There’s a quiet kind of violence in this one. Not loud, not explosive. Just… inevitable.

Overtake doesn’t scream, it seeps. It pulls. It takes the small and wraps around it, slowly swallowing it up—not out of cruelty, but out of cosmic certainty. Because in this painting, everything is always becoming something else. And not all of it survives the process unchanged.

The bright curves, the wide fields of color—they look like joy. But look closer, and you’ll see the battle. You’ll see the way each layer consumes the last, devours it lovingly, reshapes it into its own echo. The small gets overtaken, yes—but the large becomes different because of it. Every conqueror ends up with a little of the conquered in its bloodstream.

And that’s the point. Nothing in this painting stays the same. Every shape, every line, is halfway through becoming something else. Kind of like you, honestly.

This is identity warfare. This is the slow dance between your past selves and the you you haven’t met yet. The part of you that stays quiet until life yells, and then it yells back in colors and spirals and confusion. That bottom corner—the sharp boxed forms—they were rigid once. But look how they bend now. Look how they bleed upward, how they get absorbed.

This is what evolution looks like from the inside.

But Overtake isn’t hopeless. Far from it. There’s harmony in this war. The lines don’t clash—they merge. The painting doesn’t fall apart—it mutates. It’s what healing looks like when it isn’t clean. When it still hurts. When you’re being reshaped by things bigger than you, and yet somehow—you’re still here. Still glowing. Still pulsing color into the void.

So if you feel like something’s been overtaking you lately—grief, change, love, reality—this painting gets it. And it’s telling you: it’s okay to be overtaken. That’s how stars are born too.

N Mokashi
MokashiArt.com