Society could collapse tomorrow - aliens finally landing, lasers carving up the skyline - and I’d still be standing there, mid-shower, wondering: Did I soap both armpits, or did I just zone out again? Just like the main character in the art piece: blank stare, completely detached while the carnival erupts around her. We share the same permanent half-state: one foot sunk in daydream, the other dragging through whatever this reality pretends to be. Starting every morning already drowning in self-absorbed nonsense is exhausting. Maybe it’s not sparks of creativity. Maybe I’ve quietly gone crazy. (They say the truly insane never suspect a thing - so that’s comforting.) That same restless uncertainty in my mental state is mirrored in her tattoos: in the artwork, they come to life as animated figures acting out inner conflicts, turning static ink into a vivid symbol of how nothing inside the mind ever stays certain for long.
I wake up already pissed off. Impressive, considering nothing’s happened yet. That alone should qualify as a talent. Step outside: same kid licking the same pole, different day, zero evolution. I see it. I’m not blind. I just don’t engage. Headphones on, no music - just silence as my only reliable force field against the rest of humanity. That same desperate armor shows up in her tattoos: the black flies swarm - decaying thoughts and intrusive ideas that have escaped her mind. No break from the brain. Ever. And just like my headphones try to block the world, “MOM” and “DAD” rise small from her arm ink, trying to protect her from the flies (bad thoughts).
I move through life like this: weird shit everywhere, people losing their minds in slow motion, reality doing backflips in the background - yet the buzzing never lets up, so I retreat deeper into my private mental studio apartment with blank walls. A huge, stupid smile spreads across my face. Life’s a boxing match I never agreed to. (Shown by the red boxing tape on her gloves and the red marks scattered across her body—paint splatters... or blood?) I duck the punches from reality while everyone else lines up for the carnival ride like it’s the main event - welcome to the carnival nobody requested but everybody paid full price to enter. I stay in my own world with my rules. That’s how you don’t get sick: stop fighting the spin. Lean into it. Laugh when it jerks sideways, smile through the dizziness - because stopping isn’t an option.
Life imitates art.
And the carnival never closes.
