There are moments when I ask myself why I create at all. The answer always returns in silence, in the pulse of my own heart: because I must.

Every artwork I make is born from the deepest chambers of my being. They are not simply objects, but fragments of sadness, sparks of joy, and whispers of everything that stirs my soul. To create is to translate emotion into matter, to let what I feel and perceive take tangible form in the world.

This is why I cannot see my works as commodities. True art is not meant to be handled like foodstuffs, packaged like products, or traded like numbers in a marketplace. It is sacred: an offering of the human soul, shaped by hands and nourished by memory, silence, and longing. To stand before a real artwork is to stand before the vulnerability of another being. Such encounters are rare, delicate, and profound.

Yet the world often forgets this. My pieces sometimes sit in silence, stacked in the studio or hanging on gallery walls, waiting. Each of them feels like a child of mine not easily given away, not easily priced. Parting with them is never simple, for each carries a fragment of my breath.

There are days I feel tired to the marrow, as if I am already walking with the awareness of a final breath. I carry no plan for the weeks ahead, only this present moment where creation and uncertainty fold into one another.

And still, I believe in the necessity of making art that is true: art that resists becoming a product. For when art is born not from market demands but from the urgency of the heart, it transcends time. It becomes more than matter; it becomes a sacred trace of human existence.

And perhaps this is enough: to know that in each work, a piece of my soul will continue breathing, long after I am gone.