It may seem strange to you no matter how many posts I make about my paintings, I do not know how to sell my art.

If only I were a painter who could sell himself well, I would fill galleries with my canvases, telling the story of the world through intense brushstrokes, and perhaps someone, looking at my paintings, would find their own dreams or fears in them. I would paint every shade of light and shadow, hoping that someone would understand my secret language, that they would glimpse in my colors a fragment of themselves. And, who knows, maybe I would finally find a way to live by what I love, without fear, free and appreciated for every brushstroke I give to the world.

Instead, I stay here, painting in silence, in a hidden corner of the world, letting my paintings gather dust while their language goes unheard. The canvases pile on top of each other, like dreams never told, like stories never written. Sometimes I wonder if what I create really has value, if my way of seeing the world can be understood by anyone. Yet I continue, as if out of a secret need, out of an urgency that no one seems to share. I paint for me, even if the world is not watching.

Nevertheless, I cannot stop.

Each brushstroke releases a piece of me, even if no one sees it. Maybe someday someone will discover these forgotten canvases and understand.

Sorry for this whining Nostr friends, it's a bad day.