Sometimes style isn’t about trends. For me it has always felt closer to a personal diary, where clothes become an extension of thoughts and states of mind. There are days when I want to dissolve into dark textures, and days when I long for lightness and fragility.
I believe that clothing is a language. It can speak of freedom, of depth, of delicate femininity, or of inner rebellion. And the most valuable thing is when the outer image doesn’t conflict with what’s inside.
That’s why I resonate with brands that create something more than just clothes. @ochre_palette is exactly that for me: a touch of underground, a touch of boldness, a touch of severity and at the same time a striking femininity that only amplifies individuality
🌙🖤
Which of these five reflections resonated with you the most?✨
📸: @savemekilly_galleri
Today is my birthday🌒
This year hasn’t been easy, but it has brought me back the most important thing - myself. Through art, I have found meaning again. Right now, more than ever, I feel that I am on my path.
Yes, it’s scary, yes, it’s hard. But I will keep going - trying, making mistakes, getting back up, and moving forward.
Thank you to myself and to that little girl inside me, who always believed that even in the darkest moments there is light, and never stopped searching.
This is just the beginning 🎥
My First Crush wore black leather, handed out silver blades and drank blood🩸
When I was 6, I watched Blade for the first time.
And, guys.. It was chemistry
Leather, blood, danger, passion and style of course.
The fight to the death and the quiet, inevitable conflict with one’s nature.
I watched and dreamed of being Nyssa - welcoming the dawn at Blade’s knee, even if it ends in imminent death 🌒💔
That’s when, along with this movie, another emotion unlocked in me for the first time - jealousy.
You can imagine my mom’s face when I, in complete seriousness, declared:
- “This is my future husband”
Over the years, I’ve realized: childhood crushes are rarely accidental.
They are like the first strokes in a painting, laying down lines that then manifest themselves in us again and again.
And yes, my first love still left certain «kinks» in the present hahah
Revisited the two parts the other day - the emotions are the same!
——-
Who was your very first crush? Admit it, I want to know🧛🏻♀️
I don’t want to lose myself trying to be perfect anymore.
I’ve spent too long trying to fit in. Into what’s “supposed to be”, what’s “right”, what will “please”.
I kept shaping myself around others expectations, even when no one asked me to.
I used to think that if I were flawless, I’d be loved.
But perfection doesn’t give love. It gives exhaustion.
A fleeting illusion of control. It quietly breaks you, whispering that this is how it should be.
I’m tired of losing myself.
I want to be alive. Real. Complex. Strange. Human.
With my fears, my highs, my mistakes, my silence, my pain, my depth, and my imperfections.
I’m not perfect and that’s my power.
——-
And if you recognize yourself in these words, know this: you’re not alone🖤
I’ll never forget my first completely solo and spontaneous trip.
No plan. No safety net. No clue what I was doing.
It was 2 years ago.
I didn’t even speak English. I was terrified, but also.. childishly excited.
At 5am, I booked a ticket. By 10, I was already on the plane.
I just thought: “I’ll figure it out when I get there”
It was reckless. And probably the best decision I made that year.
The world opened up in a whole new way. And so did I.
And honestly, I wish everyone could feel what it’s like to make a jump like that.
(And I don’t just mean travel)
At some point, you realize just how terrifying it is to be trapped in circumstances where you decide nothing. Where someone else writes the script of your life, and you’re just surviving inside it.
And even if it happened long ago, your body remembers. The mind erases, but inside scars remain, still shaping where you go and what you choose.
Now at least no one’s holding our hand. We choose our own path. And that, it turns out, is already a gift.
Because the scariest kind of horror isn’t ghosts. It’s the trauma no one could bear.
It lives in the body. In words. In actions. In the patterns that keep repeating.
If you don’t give it a voice, it will speak on its own.
First in a whisper. Then in a scream. Until it breaks everything around you.
Sometimes horror is simply grief left in the dark. And to begin to live - you have to face it.
Do you know how a butterfly transforms?
She doesn’t just sleep in a cocoon. She dissolves into a pulp.
So completely she no longer resembles herself.
Everything she was, everything that shaped her body - dies. And only from this black mass something new begins to emerge. Delicate. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
But not right away. First - darkness. Silence. Cellular chaos.
Like an embryo in the womb: blind, surrounded by sticky mucus and the sounds of another body. It doesn’t know there’s light ahead. But it grows. It takes form.
In alchemy, this stage is called nigredo - not a metaphor, but a literal phase of decay, when everything breaks down into a uniform black mass. This is the phase of madness. Of nightmares. Of feeling like you’re in hell, with no way out.
But something new is already breathing within that black mass. Something unique.
As Carl Jung wrote, nigredo is not a mistake, but a necessary stage of transformation. It is here that you meet your Shadow -
everything you’ve hidden, rejected, refused to see. And only by passing through this darkness, through the collapse of everything familiar, do you reach your essence.
You don’t return to your former self - you become your true self. The one you were always meant to be.
Sometimes, to become yourself, you must fall apart beyond recognition. And only then - when it seems nothing is left -
wings begin to grow within.
——-
Have you ever lost yourself so deeply just to finally find who you really are?
I was lying in the dark. Not the cozy kind. The kind that curls you into a fetal position and listens as you cry without a sound.
And that’s where I remained - until I began to decay.
One night, I dreamed I was standing in the middle of a room. Naked. Pale. I scratched myself lightly with a fingernail - and peeled away my skin like a tin can lid. It lay in my hands, like a photograph turned inside out.
I opened my eyes in horror, only to realize - it wasn’t a dream. The skin was gone. No more masks, no more patches. Only me.
The one who had always been underneath. The real one.
I ripped the past off like a bandage. And now I sit, bare, on the raw ground inside myself, growing new flesh - not from fear, not from borrowed words, not from “what I’ve been taught” - but from silence and pain, which, as it turns out, know how to build.
In this nakedness, the truth revealed itself. In this decay - life.
Pain means I’m still here. It means there’s still someone looking out from inside.
And so, this is only the beginning of the story.
(Or the end?)
“She floats in formalin
moving slowly
in a milky white fog
I wear her face, her name -
nobody noticed the switch..»
▪️Мне всегда откликалась идея восприятия своего тела, как холст▪️
Я- лишь инструмент художника, который сквозь меня может передать свое искусство. Искусство видеть, чувствовать и понимать без слов.
Именно поэтому для себя я выбрала абстракцию. Через мазки краски ты можешь по-настоящему узнать человека, прочитать самое сокровенное о нем.
Здесь я узнаю и кое-что о себе.
Беспокойство мыслей, хаотичность чувств, всплеск из беспощадности эмоций, переплетение линий из страха и решимости. Такой опасный и такой красивый танец в темноте, внутри которой я чувствую себя.. собой.
————
Воплотили себя через искусство вместе с @iorosemary 🖤
