It has been a long time since I last wrote to you—or wrote anything with genuine purpose and actually saw it through to the end.

I bought myself this leather notebook in Marrakech last December. After returning from that vacation, the words flowed for a brief while, but life inevitably pulled me away again.

The last time we crossed paths, we both ended up in tears, exchanging heavy life updates. It is wild, isn’t it? Navigating your thirties while confronting brutal, unvarnished reality. Facing betrayal, weathering a divorce, and carrying the weight of a child diagnosed with a terminal illness for you. All of this while wrestling with the mundane yet crushing demands of survival: trying desperately to keep the job, paying rent, putting food on the table, managing an impossible nanny, and enduring a turbulent relationship with a mother who seems utterly incapable of looking beyond her own reflection.

Yet, life moves on. In the quiet, fleeting moments—the first few minutes after waking up, staring out of an airplane window, or people-watching in an airport lounge—profound thoughts rush in. I feel a desperate urge to capture them on paper. But we are no longer seventeen. We no longer possess the luxury of infinite time. My mind feels perpetually foggy, and I cannot tell if it is the shadow of depression, the sheer volume of daily battles I must fight, or simply the compounding trauma of a life that keeps fracturing right before my eyes.

Irony has a strange timing. I purchased this website domain in the summer of last year, and only now, under the weight of it all, do I find myself finally using it.

Do I sound chaotic yet?

This summer, I managed to take a three-week vacation. It was desperately needed, yet somehow, returning to the office felt far more relaxing than being on holiday. The truth is, vacation offers no escape from your own mind. I just want to take my daughter and flee the country entirely.

Here’s to the hope that I will create something profound with my writing and photography skills.

Cheers!