I am not an easy person to understand, nor am I gentle by default. My patience runs thin, and my temper often speaks before my restraint does. I know my words can wound; I am aware of how sharp my tongue can be. Yet when conversations turn heavy-when pain, truth, or complexity enters the room-I quiet down. In those moments, I soften. I listen. I become gentler than I ever appear to be.

My mind is not always a safe place. I carry instability like a shadow that never fully leaves, but I survive it with humor-sometimes dark, sometimes misplaced, but always necessary. I fight my battles like a war goddess would: relentlessly, unapologetically, and without surrender. Writing is where I bleed without being seen. Through words, I release the chaos I cannot carry aloud. Books, papers, and scattered stationery are not mere objects to me; they are fragments of sanctuary, proof that creation can exist even in disorder.

I am stubborn to a fault. Once I decide, I do not bend easily, even when bending might save me. But this hardheadedness is not born from pride alone-it is armor. I have learned that survival sometimes requires becoming immovable. If there is darkness in my work, it is because darkness lives in me. And if there is honesty in these pages, it is because I refuse to lie about who I am.