There are moments when I can hardly breathe—feelings too difficult to articulate, tucked silently away inside. In those moments, song becomes the only outlet, the only way to let anything out. But within these standardized, recycled melodies, I hear something foreign—beliefs that were implanted, not born from us.

Text, language, patterns, symbols… rewritten, layered, fractured, erased.

I ask myself: Who am I?

"Motherland." "Mainland." These words have shifted, lost their original meaning. The "broadcast" tells us we are them, but we know—we are not.

We live in the in-between, in the cracks of identity. We sing their songs, speak their national language, while our dialects are treated like original sins. The roles of subject and object collapse, blur, invert.

What remains here is a kind of hollow sound—both real and symbolic. It is oppression, but also endurance; resistance, but also a silent scream.

It is in the erased silences of these melodies that I hear the real stories. The gaps are where memory lives. For me, to create is to recover and to resist—to place belief and identity into the fading traces of a homeland, preserving what little warmth remains.