The Introspection
Of a Smoking
Blue Rose
NO FACES, NO ECHOES, NO BOWWOED TONE
This is where I go unknown, no faces, no echoes, no borrowed tone.
Where every thought becomes repose:
The introspection of a smoking blue rose.
In chosen solitude, the world thins and the breath clears,
a blue abyss opening inward.
The golden mask does not blind; it listens, and vision begins within.
A single eye from the past hangs bandaged on the branch,
judgment muted and set aside.
Roots cradle the body like a throne; stillness becomes a room,
a state of mind.
Across the chest, a quiet serpent moves, part guide,
part warning against surrendering too far.
Here, isolation is not the absence of life, but its soft return.
Wip Video and Song
youtube
This artwork was entirely created in 3D. Below is a timelapse of its making-of, where I cut all the several discarded tries to keep the view experience flawless and give a better sense of what it takes to create these artworks.
Additionally, I wrote the lyrics of a song, with the help of ChatGPT, and then brought this song to life with Suno.ai, making sure the vibes of the piece mathced the song's style and tempo.
Lyrics
(Verse I)
Who are you, behind the eye?
A god? A wound? A lullaby?
Is blindness shelter, or the curse?
Is stillness holy… or something worse?
(Verse II)
The names they gave me fade like smoke,
I wear the quiet, nothing spoke.
A garden bloomed behind my eyes,
far from the noise, the hands, the lies.
(Chorus)
This is where I go unknown,
no faces, no echoes, no borrowed tone. Where every thought becomes repose:
The introspection of a smoking blue rose.
(Verse III)
No need for masks, no need for name,
just fading scents and distant flame.
The petals lull, the serpent sings,
soft truths that almost feel like lies.
(Bridge)
I heard a voice that sounded like mine,
but layered, distant, misaligned.
It called me deeper than the root,
where silence shifts, and mirrors move.
If this is me, then who decides
which one of us is left outside?
(Chorus - repeat)
This is where I go unknown,
no faces, no echoes, no borrowed tone.
Where every thought becomes repose:
The introspection of a smoking blue rose.
(Outro)
Let the world forget my name
I’ve found a place too still to blame.
