Years ago, I used sunflower as a password.

I never told anyone what it meant. The funny thing is, I didn’t really know myself.

It wasn’t a person, a place, or some secret story. I simply loved Van Gogh. I still think he may be the greatest painter who ever lived.

At the time, painting was somewhere inside me, but it hadn’t found its way out yet.

Years later, it did.

These sunflowers came from looking at his — and then going somewhere else entirely. Mine turned dark.

Perhaps some words know things about us before we do.

Back then, butterflies.

Armies of them.
Untrained. Overconfident.

They mistook adrenaline for destiny.
They arrived early.
They stayed too long.
They made a lot of unnecessary suggestions.

Then, for a while, nothing.

No fluttering.
No echo.

Just a calm room.
A chair.
A window doing its job.

No one was heartbroken.
Nothing had gone wrong.

Some chapters simply close without applause.

And apparently, butterflies don’t disappear forever.

They come back differently.

Fewer this time.
Better organized.

They wait.
They observe.
They seem to understand context.

They don’t ask for guarantees.
They don’t wave red flags.

These days, the butterflies arrive quietly and take notes.

Burnout happens when observation turns into performance.
When presence becomes proof.

I’m not interested in being visible at any cost.
Visibility is not meaning.

The essential practice is simple:
observe and record.

Systems measure what fits them.
They don’t measure depth.

Some work arrives early.
Some people, too.

Art doesn’t need to shout to exist.
It only needs to be honest — and held by those who recognize it.

That’s enough.