Sometimes, drifting off into a quiet mental world is dismissed as a weakness, a luxury, or even an indulgence. But I’ve come to see daydreaming as something else entirely. For me, it’s a quiet form of rebellion—a deeply personal, emotionally charged resistance against the constant demands for productivity, clarity, and coherence in a world that rarely allows space for softness or uncertainty.
My art often stems from these gentle inner retreats. I don't daydream to escape life, but to remember something that’s too often forgotten: that slowness, beauty, ambiguity, and even confusion are essential parts of being human. In my visual world, surreal floral forms bloom where words fall short. Fragmented figures exist without explanation. Symbols repeat like lullabies. All of it is a language born from those tender, flickering moments of reverie.
There is resistance in softness. Especially for women, queer people, and other historically marginalized voices, claiming space to feel, to imagine, to not explain—is a radical act. The world expects clarity, performance, and palatable emotion. But what if I want to say something without saying it out loud? What if I want to bloom instead of shout?
See my emotional art poster "MIRAGE"
My print "Mirage" explores this duality. The eyes in it are wide, vulnerable, almost shocked—but they don’t see in the usual sense. Around them, floral forms pulse outward, suggesting that perception isn’t always visual or linear. It can be emotional, sensory, intuitive. It can be about feeling your way through the fog. This, to me, is what daydreaming offers: a different kind of sight. A seeing that doesn’t demand logic.
In another piece, "Sensibility" the body is exposed and burning with perception. Petals bloom from places that aren’t supposed to see. Chrome and fire create a contrast between vulnerability and sharpness. It's not a peaceful daydream—it's a survival one. The kind where you imagine yourself whole when the world keeps trying to split you apart. It’s messy, raw, alive.
These visions often arrive in the most ordinary moments: while brushing my teeth, waiting in line, lying in bed at 2AM. They grow like wild vines—not always welcome, but always rich with meaning. The longer I listen to them, the more I realize how sacred that inner space is. It’s not laziness. It’s a different kind of labor: the labor of emotional processing, of sense-making, of keeping yourself human when the world asks you to be a brand or a machine.
Art becomes the bridge. It makes the invisible visible, even if only in fleeting, fragile forms. In works like "Just a Phase" or "Shadows" I don’t try to explain everything. I let softness speak. I let the fog roll in. I trust that someone else, perhaps someone also trying to stay intact in a fractured world, will feel it too.
Explore my abstract portrait art poster "SHADOWS"
I think daydreaming has been demonized because it refuses to produce immediate results. It doesn’t always fit in a box. But I believe the world desperately needs more of it. Not as escape, but as expansion. As resistance. As quiet, flower-soft armor.
So when you look at my work—especially the ones that feel foggy, fluid, or strange—know that they were born from the same kind of daydream you might be having. A flicker of a different world. A question that doesn’t need an answer. A moment of softness that refuses to be swallowed.
And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s everything.
