My father has spent his life surrounded by relics of the past. He runs one of the most successful antique stores in this part of the world, but lately, I’ve realized he’s not just selling antiques—he’s becoming one. Stuck in a world where art had to scream to be meaningful, he can’t understand why I’m content creating beauty without political baggage.

To him, Development—the future we’ve earned—is terrifying. To me, it’s salvation. His generation feared the collapse of Earth, fought for survival, and now… they cling to their history like a life raft. But the irony? My father is slowly turning into the very relics he’s been selling all his life—priceless, yes, but completely out of time.

And as for me? I’m not just an artist; I’m the bridge between the past he refuses to leave behind and the future he’s too scared to embrace.