Freeway #5 – I

I came with quiet handsfrom across the sea,carrying ink, brushes,and the stories of my ancestors—unspoken, yet steady as breath.
California greeted mewith wide skies and winding freeways,where traffic flows like water,and headlights followthe rhythm of thought,the pulse of becoming.
In the stillness of rice paper,I found my voice.Through the curves of a plum blossom,the hush of a bamboo stalk,I grew—not away from tradition,but deeper into it.
Asian brush painting shaped me.Its restraint taught me freedom,its silence taught me song.I learned that one shade of inkholds countless tones—just as oneselfholds a thousand stories.
The genres—화조화, 산수화, 사군자—they were not limits,but doorwaysto wild, untamed dreamsrendered in calm, unwavering strokes.
In the glow of Los Angeles,among its chaos and calm,I matured.Each freeway lane a meditation,each skyline a rice paper,each moment a chanceto see more with less.
Through simple colors,I discovered infinite possibilities—a quiet joy,a deep respect,and the endless lovethat flowsfrom brush to heart to world.