Below are some of my writings from the years.
I hope to write more in the future.
I also want to think about ways to
combine my drawing and writing.:)



Every night, the boy views the world through the spaces between his fingers.

He never thinks about what he sees, only sensing what enters through the spaces in his hand.

‘My sensibility is whole - all senses combined into one - for what enters the spaces between my fingers. A feeling comes to me, and I want to give myself to it, all of myself.

‘The spaces are small, and the world that touches me through them, smaller still... I’ve got to keep the spaces there.’


I hid behind many things that refined themselves over time, and held on to the memory of someone who no longer existed but lived so fully in me, and lives. But what did I see in the person who had lost so much that she had nothing to hide behind? I did not see myself.


In his mind, the architect builds a city that is alive. He creates a building that breathes as he does because he knows its position and its life more completely than the building does.

He does not have to live in the city to know that his work is true, and when he finds the people, some who are better off than he, some who are not, who need the shelter of the buildings he created, then he can be happy. No one questions why the buildings have no back doors, and their designs, which people praise as good works of architecture, are dictated by the form of his own face.


A boy died in the most terrible way, by losing the contours of his body and the definition of his face.

He lived so completely. But if you die in a memory, there is nothing.


A figure passes through the window in the wall to the left of the dining room, and I follow it, but a little fairy shoos me away.

I push past and see a green mantis, squashed for fun on a concrete floor. Then further down the dark hallway, I see another, purple. They are made of cardboard, but that does not mean they are not living.


Guided by a girl’s voice, the musician tried to replicate it on his instrument. He told himself: ‘If you want to touch the heart, you had better not swallow her up!’

He mistook the fog outside as the forms of his mind and jumped out the window. Everything was perfect. Everything - when his legs, as he hung from the sky, could not touch the ground.


My limbs and lashes feel the blue walls inhale as you bend the air beside them. Your legs reflect the stars and pull slow ripples through the dark. Their trail spells a fairy tale I once heard.

In the glow of the planets, you become real.


The smallest part of yourself, and within that another part, smaller and smaller. You want to clean it away, but you cannot remove what is necessary. Someone has to be you, so it might as well be you. You can’t be ashamed or not because nothing really is that deep. You don’t want timeless things but only things that die with time.


I knew I had done something wrong in another time, another place. I didn’t fear the punishment but the state of having done the wrong. That it had been ongoing, but that I had not been aware of it. I couldn’t go back in time to fix it.

I was being dragged on the floor by my self. Dragged in place. I kept pushing like a spider, and I felt the floor moving underneath, but I was not going forward. I would have been terrified if I had seen myself, my unnatural state.

I knew that I could get out - but when I opened my eyes, again and again, I saw the blue darkness of my room swimming by me but doing nothing more. It did not help when I saw my front door open, light hanging from below the widened hinges.

But it was dark outside. I had swallowed the world within my own nightmare - a world that had been my creation.


When I closed my eyes in the dark, visions flashed gently in front of me. I could look at them softly, with no urgency and no feeling, the way I could when I had no thoughts to untangle and no words to tell anyone.

The intensity and rhythm of these visions defined the beauty of my dreams. I saw a great romance in their edges as they receded, then came to me, again and again.

Then they were still. In the quiet dark, they were blue, pink, clear, all colors at the same time, and sharp, soft, translucent, young, ill, wandering, naïve, all at the same time.

That night, I decided to chase after something. I didn’t want to grow up, but I wanted to grow closer to a gentleness.


I used to dream of the farthest places or the littlest things that would, when I squinted, disappear or turn into pointed stars. These tiny shards of my dreams are what I wanted to wear and use to drape reality. I would see them on my furniture, on the trees lining the road, and on strangers. Sometimes I liked to think that this glitter lifted the world’s mysteries.

When I saw certain places in the distance, I felt my heart expand as it did when I found things that were new but so integral to me that I knew I had loved them all my life. The stars were fragments of these places, so far away that I remembered them only as lines fading into abstraction.

Had I mistaken these lines as their souls? What were these places like when they came into focus and I had to trace them not with my finger, but with my footsteps?

One day, I may touch a star and be upset to discover that it does not shine the way I had imagined. I would be aching for something that had never existed for anyone other than myself. Do I reconstruct it then, or do I search for another? Or do I forget about it for a while, hoping that one day, the glitter would change its colors to match it?

Maybe what I had wanted all my life was to trace reality with my finger – to be able to believe that the coat I wore or the book I held or the person I loved would one day be a star.


In your garden, I found a flower, almost dead, gleaming in the sun. I put it in a vase at my window and tried to revive it. Every morning, I went to it, hoping for signs of recovery, but it always appeared the same as I had first found it, beautiful and alone.

One night, I dreamed about your flower. I sat up in my bed, the moonlight all over me, and felt that somehow things would be different, and that miracles may happen if I pretended that the moon was the sun. I went over to my window and saw your flower bloom in the dark, sickly and violet. How fantastic it looked, like nothing I had ever seen in the sun! I thought, ‘You must have been born to be admired in the moonlight!’

I began to wonder about your garden, which I had never seen in the moonlight. I wondered about every garden I had never seen in the moonlight, and every path, every room, every face... Had I lived my life blind, letting the sun illuminate everything I saw? Why was I able to see this beauty, so deep and true, only after the sun had gone? Why had I thought of the moonlight only then?

Why does the sun leave when the moon appears? Why does the moon run away from the light? What does this mean for your flower, which shies away from the sun, and looks its loveliest only when everyone is asleep?

To be loved by the sun and the moon – Why can’t you be both? Why must you choose?

In reality, your flower had never bloomed, not in my room and not in my dreams, not during the day and not at night. But it does – when I close my eyes to the sun, and the moon rises slowly over the earth to bless all the unnatural things gathered below, dancing with their discordant forms and staccato steps – and your flower is there, in the middle of it all, growing and transforming without order or sense, prancing in its sincerest way, drunk with its own essence and as radiant as a million suns...

It’s a dance at my window, a dance before me.

Your flower died long before. But now I only need to close my eyes and become blind to the sun – and the moon would appear, and all that is dead would come alive again.


What I want to express more than thinness of the body is the desire to enter the thinnest and most remote spaces.


I tried to find the right answer, of many right answers, to a question. Waiting for something, I stood for an hour in the rain.

In the beginning, my mind was in a frenzy, intoxicated with thoughts of hate and love, the moment colored in a pretty beige design.

When I searched and searched for the answer, and in exhaustion and dissatisfaction, closed my eyes to search inside a dream, what filled my vision filled all other senses in its own way.

This is what I wanted more than the sounds of the city or anyone’s understanding.

When I was with you, I felt it. But I could not feel the wind and I could not hear the music next to me.

Now, the moment is in black and white, like every scene in every film I had seen during those years.


Standing in the cold, I remembered a feeling from last year. It was like a song that reminded me of another feeling, and through which I felt without hearing the melody.

Truth is not what enters the eye, but what reveals itself in the mind in ways that I cannot see. There is no room for nonsense. It is all cruel and dirty.

I create the world that is perfect for me and for no other. It grows with me. It is a world I cannot describe while looking anyone in the eye.