It is a strange obsession we have. To define everything.

To label it. Categorise it. Pin it down so it behaves.

A small gesture does not need a thesis. An abstract form does not need a paragraph explaining its intent. Symbolism does not need to be decoded like a puzzle every single time. Sometimes a line is just a line. Sometimes a colour sits there because it feels right.

The rush to define flattens experience. The moment you assign a fixed meaning, you close the door on other possibilities. You reduce something alive into something manageable. Safe. Tidy.

Life is richer when it remains slightly unresolved.

A glance across a room. A pause in a conversation. A mark on a canvas that makes no logical sense yet holds you there. These things resist explanation. That resistance is the point.

We have been trained to ask, what does it mean. A better question might be, what does it do to me. Does it unsettle. Calm. Confuse. Provoke. Does it stay with you the next day.

Art does not owe clarity. Experience does not owe coherence.

If you extract meaning from something, good. It belongs to you. If you do not, that is fine too. The absence of meaning is not a failure. It can be freedom. It leaves space. It allows interpretation to breathe.

Defining everything is control. Letting things be is trust.

Trust that ambiguity has value. Trust that abstraction can hold truth without spelling it out. Trust that a small gesture can shift something in you without ever announcing what it is.

Let things exist without interrogation.

Sometimes the most honest response is to sit with what you cannot fully explain.