MOONRISE&SUNSET

The name came to me before the structure did. MOONRISE&SUNSET — I wrote it down without knowing what it would mean yet. But it felt right. It felt like the rhythm my emotions move in: slow, inevitable, and out of my control.

When I started this project, I didn’t have a clear goal. I just had a feeling — a pressure in my chest, a sense that something inside me needed to be externalized, but not explained.

Now, weeks later, I still don’t think I’ve “figured it out.” But I’ve learned that maybe figuring things out isn’t the point.

What I’ve built through this process isn’t just one artwork — it’s a new way of noticing. I’ve started listening to things I used to block out: my own breath when I’m nervous, the delay in someone’s voice when they hesitate, the shape of silence between questions.

I’ve also started to see how sound gives me a language that resists clarity — a language that’s emotional, unstable, but honest. And that’s what I want to keep exploring.

I think I used to create from a place of fear — fear of being misunderstood, of not being good enough. But through this project, I’ve discovered a different mode: creating as questioning, not as proving.

I still feel fragmented. But now, that feels like a method, not a flaw.

There’s something about the sun setting and the moon rising that feels honest to me. They happen every day, but they don’t wait for us. No matter how overwhelmed I am, how anxious or scattered, the world keeps rotating. The sky keeps changing. That quiet, uncaring consistency — it mirrors something in me.

The piece I created is not a literal translation of this rhythm. It’s a collapse of it. A broken imitation. Because my inner world doesn’t flow like light across the sky — it glitches, it spins, it resets without warning. But naming the piece MOONRISE&SUNSET helped me frame that contrast.

I wanted the title to hold a kind of poetic tension. A softness that sits next to noise. Something cosmic sitting beside something painfully human.

Maybe that’s what I’m always looking for in sound: a way to hold opposites. To give form to things that never arrive at answers — only movements, only shifts.