I have a splitting fu*king headache

It’s not the kind of pain you nurse.
It’s the kind you measure.

A concentrated pressure that builds behind the eyes, tight across the temples—like something mechanical grinding just beneath the surface. No drama. No flailing. Just a quiet, insistent burn.

This isn’t about emotion.
It’s about volume.

Too much intake.
Too many signals.
Too many sharp edges in a world that doesn’t stop speaking.

It’s the body telling the mind:
“You’ve reached capacity.”

So the canvas becomes the release valve. Not an escape—an outlet.
Not to feel better, but to map what the interior feels like under load.

Every mark is deliberate.
Every distortion, intentional.
There’s no metaphor here.
Just a record of intensity—held together by focus, not force.

The result isn’t meant to soothe.
It’s meant to hold its own space.
Like the headache itself: contained, persistent, exact.

A painting for anyone who’s ever kept going—quietly, precisely—through the noise.