I thought I’d tell you who I am… or who I think I am.

I have a persistent desire to make myself understood. Mostly, all this effort feels futile, and all it does is make me feel like a little girl desperate to explain herself. But I am, I assure you, a naive child who believes in a world less superficial than its appearances.

I’m complicated. Aware of more than I am comfortable to know. I’ve had a complicated journey. I am alert, fearful, nervous, and emotional. I’m empathetic.

I am a child, fascinated by everything around me. I am cheerful and withdrawn. I’m anxious, and that overwhelms me. But I’m also calm and collected. I’m resilient when I can work on something important. It’s vital for me to feel important, and yet, mostly, I want to be overlooked. I wish there were no expectations of me, so I could surprise.

I’m a free person. I am free to express myself and free to be silent. I am free to choose for myself, to be present or absent, to create, and to live my daily life in a way that brings me even a vague desire to engage with a world I don’t resonate with. I need my life to mean something. I need to not just exist—this possibility makes me profoundly unhappy. But in addition to that, I need motivation.

I can’t get lost in a mundane daily life, and it’s hard to prevent that from happening.

I’m selfish. I have no energy for anything useless.

I often wander in my mind, and that’s something I like. It can be really nice there when it’s quiet.

Simple things make me happy. Simplicity itself makes me happy. Yes, precisely because I’m complicated.

I’m not kind to myself, and I need kindness. I’m deeply imperfect. My works, too. Every bump, shaky line, or chaos that I’ve expressed through art is a significant part of myself. Even, or mostly, my little monsters.

I put parts of myself wherever I can, in the most subtle way possible. I do it because I sincerely want to open up and express myself, but even more, to be discovered. Just as sincerely.