I consider writing a craft of sustained attention, where endurance, method, consistency, and intellectual discipline matter more than any single moment of inspiration.
I am a writer and visual artist. My work moves across fiction, nonfiction, and visual mediums—painting, drawing, photography, and film. Beneath this sits a background rooted in filmology, screenwriting, and an earlier life in mathematics and computer science. It is a strange trajectory, but it has shaped how I work: with structural discipline, a degree of self-reliance, and a constant drive to harmonize literature, philosophy, and psychology.
My debut novel, Margaret, explores how emotional states persist beyond time and how past relationships continue to shape perception through involuntary recognition. My upcoming novel, Behind, investigates projection, intersubjectivity, and the subtle transformations that occur when observation becomes a formative influence.
Alongside my prose, I publish a series of essays here.
I started writing them out of a deep need for clarity—for articulating feelings and questions that, although apparently intimate, are far more widespread than we realize. These texts are neither academic nor raw confessions. They sit somewhere between lucid analysis and assumed vulnerability. They do not seek definitive conclusions, but a form of understanding that unites mind, soul, and body. What may seem like a detailed analysis to some is, in fact, a form of resistance against slipping completely into nonsense. I don’t write because I’m afraid of life, but because I cannot accept living it without questions.
Each theme starts from a personal reflection written in the intimacy of the moment, sometimes followed by a reflective essay built later from a place of distance. In other cases, the initial reflection remains untouched—a fragment of inner truth left as it was. These texts are an attempt to name what I have done with myself to stay alive. For too long, perhaps, I believed in my lucidity as an ingenious sponsor of my genius, that spared me from wounds. In the meantime, I have ceased to see lucidity as a screen: it does not kill voluptuousness, but makes it bearable in truth.
Originally written in my native language and later translated by my own hand into English, these essays carry the imprint of that linguistic bridge. Even when imperfect, the translation retains the essence of what I meant, trusting that authenticity speaks beyond boundaries.
I try, in everything I write, not to separate form from substance and not to betray the truth in the name of style. These reflections are traces of a life lived with lucidity and sensitivity—forms of inner exile, but also pathways between solitude and a possible connection with the other. I share them in the hope that this space might become for you what it has been for me: a place to return to oneself, to mirror, and to meaning.