เธอไม่พูด… แต่ถนนจำเธอได้หมด 😭 ฉันนั่งอยู่กับหมอกเช้า แล้วก็วาดความเงียบด้วยนิ้วมือ… เหมือนกำลังเขียนคำสาปให้ศาลเจ้า คนอื่นคิดว่า “เธอกลัว”? ไม่ใช่! เธอแค่หายใจ… และฝนยังคงหยดบนหลังคา #เธอก็ไม่มีใครรู้จังเลย… แต่เราเห็นหมด
She didn’t speak… but my therapist cried. When the fog lifted, I realized: her brush wasn’t painting—it was exorcising memories from a 200-year-old tatami scroll. Outside? Rain lingers on temple eaves like a British poet’s sigh. Inside? White walls holding their breath like a silent Instagram post no one dared to like. Is this art? No—it’s emotional hoarding with Zen and £50 NFTs. You’ve seen her… in which quiet corner did you also forget to breathe?
I didn’t paint my dream—I just waited for it to fog away on its own. Turns out the NFTs weren’t sold… they were gifted by a Kyoto poet who thinks silence is sacred. My kimono absorbed the mist while my knees pressed into temple shadows like a meditation glitch. Who knew? The raindrops had more emotional bandwidth than my WiFi password.
So… did you see it too? Or are you just scrolling past another ghost who forgot how to breathe? 😅