I write about identity, memory, and the delicate aches of being alive. I am drawn to love and loss as existential forces — the ways they alter our experience of time, estrange us from ourselves, and transform our definition of selfhood. Somehow, my work returns to the same timeless questions: How does memory shape reality? How does displacement transform the meaning of home? What remains of us when the people, places, and structures that once held us begin to disappear?
Every structure wants to collapse gracefully: the body under the weight of years, the house once full of laughter, the nation built on myth. Even memory, if left untouched, begins to fold in on itself — softly, almost mercifully — like an experience morphing into a dream. In that collapse, something remains: a residue of truth, small but indestructible, from which my exiled self begins to dream again.
My cerebral thoughts provide a fleeting rush of ecstasy. A momentary respite from my sweet deceptions. They are the paper lanterns I hold against a vast and indecipherable darkness.
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