Family, work, relationships—
when the boundaries between them start to erode,
a person begins to break.
During depression, the line between inside and outside vanished.
Fear, memory, sound, and self blended together
until nothing had edges anymore.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was a slow dissolving of distinctions
I had assumed were permanent.
That was when making work became
a way to redraw my own outline.
Thickness, weight, scratches, resistance—
these weren’t just aesthetic decisions.
They were markers that said,
“This is where I end.”
Evidence that my outline still existed.
Without the work,
I don’t think I would have been able
to hold that boundary together.
