without a source.
And you can´t look away. Because a part of you knows: If your final thought breaks loose, this might be what you become.
