Evolution of expression

RAW: I feel like I have been drawing less and writing more, there was a time where I felt that I could only express myself properly through drawings, and progressing after that I expanded my expression to the form of sculpting to provide more body in visualizing the concepts that were budding in my brain. But in the few past years, I'm not sure if the Keynes static aspect to creation and expression has slowly been ebbing away from my fingers, and instead grown to be more localized within a more language-based approach. Hence this felt like a cycle, from no words into drawings, into abstract patterns and emotions, then into sculpted figures and scenarios, and now into something way before all these outputs which is conveying a concept directly through writing. I feel like this new mode seems to capture more of what I want to convey in terms of accuracy, but still The Voice and the thought processes that allow me to communicate still feels primalistic, clunky, and awkward at times. But more and more I find the reading of my works to be more valuable in comparison to the visual craft I have made. It's almost as if the mindset that was used to create these pieces were locked within them for that snapshot of time, essentially the concepts I wanted to convey that were known to myself were locked within that visual prison, with the key lost in the passage of time that changes a person. So now as I look back at my visual pieces, I find i cannot properly access the headspace I had when creating them. And I quietly mourn. I am holding an equivalent of hundreds of locked treasure boxes with stories trapped within them, and the more I grow further from my past self, the more obscure the contents of these locked boxes become.

 

RAW CLEAN: I feel like I’ve been drawing less and writing more. There was a time when I believed I could only express myself properly through drawings. As I progressed, I expanded my expression to sculpting, giving more form and depth to the concepts budding in my mind.

But in the past few years, I’m not sure if the tactile aspect of creation—the feeling of shaping ideas with my hands—has slowly been ebbing away. Instead, my expression seems to have become more localized within language. It feels like a cycle: from silence to drawings, then to abstract patterns and emotions, then to sculpted figures and scenarios, and now back to something even more fundamental—conveying ideas directly through writing.

I feel like this new mode captures my thoughts with greater accuracy. Yet, my voice and thought process still feel primal, clunky, and awkward at times. Even so, I find reading my own words more valuable than my visual works. It’s as if the mindset I once had—the one that shaped those visual pieces—became trapped within them, locked in time. The concepts I once understood now seem imprisoned in those creations, their keys lost in the passage of time.

When I look back at my visual works, I realize I can no longer access the headspace I was in when I made them. And I quietly mourn. I hold the equivalent of hundreds of locked treasure boxes, each containing stories that now feel increasingly obscure as I grow further from my past self.

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RESTRUCUTRED: Lately, I’ve noticed something shifting. I’ve been drawing less and writing more. There was a time when drawing felt like the only way I knew how to speak—like lines and colour were the only language that made sense to me. Then came sculpting, and with it, a new way to give body and breath to the things blooming in my mind.

But over the past few years, something’s changed. That hands-on, tactile connection to my ideas—the kind that comes from physically shaping them—feels like it’s been slowly slipping through my fingers. And in its place, something quieter has settled in. Words.

It feels like a cycle. I went from silence, to drawing, to abstract shapes and moods, to sculpted figures and imagined scenes. And now… now I’m circling back to something even more raw. Writing. Just thoughts, directly from my head to the page.

And honestly, it’s strange. Writing feels more accurate. Like I can finally say what I mean. But at the same time, the voice I write with—it still feels a bit awkward, like it hasn’t quite caught up with what I’m trying to say. It stumbles, it hesitates, it fumbles for the right rhythm. But it’s getting there.

And maybe that’s why I’m finding more value in reading my words than in revisiting the things I’ve made with my hands. It’s as if those older works—the drawings, the sculptures—they hold pieces of me that I can’t quite reach anymore. Like they captured a version of me that no longer exists. The stories I poured into them feel locked away, and the keys have been scattered across time.

Sometimes I look at those pieces and feel a quiet kind of grief. Like I’m holding onto treasure chests filled with thoughts and feelings I no longer know how to open. The more I grow and shift, the further I drift from the self who made them. And the harder it is to remember what it all once meant.

But maybe that’s part of the journey too. Letting go of old languages to find new ones. Learning to speak again—even if it’s clumsy at first.

Video Script: "Locked Treasure Boxes"

[Opening Scene]

(Soft ambient music, slow fade-in from black to a desk with old sketches, sculptures, and a notebook.)

NARRATOR (calm, introspective tone):

I feel like I’ve been drawing less… and writing more.

There was a time when I believed that drawings were the only way I could truly express myself. The movement of a pencil, the weight of a line—it was how I made sense of my thoughts.

(Cut to close-up shots of old sketchbooks being flipped through, hands running over textured pages.)

But as I progressed, sculpting became my next language. My hands molded forms, adding depth, giving body to the ideas that lived in my mind.

(A time-lapse of sculpting clay, slow zoom on unfinished works, hands hesitating over a piece.)

Then… something changed.

In the past few years, I’ve felt the tactile part of creation slipping away. The instinct to shape with my hands, to carve and construct—it’s been replaced by something else.

(Cut to a typewriter, a blinking cursor on a screen, a pen hovering over an empty page.)

Now, my thoughts seem to be filtering through words. It feels like a cycle:

(Visual transition—a ripple effect as drawings fade into words on a page.)

From silence… to sketches.

From abstract patterns… to sculpted figures.

And now, back to something even more fundamental—just words.

(Montage of typing, crossing out words, rewriting.)

I think this new mode captures my thoughts more accurately. But my voice… my thought process… still feels raw, unrefined—clunky at times.

(Soft glitch effect, as if the narrator is searching for the right words.)

Yet, when I read my own writing, it feels more valuable than my visual works ever did.

(Cut to old paintings, sculptures gathering dust, a notebook being opened.)

It’s as if the mindset I once had—the one that shaped those pieces—became trapped inside them. Locked in time.

(Camera lingers on a sculpture, then slowly zooms into the eyes, as if searching for meaning.)

The concepts I once understood… they now feel distant, lost in the passage of time.

(A drawer opens—filled with old artwork, sketches, notes.)

When I look back, I realize—I can’t access that headspace anymore.

(A long pause. The hands close the drawer gently. Music fades slightly.)

And I quietly mourn.

(Close-up of hands resting on an old sculpture, tracing its lines. A deep sigh.)

I hold the equivalent of hundreds of locked treasure boxes.

(Slow fade to a row of sketchbooks, closed. Sculptures turned away, as if hiding their stories.)

Each one containing a story.

A version of myself… frozen in time.

And the further I move from my past self…

(A slow fade-out, the music softens, the screen darkens…)

The more obscure those stories become.

(Silence. A single blink of a cursor. Cut to black.)