Momentarily still crawling out of the uterus of the universe, I’m figuring out how to fully become the artist I’m meant to be, a quiet observer with a mind that’s anything but. My thoughts buzz with endless ideas, fueled by chaos and a lifelong obsession with nature and beauty.

I’m a visual thinker, unable to endure a car ride without spending most of the time staring at trees, their shapes, their movement, their textures. They steal my attention, perhaps even more than the aesthetics of the human body.

I’m on the edge of success, and I’m not here to tiptoe into it. I crave the quiet pull of purpose, the weightless drift of creation, the feeling of doing what I was shaped to do.

Art is how I make sense of it all. It’s not just a want, it’s a need, a constant search for structure in the mess, for stillness in motion. Every piece I create feels like one step closer to discovering what I’m really here for.