At first glance, this image appears abstract: a dense red atmosphere dissolves into darkness, with subtle shifts of green and blue near the edges. But within that blur—within the weight of that saturated red—there's a sense of internal weather. Something physiological. Something remembered. Made with a physically altered lens, this image doesn't depict a scene—it recovers one. It pulls from an internal archive where memory lives not as narrative, but as color, pressure, and heat. Seasons, Day 24 is a form of emotional recall. Like the color behind your eyes after a bright flash. Like trying to remember warmth or fear or awe—not as story, but as sensation. Red appears again and again in my work. As a child, I lived in a room with red curtains, in a place where safety felt far away. I've started to wonder if this image is part of that memory—if this is my library for red. Not a direct recollection, but an investigation of an echo—of something held in the body. This piece asks what we carry and how memory shifts over time. How the visual language we gather and store through lived experience—even when it refuses clarity, no matter how much we try to name it—can still reach something ancestral, emotional, and deeply personal. If the body holds a library, this is one of its pages—written not in fact, but in feeling. Image description: A horizontal composition featuring a soft, abstract field of blended colors dominated by deep red and magenta tones, diffusing outward into darker shades of black, green, and muted blue. There are no defined lines or shapes; the image is intentionally blurred, with no discernible subject, figure, or horizon line.