My hobby is keeping a photo diary without people. I photograph empty rooms, books left forgotten on benches, puddles reflecting the sky. To me, these images are more honest than portraits. They tell the story of those who aren't in the frame better than any words ever could. I'm also a fan of morning walks without music, just to hear the world before it goes deaf from the city noise.
My dream is to create a small, quiet space where people can be themselves without masks. It doesn't matter if it's a café, a workshop, or just a blog. I want a place where it's allowed to be silent, to cry from happiness, or to sit on the floor when you have no strength left. I dream not of money, but of the right to give warmth without conditions.
It seems to me that we too often confuse love with dissolving into someone else. True closeness is when you don't need to disappear in order to be liked. When both people keep their own shores, yet there's still a river flowing between them. I'm learning to be a friend and to love without the fear of "being too much."
At 18, it's foolish to give final answers, but I'm drawn to the idea that meaning lies in the depth of experience. Not in doing something great, but in truly feeling this rain, this conversation, this second. Meaning is found in the courage to remain tender in a world that teaches you to be tough. And in noticing every day: here it is, my life already here, already now.

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