“Being an artist means,
not reckoning and counting, but ripening
like the tree
which does not force its sap
and stands confident
in the storms of spring, without the fear
that after them may come no summer.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke
The real reason I write
How can I put this? I dreamt Satan spat on me the other night. Not a regular demon or some fallen, confused angel. No. The father of lies himself, looking right at me amidst the crowd (..)
About my diary
It’s a journal I’ve been keeping for twenty years now. I decided to share it publicly, because some bright morning of spring, it just made sense, it couldn’t be any other way. I don’t write to help. You must know that. Nor do I think I have any secret guidance that must be shared.
I do what any other human being does: I figure out as I go, and I learn. On my way? I tell stories, I draw, I reflect. I try to be as honest as I can. And I go in the streets with my sketchbook in hand, like a madwoman in search of meaning… And whatever life means, I’ll chase it.
