Acrylic on canvas – 8 x 10 inch – Unique work

Language has turned into violence.

It lies there—buried, hidden, concealed. It struggles to make itself heard. And yet, it does nothing but scream. It is surrounded by a storm of water and fire. It cannot find a way out.

When the weather is fine and the temperature rises, it feels sleepier—perhaps overcome by the sweltering heat. It is both harmless and lighthearted. It might even tell a funny story or two. Really—I am serious! It knows how to charm, how to persuade, and how to reason.

Things are entirely different when autumn arrives. It finds itself submerged by water and burnt by fire. It suffocates; it suffers. It can no longer control itself. It spins out of control. It is no longer living—it is merely surviving. And how? Through violence—quite simply, and with total impunity. It hides behind that violence to mask its inner turmoil. It is in pain; it is alone; it is lost.

Winter arrives, almost unannounced. The cold rushes in, snow replaces the rain, and patches of ice make roads and sidewalks dangerously slippery. So, where is it, then? Is it hibernating? Is it hiding? Is it ashamed? It doesn’t even know. It always feels out of sync. Violence reassures it; it gives it wings. And so, its sense of powerlessness gradually fades away. It is deluding itself—but that’s just how it is.

The season drags on; the violence persists. It is hard to fight, hard to forget, hard to carry on without it. Suddenly, spring arrives; a swallow beats its wings. It hesitates, learning so slowly to emerge from its torpor—from this horror, from this wave that washes over it. A wave that both drenches and burns. It does what it can. Does it, really? And yet, it tries.

Nature is being reborn. Buds emerge, one after another. Flowers, too, make their appearance—each in its own turn, enchanting the gardens. It is there, lurking, looking sheepish. It does not know—it no longer knows. It is also surprised to find a sense of calm washing over it. The sun and the blue sky are, obviously, helping it.

It crosses its fingers, hoping it won’t return to its old demons—demons that lie buried, dormant, yet ready for any chance. And yet, and yet, and yet—it continues, on and on and on.

So it uses water to extinguish, and fire to stoke. The perfect duo for fueling chaos. It gives in, for the sake of an easy way out.

Language has turned into violence.