You open your inbox, and it's like peeling the scab off a wound that never quite heals. The faces and words of strangers, each one a mirror reflecting back the relentless march of ALS. I thought I knew this beast. I thought I understood it because it's been gnawing at my own bones for years. But seeing its mark on others? That’s a punch to the gut every single time.
It's not just the disease; it’s the stories that come with it. Each submission is a testament, a raw confession of the daily struggle, the slow fade of strength, the little betrayals of their own bodies. And here I am, a fellow traveler on this hellish road, reading their truths and feeling my own echoed back at me.
You sit there, staring at their words, their faces. It’s like being in a crowded room where everyone’s screaming their pain, and yet there’s this eerie silence because you know, you understand. You tweak their portraits, smoothing out the digital lines, trying to capture the essence of who they were before ALS started its slow theft. Each edit feels like a small act of rebellion, a way to say, “You’re still here. You still matter.”
Then comes the 3D file, that meticulous creation of something so fragile, yet so defiant. The printer whirs to life, layer by layer, building these small monuments of resilience. It’s a slow process, almost meditative, watching the faces come to life in plastic and light. Each tile is a whisper in the dark, a reminder that these people, these souls, are more than their disease.
In the end, it’s not just an art project. It’s a communion. A silent, poignant acknowledgment of shared suffering and stubborn hope. Every tile, every face, is a story I’ve carried with me, a piece of my own heart etched into the larger tapestry of 'Flickering Souls.' It’s messy, it’s painful, but it’s real. And in this reality, there’s a kind of brutal beauty that makes it all worthwhile.
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