A Little About Me

All about Love

Love —- This word has made me crazy, stupid, wise, strong, independent, wild, free everything.
It’s something I have been chasing since childhood. Finding shade for my fear of abandonment.
Searching for it in every soft word spoken, every shielding gaze turned towards me. From family to pets, from surrounding to own inner self. I searched for it everywhere just to get that feeling of ho,e and belongingness. To fill that void
which is hard to explain. Searching for love even in chaos, in anger.
They said it’s in the way how they protect you, even if it means binding your wings. They said it’s in their aggression, even if it means listening to the words as harsh as thorns. They said it’s in their eyes, even if it that gaze could never passed your skin. They said a lot about love. I heard them, tried to look for it. But I couldn’t find it in any of the dark places, I found it in the warmth of the arms that doesn’t wrapped around me to close my wings. I found it in the words spoken in consciousness and care and affection and truth. I found it in the eyes that pierced my skin and touched my soul.
They say that there are so many kinds of loves, as many people as many loves.
But I roamed and roamed for years and understood, there is only one kind of love- The kind of person that gives it.

I looked for it in every soft-spoken word, in every shielding gaze turned toward me. From family to pets, from lovers to friends, from the world around me to the depths of my own being—I searched everywhere, longing for that feeling of home, of belonging. Trying to fill a void too vast to name.

Love.
This word has made me crazy, foolish, wise, strong, independent, wild, and free—everything at once.
It’s something I’ve been chasing since childhood, searching for shelter from the fear of abandonment.

I searched for love even in chaos, even in anger.
They told me it was in the way they protected me, even if it meant binding my wings.
They told me it was in their aggression, even when their words cut like thorns.
They told me it was in their eyes, even when that gaze never truly passed the sight of my skin.

They told me many things about love.
I listened. I looked. But I never found it in those dark places.

Instead, I found love in the warmth of those arms that held me without caging me.
I found it in words spoken with care, consciousness, affection, and truth.
I found it in eyes that didn’t just look at me—but saw me, piercing through skin and touching my soul.

They say there are countless kinds of love—as many as there are people in this world.
But after years of searching, I’ve come to understand:

There is only one kind of love—
One that only the wise know how to give.
 

Creative Process

Art processes cannot be taught—they can only be learned by those who have the courage to observe life deeply. Observing not just its highs but its lows, and even those moments when nothing makes sense to the mind.

Every artwork demands its own unique kind of attention. Every line is born from a different experience, every color carries a story untold. Starting an artwork is never just about the first stroke; it begins in the quiet conception of a thought, in the time you spend nurturing that thought before it ever touches a canvas.

An artwork’s life cycle mirrors our own. It begins with the planting of a seed—a fleeting idea that appears out of nowhere. Like life, it starts on a blank canvas, untouched and uncertain. Slowly, the identity of the piece starts to form as the canvas absorbs the essence of your thought in the form of lines, shapes, and textures. You immerse yourself in the process, and for a while, it consumes you entirely.

But then, as with all things, comes the inevitable lull. You begin to lose interest. Doubts creep in, and you question the origin of the thought that once felt so vibrant. This is the phase of abandonment, where you wonder if you’re even capable of doing justice to the idea. You convince yourself it’s not worth your time, seeking solace in fleeting distractions—other projects that offer temporary satisfaction but lack the depth of that first thought.
Then, in an unguarded moment, the thought quietly returns. It whispers to you, reminding you why it existed in the first place. The unfinished canvas calls out. This time, you don’t pick it up to finish it but simply to be with it. In this infinite loop of uncertainty, you stop thinking about destinations or outcomes. You enter a space beyond time—a space where your soul, mind, consciousness, and the universe align. And in that moment, you create—not because you have to, but because nothing else in the world feels more real.

Isn’t this the journey of a human life? Isn’t this why they say humans are art, and life itself is art? 
With every piece I create from this deeper space, I am reborn. I live, I die, and I rise again—each artwork carrying me through that eternal cycle.

Infinity Within

This poem was written during a time of deep confusion in my life. My mind was entangled in a trading mentality, constantly weighing and calculating. Then, one day, the grace of wisdom touched me, filling my heart with immense gratitude and love—not just for the joy but for all the pain my heart could feel, and for all the hurt my mind could comprehend.
When we’re in pain, it’s easy to develop a negative perspective about life. Nothing seems worth fighting for, and in the darkest moments, it feels easier to end it all than to make sense of the chaos around us. From these experiences, we often conclude that life is unfair. And with this belief comes a flood of defilements—we become more judgmental, more envious, more angry, less forgiving, less grateful, less happy, and less content.But the truth is, life is as fair as your perspective. We want the same energy we give, but we seek it from the exact source we gave it to. We want love only from the person we love, and we expect everything to be returned as if life were a transaction.
More often than not, we are the ones making life unfair for ourselves—by clinging to our cravings and aversions. I believe the greatest form of rebellion is to follow your own heart, free of such defilements.

We forget that the universe doesn’t operate on a trading mentality. Whatever energy we give—be it love, kindness, or gratitude—we’re not giving it to a person or a being. We’re offering it to the universe. And that energy will inevitably return to us, often in the most unexpected ways.

The source is not human; the source is the universe. Spread love and kindness, and you will receive it back in ways beyond your imagination.

 Life is not a transaction. Its immenseness can only be touched by us when we free ourselves from our own defilements of cravings and aversions.