Bread

One feels that there is pain here that does not cry, and truth that does not hide.
At first glance — the shape of bread, that everyday, sacred, simple bread that smells of home and morning.
But inside — no softness, no crumbs, no warmth.
But a brick.
Empty cavities.
Artificial hardness.
Something made to endure, but not to nourish.

This is the bread of a time in which people had to chew hard reality instead of crumbs of hope.

Our bodies need to be fed.
But the soul — even more so.
And here the bread is inedible.
It is dried consolation.
An empty shell of a promise of life.

This bread says:
“Here you are. Eat.
This is your world.
Get used to it.”

And people do get used to it.
They get used to chewing brick.
They get used to not asking “where is the warmth”.
They get used to believing this is bread, and not its absence.

This is a picture of fasting that is not a choice.
Of hunger that has become character.
Of endurance turned into skin.

But look — behind it, in the nature of the lines, there is tenderness.
Boyan did not draw it with malice.
Nor with irony.

He drew it as someone who remembers the taste of real bread.

Lia