I have always wanted to write. All my life.

It was only after I found the woman a voice had promised me when I was eleven that the words finally began to flow.

Since then, I have tried to give shape to whatever moves through me: wounds, yearnings, anger, visions, and questions left unanswered for far too long.

After a long inner labour, through seasons of darkness and disillusionment, I came to understand that the garden of words was the place where I could lay down what I could no longer contain.

The whisper of ink became a secret passage, where the embers of the soul are transmuted into stories, symbols and hope.

I have always tried to read between the lines, to look past what is visible, to dig where I was told not to go. That instinct led my writing towards metaphysical, gnostic, hermetic and cosmogonic questions.

I explore humanity’s loss of meaning, its confusion, the ways in which it has gone astray — but also the possibility of awakening. If I sometimes write of collapse, it is not to dwell upon it, but to search within it for a memory long buried, a lost word, a light that still burns.

I have never quite felt at home in this world. Perhaps because some part of me knows where it came from, and already senses where it is returning.

Through my stories, I invite the reader to look beyond the surface of things and to move through these pages as a symbolic journey into what lies within.

Not to escape reality, but to reveal its hidden depths.