Why

“The act of painting is about one heart telling another heart where he found salvation.”
— Francisco Goya

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I’ve had these thoughts for a while now. And I think it’s time that I put these out there for people to hear. Not many, maybe not anyone would hear this. But I have to get these thoughts down on paper.

The world feels off-balance these days, like the ground shifted under us and nobody bothered to fix the tilt. Politics, wars, corruption, oppression, unrest. People - losing focus, their dreams, their serenity, becoming nihilist, losing hope, their humanity.
I thought the world had changed, and had advanced, but it seems as though it has cycled back to the same problems of the old times. Or perhaps it had never changed, just masked itself as an illusion of the good.

Francisco Goya, the Spanish painter who tore the varnish off reality, had Picasso naming him the root of his own work and Dalí poring over the Black Paintings like they whispered the future.
Por qué from The Disasters of War series is a freeze-frame of man’s inhumanity to man: a bound prisoner on his knees, blindfolded, facing the rifles—hands up in one last plea. Goya made these plates amid the Peninsular War, 1808-1814, documenting French troops executing civilians, famine chewing through villages, soldiers treating cruelty like routine. No heroes, just the rot of corruption letting bodies stack while leaders shrug and call it necessity.

Staring at the news or the ceiling, piecing together why we keep circling the same drain—why salvation always seems one blindfold away. Couldn’t let it vanish by morning. So here’s this blog: my corner to lay it out raw, no gatekeepers.

Maybe nobody stops by. Maybe one person does. Either way, I’m banking on the light we still carry—the ideas we trade, the small acts we grow, the open words that remind us we’re not done yet. That’s the hope I’m keeping.