I've always been a person who is hooked not just by art, but also the deep process of making art. Everything from the paint maker to the crating to the soul-taking of the piece of art to be made. For a person who is a woman between catalogued judgements of society, that state age number equals certain interpretations of who I am. Well, pardon my non-existent wrinkles and unmatched energy to take nonsense from others and make sense of it for me. My fellow readers-to-be, if any—this is just a self-centred diary to be.

Smells are the weirdest triggers to get into my memory or that unlock my identity questions, from childhood to now. The 'now' is a manifestation of who I was as a child, facing the adult world. In certain visions, I've been on an uphill in the neighbourhood we live in, holding my scooter—that time between evening shadows and the night that spears stars.

I looked at the sky and thought that up to now, I visualised myself as an adult—whatever were the colour choices, my system of belief—that I would look to the sky again in that future period of time and think of this moment, right now in the past, and remember myself as a child holding my own scooter, holding the breeze in my cheeks in the named dark uphill that would scare me usually, where I check people’s houses, living in their best of night where the yellowish life is happening with its warmth at the end of a day.

Everyone is living and not leaving. Now I am looking up to the sky and thinking back. My sixth sense is inspiring me. What I did was become afraid. So I know before anybody. I feel it before it hits. The other’s brain and heart. The colours are movingly in me—alive. The joy is nourished under my skin. Suffering is cutting my soul deep to the core. I love deep. I fall deep. I cry and weep. I am the case of a dreamer between life and death. I decided to live the dream.

I don't know where to stand, but I stand alone for now. Loneliness is not a thing for me. Breakdown rarely happens, or from time to time. In a moment, I woke up and realised I did open my soul wide to someone and showed him the way to it—its roads and its stars and the sky's seventh highs. I felt like dusty ashes, proof that I can be a diamond to someone who only sees ashes in me.

So I was looked at as the nice, uninteresting person—you act nice with them, you live with them by being nice, you accept their give-out of being nice, and you appreciate their love confessions just by being nice. But here is the thing: being a self-aware person, I am in between the stubbornness of not negatively self-talking. But here it is. The beginning sounds like the ending.

I can see that I have a potential to get depressed, yet all the swings and the battles I had before in life have never been a depression diagnosis. It was all a stubborn will to be, and against it all, and with it, at one. I got what I wanted to know—that I don't need it—and that hurts deep down. It makes me lose the path to wherever I am going to. I started asking myself: what I want has nothing to do with what I need. I swing in an existential question—every day, every night.

Even with all the potential to get depressed with all the ups and downs, there was nothing but a stubborn will to be—to exist, against it all, and with it all, at once. I reached for what I thought I wanted, only to discover I didn’t need it. And that hurts—deep down. It makes me lose sight of the path, unsure of where I’m even heading. I’ve started asking myself: What I want—does it have anything to do with what I actually need? I swing in that existential question every day and every night.

Sometimes I think of the weight that invisible chains hold. The kind that no one sees but which presses heavy on my chest. They are not chains of captivity but of expectation—woven from threads of what others think I should be, should want, and should feel. As a woman, as a person who is catalogued by society, those expectations are like a map drawn over my skin, one I am asked to follow without question. But I am not a map. I am a terrain of contradictions, of deep valleys and wild peaks. And I refuse to be traced.

The process of art making mirrors my inner journey. Just as paint is mixed and mixed until the perfect shade is found, I sift through emotions, memories, and ideas until the truth of me is revealed, raw and unapologetic. Every brushstroke is a battle—between fear and courage, between what is and what could be. Every colour that settles on canvas is a piece of my soul laid bare.

I remember once, standing alone in a sunlit room, the smell of turpentine sharp in my nose, watching paint drip and swirl on my palette. The world outside rushed past unnoticed because in that moment, all that mattered was the dance of creation beneath my fingers. That moment was a rebellion—a refusal to be reduced to simple categories or neat definitions.

Loneliness has been my companion, but it is not always a burden. Sometimes it is a sanctuary—a quiet space where I can hear my own heartbeat, feel the pulse of my dreams, and listen to the whispers of my sixth sense. In that solitude, I find clarity. I find strength.

There are days when the world feels too loud, too fast, and too demanding. Days when the weight of expectations crushes me, when the silent ache of being unseen threatens to drown my spirit. But even in those moments, I remind myself: I am not alone. The dreamer in me lives on, breathing fire into the darkness, forging light from ashes.

I have come to understand that what I want and what I need are not always the same. What I want is often a reflection of desire shaped by society’s gaze, a desire to be accepted, to belong, to be "nice". But what I need is to be true—to myself, to my art, to the restless beating heart beneath the skin.

To live fully is to embrace contradictions. To be stubborn in my will to exist, to fall deep and rise again. To be willing to stand alone when the world cannot understand the depth of my love, the intensity of my pain, or the breadth of my dreams.

I do not write this diary for the approval of others. I write it as a testament to myself—a declaration that I am here, fully and without apology. That I refuse to be diminished by labels or expectations. That I will continue to live the dream, to create, to feel, to be too much.

Nice girls don’t write diaries.

But I do.

And I will continue to do so.