MONSTERS
I often wonder whether what I see of the world truly belongs to me, or if I’m only recognizing the outline of an image I was taught to believe in.
Perhaps what we call seeing is nothing more than memory at work — an effort to turn chaos into something familiar. But in the reflection, everything falters. The face I thought I knew becomes a stranger; its lines bend and twist, revealing something other — or perhaps something truer.
It is no longer a portrait, but a passage: a distortion where the boundary between self and image begins to dissolve.
I’m no longer sure whether I control what I see, or whether the act of seeing is what shapes me. In this play of reflections, each face becomes a site of uncertainty, a fragile surface where truth fractures and multiplies.
What remains is the awareness of that disturbance — the refusal to trust what is seen. Doubt becomes a form of resistance, a quiet space of freedom.
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