The Thrill Is Gone?

The excitement I once felt about songwriting has faded. Love songs, in particular, no longer interest me. The formula has become too familiar: take some dramatic relationship or fictional moment, intensify the emotion, invent two characters or give them names, arrange a few lines into rhyme, place them over a predictable sequence of arpeggiated chords, add the requisite pathos, write a memorable hook, and include a confession invented purely for emotional effect. Then call it a song.

I know I can do it, but the very ease of doing so has begun to make the process feel mechanical and inauthentic, particularly because I rarely listen to such songs myself. Blues Traveler’s “Hook” has always fascinated me precisely because it turns that machinery into its subject. The song exposes how a memorable refrain, carefully manufactured emotion, and even a fabricated confession can move an audience despite the potential hollowness of the performance.

There are already thousands of formulaic love songs, and so many of them return to the same emotions, images, characters, and conclusions. I have reached the point where I could turn almost anything into one. I have, quite literally, written a love song about a leaf. I will not publish anything else until I create something I genuinely believe is good.

None of this means that I have stopped liking music. On the contrary, I love it more than ever. It also does not mean that I have dismissed my demos, especially the ones I decided to keep. I think many of them are very good, and I love the ideas and the vision behind them. Even with generated sound, I managed to get surprisingly close to what I had imagined.

These days, I mostly listen to artists such as Baby Rose, The Echocentrics, Genesis Owusu, and Curtis Harding, alongside a great deal of neo-soul, psychedelic soul, and richly textured fusion, as well as reinterpretations of existing songs. What interests me most is the atmosphere of this music. Baby Rose has a vibe all her own. Her voice is so distinctive, and none of these artists sound as though they are simply assembling songs from familiar parts.

I discovered The Echocentrics through Adrian Quesada, the project’s creator and a producer and co-founder of Black Pumas. The connection made immediate sense. Genesis Owusu has also spoken about thinking in terms of mood rather than genre, allowing the sound to take whatever form the feeling requires. His music can be unruly and wild, but that is precisely what makes it interesting.

That is what I want from music. A song should not feel like the successful execution of a formula. It should be a whole mood. But perhaps the simplest truth is that songwriting no longer feels like me. These days, writing essays and recording my thoughts as they are feels much more natural.

22/07/2026

A few thoughts, along with an update about my upcoming demos: I will have less time to write over the next few months, as I will have my hands full. I should still find some free time while I am on vacation and when I am in Pula in August for the Sting concert, which I cannot wait for. But I will probably not be publishing songs every week. I will continue writing, only at a slower pace.

This morning, I decided to put a few more thoughts on paper in a form of an essay.

The more time passes, and the more I write, the more clearly I see that love, independence, unity, imagination, and maturity are not opposing forces, but interconnected parts of the same human experience.

Yet people often speak of them as though one must diminish the others: as though independence requires toughness, intimacy requires dependence, or a strong sense of self leaves little room for tenderness. Love is indeed a meaningful part of my life, but it is not the foundation of my entire identity.

The self I bring into love does not disappear inside it. I continue to create, question and belong to myself. Being married has enriched my life, as has the sense of self I possessed before marriage and still carry with me. Perhaps this understanding also comes from the women who raised me.

I was raised by two strong women: my mother and my grandmother. From them, I learned that a woman could remain fully herself while loving, creating, and caring for others. Their strength was neither performative nor rooted in ideology. It revealed itself in the way they thought and lived, in everyday moments, and in the way they remained distinctly themselves.

My mother introduced me to poetry when I was very very young. As I grew older, I turned to novels, and Dostoevsky became my favourite writer when I was thirteen. Before romantic songs began to resonate with me, literature had already introduced me to questions of identity, morality, human existence, and the meaning of life.

To me, romantic love is just one profound form of experience among many, situated within a much broader emotional, philosophical, and imaginative world.

And I only began to understand it much later, after experiencing years of stable love in my marriage. Is it an evolutionary impulse, an expression of the ego, social conditioning, or simply the result of years of intimacy and proximity, I still don't know. Perhaps no single explanation is sufficient, especially when love itself exists in so many different forms.

I have found that the more deeply I accept and value myself, the more connected I feel to humanity as a whole. In those moments, love seems less like an expression of the ego and more like something fundamental, perhaps even metaphysical, in the way we experience human connection. This sense of connection does not erase individuality. It is possible to love others deeply while still remaining fully oneself.

