thought I knew how to tell a story, how to fill a canvas with the depths of my soul—my struggles and pains, my hopes and victories.

Now I sit here questioning myself.

For if I do possess such talent, surely I am empty of such heartache. Never to have known such suffering. Never to have screamed in the night for a god who mutilates himself against unknown horrors to save us, only for us to rot within a cage.

And yet… I look upon the souls here on Proving Street, and I see it.

The depths.

Every nick, scar, and crack laid bare without hesitation. Worn openly, almost proudly. As if pain itself were currency, and those who have suffered most spend the richest.

This truth was made apparent the moment I arrived.

I was greeted not by a person, nor by a voice, but by a thing.

Gustav Holt’s Severance. 

It towers over the street like a wound that refused to close. A man carved in stone, reaching upward—no, not reaching, clawing—his arm stretched to a breaking point. His other hand shields his face, as if the act of looking upon what he seeks would undo him entirely.

The stone itself seems strained. Pulled. As though it had been forced into this shape against its will.

There is anguish there.

Not depicted.

Contained.

People pass it without pause. Some glance, others don’t. A few stop and sketch, trying to capture what is already too much to hold. I stood there longer than I care to admit.

I could not tell if the figure was trying to escape…

or begging to be taken.

It is a fitting first sight.

For the paintings, sculptures, and music here speak to me words I have not heard, and yet I know them as truth.

I fear I have much to learn from the inhabitants of this street.

And I hope, in time, to speak such hidden words to another… through my own creations.

                                                                                                                        -Philias, Gadan