There is a quiet place where fire learns to kneel before mist.
Where the blade of a storm softens into a whispered curve of light.
Here, strength is not loud — it is a pulse beneath petals, a silent blaze waiting in the hush.

We are both the thunder that splits the sky and the soft dawn that gathers it back together.
Both the fierce line and the gentle veil.
Both sword and bloom.

In this painting, I wanted to hold that tension — to let the wildness of orange and black cut across a field of tender grays and rose, to let each color breathe and surrender into the other.
A reminder that within us all lives a wild grace: strong enough to split stone, soft enough to cradle a seed.