This understanding naturally shapes my writing. I can write about love, a city, a film, a plant, or almost anything else, drawing from the same inner source. The theme of a song does not become the centre of my identity, nor does every song represent me completely. It is simply a subject through which my imagination has chosen to explore a particular point of view.

For me, emotion is alchemical.

A feeling can be transformed, redirected, fictionalised, and placed within another point of view. It may begin with a memory, a place, a passing thought, or an experience from many years ago. By the time it becomes a song, it may tell an entirely different story from the one that first inspired it.

Songwriting requires the freedom to enter an emotion without turning it into a literal record of my life. It is a temporary act of imagination rather than a fixed statement about who I am. I draw from empathy, from a broader love for humanity, and from the ability to imagine experiences beyond my own. I can write a deeply sad breakup song without having lived that exact story, or explore powerful emotions without being defined by them.

Imagination gives me freedom, and openness takes courage. Vulnerability does not weaken a strong sense of self, just as emotional depth does not diminish independence. Both are part of the complexity of being fully alive.

I have a strong sense of self and a creative voice that I use freely, as well as the full support of the people closest to me. They have never questioned why I write the songs I do. What they have wondered is why I feel the need to explain the meaning behind them at all.

Perhaps I do not need to explain them, but I enjoy sharing the train of thought behind each song. I understand that doing so may diminish some of its mystery. My husband recently pointed out that when I reveal too much, listeners may have less freedom to project their own experiences onto the music.

I am not sure I entirely agree. Some of the songs that have affected me most deeply are those whose stories I later learned from their writers. Knowing the context did not limit my interpretation; it enriched it. The writer’s meaning and the listener’s interpretation can coexist. I think this is simply personal. 

It is 6 a.m. on a warm summer morning as I write this. My windows are open, and I can hear the city waking up. Perhaps this is a good place to leave these thoughts for now. Enjoy the day.

17/07/2026

UPDATE: I just finished my first class. Let’s keep the exact style a secret for now. I honestly loved it. This week’s demo might suffer a little because I’m enrolled in quite a few classes. I needed this so much.

I still love ballet, and I love my Mosaïque women, so I’m definitely not giving it up. Ballet is beautiful, but it asks a lot of my body, especially because flexibility does not come naturally to me. I usually feel quite physically tired after class. This new style simply seems to suit the way my body naturally moves a little better.

I also felt slightly out of place because I arrived in my all black outfit and character shoes, which was probably more appropriate for jazz dance, but everything else was wonderful. The music alone made me feel so good and I can’t wait to go again tomorrow.

I know I said no more blog style posts, but this one felt worth sharing. To anyone reading this: just go and dance. Try everything until you find the style that makes you feel most alive. Different periods of life may call for different styles, and the way we connect with dance is personal, so choose what feels right for you.

For my current music selection, I keep coming back to The Obamas’ 2019 Summer Favorites on Spotify. The mix feels warm and eclectic, with enough variety to stay interesting without feeling random. I’ll explore some newer songs too, but for now, this playlist is on repeat.

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I’ve officially added some new rhythms and proper Latin dances to my schedule starting next week. After last few dancing classes, it became very clear that this is exactly what I need right now. Something freer, more sensual and playful.

I want movement that feels natural and full of attitude, with music that pulls me out of my head and into the moment. Maybe that shift in energy is what I need to loosen up and find my way back to new ideas. Because I’ve been working through a bit of writer’s block lately.

I’ll also search for something that truly resonates with my mood in selected songs. The last one was beautiful, but the lyrics are a bit depressing. I blame the weather. Time to fill my fridge with some new music.

Someone close to me recently asked why I write these entries. This is my space to talk about what matters to me. I write when I’m optimistic and when I’m feeling less so. Writing here keeps me inspired and motivates me to keep creating.

I write whenever I find a free moment: over coffee, on a sunny Sunday like this one, between chores, when the weather is bad, or during a calm evening. No matter when I write, it always feels good to put my thoughts into words.

Today, I’ve opened the doors to let some sun into my small studio apartment. I’ve done some redecorating, my laptop is open, and the music is playing. It feels like the perfect setting to write and appreciate life’s small pleasures.

I could keep all of this private, but I like the idea that someone might come across it and find comfort or understanding in something I’ve written. That possibility is reason enough to leave it public.

12/07/2026

Update: I’ll be posting a new demo this week, so stay tuned!

