I write fiction not because I possess extraordinary creativity or a rare, mythical gift for storytelling, but because I am drawn to something beyond myself—a vivid, otherworldly reality that I can only begin to grasp. It is as though I’ve been granted fleeting glimpses into a realm both familiar and alien, one that speaks to me in colors, emotions, and moments I cannot fully articulate.

My writing is an imperfect attempt to bridge the gap between that reality and this one. It is like gazing through a stained, cracked window at a breathtaking landscape on the other side—shadows distort the view, and fractures blur the details, yet the beauty is undeniable. Words are my tools, flawed and limited, but they are all I have to convey the wonder I witness.

Though I know I can never capture it perfectly, the endless striving to do so is itself an act of devotion, a way to honor the mystery and magnificence of that unseen world.