spaceman

I am writing this from somewhere between departure and arrival.

The world has grown too heavy, so I have built a vessel to leave it behind. Inside this ship, silence hums like a heartbeat.

Outside, only distance. Vast and endless. Depression came to me like gravity: invisible,

constant, pulling me down until I forgot how to move. I stayed locked in my room, orbiting the

same four walls. When the ground could no longer hold me, I began to look up. Searching

for a language beyond despair. Space became both metaphor and terrain for survival, a site

where imagination and endurance converge.

In Spaceman, the figure of the “spaceman” operates as a fictional self, a stand-in for the

tension between confinement and expansion. The spaceship functions simultaneously as

sanctuary and exile: a psychological architecture in which grief coexists with possibility.

The work traces the fragile boundaries between interior and exterior worlds, the self as both

planet and passenger, negotiating isolation, longing, and renewal.

Through visual registers of darkness, suspension, and reflection, Spaceman considers the

paradox of escape: the desire to leave the world may also articulate a yearning to reimagine

it. It is less a story of flight than a meditation on survival, endurance, and the imaginative

strategies through which the self persists. Here, the body floats between dark and light,

haunted by what it has left behind and what it hopes to find. Perhaps this is not an escape at

all, but an experiment in staying alive - a search for oxygen inside the silence.