I’m in Opatija… again. I had to escape this heat.

Last night turned into an unexpectedly interesting evening. We had a lovely conversation with a local musician, and we wandered through all sorts of music related topics. At one point, I told him his voice reminded me of Al Stewart, with a touch of Billy Joel when he sang Just the Way You Are. It brought Year of the Cat into the conversation, one of those uniquely beautiful songs, from the arrangement to the lyrics.

Today, however, was different. I spent the whole day on my own, and it was perfectly fine: a morning swim, the beach, the sea, a mojito, small talk, a bit of wandering. But when evening came, I realised I had to go to dinner… alone.

Since I still wanted to have a beautiful evening, even if it was just with myself, I went to Argonauti at the Milenij Hotel. I had a few oysters, fish, a glass of white wine, and did the whole table-for-one thing.

It is definitely outside my comfort zone whenever it happens, but I enjoyed it very much. Maybe it will even inspire some new lyrics. We’ll see.

Now I’m back in the room, sitting on the balcony, drinking cold cola and enjoying my birthday eve. I can hear live music from the terrace, and it is wonderful. They’re playing Dire Straits as I write this.

Today, I went solo. Tomorrow, and the next few days, will be a bit different: my husband gets back, and my friends and family are gathering on Saturday.

29/06/2026

A bit about the way I choose and post selected songs by different artists on my homepage. Although I write lyrics myself, I usually do not choose songs based on lyrics first. Most of the time, I focus more on the sound, the atmosphere, and the feeling the song creates. Sometimes it is a certain mood, a texture, a voice, or simply an artist who catches my attention in an interesting way.

Take The Avener, for example. I find his style interesting, especially the way he works with fusion and atmosphere. His music shows how a song can still feel familiar, but become something completely different through reworking. A similar thing happened with the Kiwanuka and Abloh remix I posted. It gave the track a different feeling and overall impression, and made me focus first on the sound, mood, and texture before the lyrics.

I also want to mention Kruder & Dorfmeister, because I love their sound and the trip-hop atmosphere they create. Many of their tracks have that spacious, layered, late-night quality that is almost felt viscerally: smooth and controlled, but full of movement and detail. Their remix work, in particular, is not only about changing a track, but about creating a whole new, almost three-dimensional environment that envelops you.

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This is also why I want to move slightly away from lyrics here and talk more about music itself. In my previous text, I focused more on lyrics and the way I write them. I am interested in what music communicates before words become important, and why sound alone can create such a strong emotional response. Music has always felt to me like something that speaks to my soul, even without direct words.

When I listen to a certain song that I connect to, I often feel that it is expressing something, but I cannot always translate that feeling into exact words. It may not give me information, or a complete story, but it can still very much resonate with me and affect me. This is what makes music so interesting; it can feel meaningful even when its meaning is not easy to explain, even to myself.

In everyday life, when we want to explain something clearly, we usually use speech or writing. Through words, we describe what happened, explain our thoughts, or communicate a clear idea. Music works differently. It may not say something specific in the same way, but it can still feel like something is being shared. It can create a connection or a shared space between the artist and the listener, even when the meaning is not completely clear.

One possible way to understand this is through some speculations I read about music’s connection to older forms of human expression. Before language fully developed, people may have used sound, tone, rhythm, and melody to share emotions. This may not have explained details, but it could have created a collective emotional response, expressing excitement, comfort, or the need to act together.

I find this idea or even hypothesis possible because music still works in a similar way today. A song can bring people together without requiring them to agree on a specific meaning. It can create a mood that many listeners recognise, even if each person understands it differently. Sometimes the emotional atmosphere of a song is more important than the lyrics themselves. The sound can be enough.

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Although I consider myself primarily a lyricist in the making, I do respond to the production, the rhythm, the voice, and the general feeling of a track. Some songs attract me because they create a whole world around them. I may not immediately know what the lyrics are saying, but I can still feel whether the song is fragile, strange, intense, calm, nostalgic, or powerful. 

Lyrics are very important, but they are not always the centre of every song for me. Sometimes lyrics function more like fragments inside a larger emotional structure. They can add images or direction, but the sound creates the real environment in which those words exist. A simple sentence can feel powerful when the music around it gives it weight, space, or vulnerability.

