I’m the quiet observer in the middle of the room — the one who notices everything and says very little. I see the details people overlook: the tension in a jawline, the long pause before a sentence, the avoidance of connection. I’m drawn to hidden fractures and unspoken fears, especially the kind people mask even from themselves.
Those things shape the world more than we admit.
My writing is a hypothesis: that many of our choices come from old wounds, primal fears, and lessons inherited from people who carried their own private storms. “Fear is the mind killer,” Herbert wrote — and I tend to agree. I write to explore the quiet mind-killers that run beneath society, the ones that steer us without our permission. And, in a way, I write to live in moments without the presence of my own.
I’m not here to please anyone or play a part. I’m not trying to save the world or reshape it. I write to understand the internal landscapes we all live with — the places where identity, pressure, and silence collide.
I don’t like pretense. I don’t like shallow masks.
I’m here. I’m human.
If you're here too, then you already know surface-level doesn't cut it.
So let's not pretend it does.