Frothing murmurs, erratic flashes of intuition, lingering aftertastes with no clear direction. Whenever I come across something quietly extraordinary, I often jot it down. Not to share it, or even to make sense of it—just to keep it, somehow. When I look back later, I rarely understand what I wrote. Only the trace of something I alone could grasp at that moment remains.

No matter how deeply I feel, or how much I think, if I don’t give it shape—words, form—it may vanish as if it never existed. But I also know how quickly that “something” can slip away the moment I try to put it into language. Choosing words, attaching meaning, arranging them to make sense— somewhere in that process, the damp, raw texture of what I first felt begins to fade. I want to write, but I can’t quite capture it. I want to hold on to it, but not muddy it. I hesitate, always, in that in-between space. Still, letting it disappear without doing anything brings a lingering kind of sorrow, I think.

In a world where speed and efficiency are praised, where clarity and explainability are everything, “understanding” often takes precedence over “feeling.” It’s safer that way—easier to be accepted. But in exchange, the freedom to trust intuition can feel like it’s slipping away. Maybe that’s why I find myself drawn, helplessly, to works that leave room for interpretation. To things that continue trembling just beyond language. To expressions that seem to carry their uncertainty openly. Those are the ones that move me, and often, they’re the ones that gently offer a kind of hope.

The three artists I spoke with for this issue each, in their own way, brought something that exists before meaning to life—keeping its texture intact, without forcing it into form.
So here, reason and meaning don’t really matter. Before you try to understand, perhaps just feel. Before you try to define, perhaps just touch. If this issue offered even a glimpse of that kind of experience, then maybe there was meaning in putting these words down after all.