So when I post selected songs by different artists, I am not trying to present lyrics as the main message. I am usually responding to something else: a sound, a mood, an artist’s presence, or the atmosphere around the song. That is why music matters to me. It communicates without fully explaining itself, leaving space for feeling, interpretation, and personal connection.

22/06/2026

I was thinking about songwriting, and how, for me, it begins somewhere between feeling and language. Words carry meaning, but they also carry movement, rhythm, attitude, and color. That is why sometimes the phrase that feels most alive to me is not the most standard form of English. This kind of freedom can be heard across many musical traditions, especially in styles where phrasing, rhythm, and voice play a powerful role.

One example of expressive word placement that comes to mind is Here Comes the Sun by the Beatles. One could simply say, “the sun is coming,” but that would feel like an ordinary statement. The title works because it lets the line arrive on sun. It is not the same kind of inversion I used in my song, but it shows how powerful word order can be in songwriting. Sometimes the most standard phrase is not the strongest lyrical phrase.

Another example I wanted to mention is Ain’t No Sunshine. In standard written English, the phrase would probably be corrected because of the double negation. But we don’t hear it as a mistake. We hear a voice, a feeling, and a kind of emotional precision that a cleaner sentence might lose. “There is no sunshine” may be grammatically correct, but it does not carry the same weight. 

Since this reflection came on the first day of summer, the theme of sun and the sunshine felt fitting, though the larger point could be made through many other songs: lyrics often become powerful exactly where language stops behaving like formal writing.

When I write, I try to think in a singing voice rather than only in written sentences. When I wrote Put on Me the Blame, I heard the phrase first as a lyric, not as ordinary conversation. I was using poetic inversion. The altered order gives the line a different emotional shape. It changes the weight and movement of the phrase, making the ending feel more deliberate.

And that, for me, is part of the freedom of songwriting. Lyrics can hold all of this: a phrase, a question, slang, a contradiction, an inversion, or a line that seems slightly strange until the music makes it feel inevitable. A song title is often the first doorway into that world, and I’ll admit, I do sometimes struggle with finding the final title for my demos.

Language in music is not only written. It is performed, felt, and carried by the voice. A phrase that looks unusual on paper may become natural inside the lyric. A word order that seems strange in conversation may find its purpose in the melody. And sometimes the phrase that bends the rule is the one that carries the feeling best.

Songwriting is a craft as much as it is a talent, especially in a language that is not your native one. Perhaps that is why many people feel freer with instruments, melodies, and music itself. Music has its own rules, but they are often felt rather than corrected. A melody can bend, stretch, pause, or return in an unexpected way and still be understood. Lyrics live close to that same freedom.

So I will trust the work more. If a line carries the emotion, rhythm, and weight I intended, then it has earned its place. And with that, this Sunday thought is finished. The day was beautiful, the afternoon swim restored my focus, and now I am ready to work on next week’s demo.

21/06/2026

Currently, I’m in Opatija for a few days. I do have a few lyric drafts in progress, but it is not just about words. I can have a whole concept written, but if it does not have that certain je ne sais quoi, I will keep working on it until I feel it. The plan is to have a new demo by the end of this week. I am also trying to write more prose, without over editing. It was always my weak spot.

When I was in Lošinj recently, I created Beyond Love while sitting on a hotel terrace. I remember becoming so focused that everything around me seemed to disappear. The voices, the movement, the noise of the place all faded into the background, and for a while there was only the feeling I was trying to translate into song.

By the time I noticed how many people were around me, I realized I had been there for two hours. People were talking loudly, but I had not noticed any of it. It is that feeling of flow, or the zone, whatever you want to call it. It happens to me when I am deeply immersed in something I love doing.

Sometimes I create something, step away from it, and return to it later with a strange sense of discovery, almost surprised that it came from me. There is something beautiful about coming back to your own work after some time has passed, experiencing it with enough distance that it feels new again. It makes all of this worth it.

17/06/2026

Keight, Opatija

A Note on a Book from My Bookshelf
Walter Johnson, Soul by Soul: Life Inside the Antebellum Slave Market

I read Soul by Soul a few years ago, and it has stayed with me. Some books do that, because they change the way we understand something. This book made me really think about how limited our perspective can be when we only see the world through the lens of our own experience.

I grew up in Europe, in what many would consider a privileged life, as many of us have. Because of that, there is a real distance between my reality and the realities described in this book. But that distance is exactly why books like this matter. They ask us to look beyond what is familiar and to take seriously lives and histories very different from our own.

