I am Eeta.
A multidisciplinary, multi-dimensional, multi-lingual artist. Living between borders, raised in Saudi Arabia, I belong to no country. No category. I move as a quiet part of everything. Bound to no one, connected to all.
I carry diagnoses the world often misunderstands: DID. Bipolar Disorder. OCD. Gender Dysphoria. A congenital heart condition. But before the diagnoses came the silence, before language, there was poetry. I began writing in the dark, a kid lost to solitude, in my father’s library. No poetry books, no maps, only the pull of something that needed to escape before it swallowed me whole.
My mind wandered through music, cosmetology, fashion, psychology, medicine, Greek philosophy, literature, and faith; gathering fragments of the world to survive my own.
This is the voice behind Lure of Shadows: Poetry of Madness.
I live alone by choice. While the world expected me to fold, I read. I studied. I learned. My refuge was knowledge, my rebellion was creation. I travel when the shadows grow too loud. I sit with ruins and listen.
I didn’t choose creation.
It found me, when everything else fell apart.
The more I broke, the more I reached for bold colors,
for heavy stones and silver cuffs,
for thread and flame and quiet resistance.
Crochet is not a hobby.
Painting is not an escape.
They are survival rituals.
Each knot, a breath.
Each brushstroke, a wound dressed in silence.
I create to repair what the world kept tearing open,
one stitch, one verse, one shadow softened into color.
Eeta Noire
Because the Night Won’t End
From surgery classes to the threads of history in textiles, every path I’ve taken has left its mark. Now diving into molecular medicine, I continue to embrace the chaos of learning, unafraid to begin again.
When I’m not creating or exploring, I’m feeding my restless mind, chasing knowledge, or sitting among ruins, whispering to ghosts.
I live alone, not to isolate
but to stay honest.
No small talk. No smiling on command.
Only the hush, the hunger, the healing.
And when I travel, it’s not to chase sunsets.
It’s to outrun the whisperers.
To find temporary quiet in unfamiliar air.
But the shadows always catch up.
So I carry thread. I carry charcoal.
And I keep creating.
This is not art for display.
This is how I stay alive.
