There is a point where identity ceases to align with its own image and an unsettling discomfort arises. It tries to recognize itself, but finds a subtle discrepancy, as if its presence no longer coincided with what was once its own.
The image offers no answers, only exposes the distance between the internal and the visible. Every gesture feels slightly alien, a sign of an identity that has been molded to fit in, fine-tuned until its edges were lost.
What remains isn’t a new version of the self, but the trace of what was sacrificed in that process: a familiarity that vanishes and a person who, by belonging, ceased to belong to themselves.