Johnson’s work is about human beings caught within a system that tried to strip them of dignity and control over their own lives. To read about it is to be reminded that history is not abstract. It lives in the quiet details of people’s lives: in family bonds, impossible choices, silence, survival, and small acts of resistance. It asks the reader to sit with discomfort.

What stayed with me most is the importance of listening to very different perspectives, especially those that challenge the comfort of our own lives. It is easy to feel informed when we remain within familiar stories. It is much more valuable to allow other people’s realities to widen our perspectives and deepen our understanding of humanity.

I also feel a deeper sense of awareness: of the chance to learn, and of how easy it can be to take certain freedoms and possibilities for granted. This also gives me a deep appreciation for blues music and its origins. The blues developed after slavery, but it came from African American traditions shaped by struggle, labor, faith, longing, survival, and expression. As a songwriter, I find that deeply meaningful.

Soul by Soul reminded me that understanding history requires humility. We cannot fully understand the past if we only approach it from one angle, especially from the angle of comfort. We have to be willing to listen to very different voices and recognize the complexity of human experience in lives far removed from our own. That, to me, is one of the most important responsibilities of learning.

12/06/2026

Jean-Michel Jarre once described hearing Ray Charles’s Georgia on My Mind as the moment he realised that “music can talk to your tummy.” He spoke of the “organic sensuality” in Ray Charles’s music, something beyond intellect, something immediate and physical. That idea stayed with me, because it comes close to what I love in music: not just melody, not just arrangement, but a feeling that reaches the body.

Now that I’m back from a wonderful holiday, I feel ready to write some more. For the past few months, I’ve been writing at least one new song every week. Sharing them publicly has become my way of getting used to being visible as a songwriter. It is easy to post something light or playful, but the more atmospheric, strange, or specific to my taste a song feels, the harder it is to put it out there. The inner critic still occasionally wants me to delete everything.

I’m open to different styles, but I do care about quality. Sometimes that perfectionism makes it harder to finish something, or even to begin. I’m still learning how to let these demos exist online, even for a while, while resisting the urge to keep editing them endlessly. For me, the lyrics come first. Often, I find a simple melody, or hum the tune, and then build around it. I’m not just looking for any arrangement. 

I’m looking for the sound that gives the words the right atmosphere. It has to feel intentional. It has to have that certain something. More than a hook, it becomes a texture, a temperature, a kind of presence. Something with depth, dimension, atmosphere and a taste of its own. For years, I’ve used the word umami for things beyond food: sound, ambience, mood, style...

It is the quality that makes something feel alive, as if it has awakened an extra sense. For me, songs must have it. That umami feeling.

09/06/2026

Matsunoki, Lošinj

This week I’m going away on an anniversary getaway, so the new demo might be delayed. I write these public announcements as if I were a celebrity, but I like writing them. It motivates me when I set some expectations for myself in public.

I’ve gotten used to my writer’s corner, so when I change location, it takes me a little while to settle into writing mode. Hopefully, the beautiful scenery of Lošinj will give me some inspiration. But honestly, it will probably just make me lazy.

I still think about writing a proper love song for a female voice, but I find myself returning more instinctively to male vocals or duets. I’m drawn to the texture they can bring to my lyrics, and the particular tension that appears when two voices meet. That seems to be where my instincts are strongest, and I’m learning to trust that.

I had some trouble choosing what book to recommend next. I was considering Oliver Sacks, whose books were very dear to me, but there has been some controversy around the credibility of certain aspects of his work.  Although I loved Sacks’s books, I did always read them as partly factual and partly fiction. 

From a bit more scientific point of view on brain, I would consider books by V. S. Ramachandran perhaps more reliable. His work was especially interesting to me, and it actually inspired my master’s thesis.

I then remembered Erving Goffman’s The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. He presented social life as a kind of theatre: not false, exactly, but influenced by context, roles, gestures, and the expectations people bring into the room. That idea stayed with me because it is close to the way I approach songwriting.

Some of my songs, like “Impermanence”, come from private moments. Others begin as scenes or fragments from books, films, paintings, or memories. By the time they become songs, they are no longer pure autobiography. They become atmosphere, character, story, performance. In many ways, that is how I write: as if the lyrics were scenes from a film or a play.

And like in any scene, there is always the question of what is shown and what the observer or listener brings with them. Often, projection begins in the space between the visible and the imagined. We do this with people, too: when we encounter someone without the full context, we can mistake our own lens for the truth of them.

