A year ago, I learned of the term "escapism" and realized how much it applied to my everyday life. The epiphany led to a five-part poem and later, a series of photographs, videos, poems, and paintings collectively titled "Birdsong for the Confined," birthed from a phase of drowsy eyes and daydreaming, when my way of living became a cage, and I became the "confined."

In my predicament, I discovered that escapism had become a routine and a means of regaining a sense of normalcy. I drifted in and out of the present, losing myself for hours in reveries and then drowning in guilt over it, only to relapse into the same pattern subsequently. This became a maladaptive problem I couldn't seem to get rid of.

Yet, over the course of a month, though, I had begun writing fervently and regularly in my notebook. It allowed me to anchor and express myself and provided me with a sense of creative freedom. I had a vision—I thought a lot, ran over it repeatedly, lived it, and wanted to capture it.

At a certain point, I yearned for something more concrete and visual in addition to my writings. I had a few ideas for my paintings, a vision so vivid it seared its presence onto my head day and night. For two months, I experimented with my paintings and ceramics, learned my way around the materials, and occasionally took a series of photographs and videos that would eventually complete the collection.

In this exhibition, paintings, ceramics and poetry all come together to initiate a dialogue on the confinement of self, conflict, and the transcending nature of art.