Sometimes, if the distance between the projection and the actual person is too wide, it creates a kind of cognitive dissonance. To see the person clearly would mean giving up the story we have built around them, and maybe facing something unresolved in ourselves.

Having experienced projections placed on me throughout my life, I have come to think about the ways we see one another through our own stories and expectations. Maybe that is simply part of being human, and part of the stage we all live on.

02/06/2026

“The river is everywhere.”

Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

I first read Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse more than ten years ago. Around that time, and in the years that followed, I became deeply drawn to questions of consciousness, psychology, sociology, science and spirituality. I read widely and intensely, searching for something that might help me better understand the human experience.

About four years ago, I deliberately undertook a water fast that lasted more than thirty days. During that time, I consumed only water. The experience had a profound effect on me and changed the way I understood the mind, the body, and body’s capacity to heal. To this day, I still occasionally fast for a few days, and each time it feels as though my body resets.

To go through something like that, one needs to understand a great deal about the human body and the mind. I did it while working on my undergraduate thesis on metabolism, nutrition, and exercise. That thesis was received with a great deal of praise. I continued exercising almost daily during that period. This is not a recommendation. It was not an impulsive decision, nor is it something to take lightly.

The first thing I ate after a month of fasting was an apple. That moment felt deeply humbling in itself. Tasting fruit again felt as though pure heaven had landed on my tongue. It showed me how easily we take simple things, even something as small as an apple, for granted. Each and every sense was heightened.

As much as I was exploring consciousness, I reminded myself daily that this is still a material world we live in. It is important to stay grounded, to return to simplicity, to revisit your childhood sometimes, to let your ego react sometimes, and to feel the full range of human emotions. We should never think we are above being human. The world has an interesting way of teaching us another lesson, even when we think we have learned them all.

Fasting was only one part of a much larger inner journey. Over the years, through reading, reflection, experience, and self-exploration, my relationship with a purely materialistic view of life gradually changed. I still enjoy occasional luxuries, as anyone might, but for years now, I have not seen them as the only source of fulfilment. 

For me, true joy is found somewhere deeper than what I own or achieve. Perhaps one of the great discoveries in life is finding what resonates with you: the moments that feel aligned with life, and those rare instances when everything seems to fall into place. Another is learning to stay on your path, and to accept that some people will always choose to misunderstand you or mistake kindness for weakness (Rihanna, FourFiveSeconds). And that is okay with me.

I also found that it is not our job to teach anyone wisdom. That, to me, would be ego-driven: to believe we can direct another person’s inner growth. Still, some people resonate with our inner world and may be gently nudged, often without us even realising it. That influence is usually subtle and mutual. Accepting people as they are, setting boundaries, and still seeing the best in them is, for me, a very peaceful way to live.

I also do not see spiritual differences between people as any kind of hierarchy. I see them as shaped by many forces: where and when we were born, the families and communities that raised us, the bodies and temperaments we inherited, the opportunities and obstacles we encountered, the fears we were able to face, and how much room we had to learn. It is an endless dance between nature, nurture, circumstance, and choice. Again and again, I return to the importance of finding balance.

I have also come to value original thought more deeply. In a world where it is easy to repeat ideas we have inherited or absorbed, I think there is something important about learning to truly think for ourselves. Even though language can feel limiting, and many thoughts have already been thought before, original thought is not about being different from everyone else. It is about curiosity, looking beyond social conditioning and questioning things deeply.

I found that one of the most important things is to move through life with a sense of wonder, to think deeply, but live lightly: to recognise what resonates with us, to let go of what does not, and to avoid carrying heavy burdens, whether our own or other people’s. I do not believe life is meant to be a constant experience of heaviness for most of us. Some people may be able to genuinely carry such burdens, but in my opinion, they are very rare.

Over the last few years I began to understand the river of life more deeply: to sometimes surrender to the flow, to adapt to what surrounds me, and to keep moving. And always, to keep some sense of humour. I believe the universe likes us best when we do not take ourselves too seriously. 

This world can be a wonderful place when we are mindful of what we choose to focus on. I would not call myself a religious person, or even necessarily a spiritual one, but I do feel there is something bigger than us. I feel deeply immersed in this human experience, grateful for the chance to be part of it, and I intend to experience as much of life as I can.

 
24/05/2026