My work exists in the blurry space between memory and madness, between truth and imagined relief. I write not to explain myself, but to preserve what I'm afraid to lose: fleeting feelings, fragmented thoughts, and the chaos of being human in a world that spins too fast. Bulalo at Bulalakaw, my debut collection, is a testament to this instinct-each piece an attempt to hold onto something before it disappears.

The stories I tell are not always kind. They're messy, strange, sorrowful, absurd, sometimes angry. There are ghosts, jokes, longing, envy, love, and shame in my writing-sometimes all at once. These aren't polished parables or perfect pieces; I've long stopped chasing perfection. Instead, I strive for emotional honesty, for a voice that's imperfect but real.

It took me years to open up. I used to be scared-selfish, even-with my work. I wanted my stories to be mine alone, untouched by critique, safe from the vulnerability of being seen. But with time, I realized that what I feared-being read, being known-was also what I needed. If memory fades and stories disappear, what good is a truth no one hears?

Now, I want to stretch. I want to explore styles far outside my comfort zone and expand my range by learning from voices across cultures. I long to immerse myself in different ways of storytelling-to listen deeply and create in conversation with artists whose truths don't mirror mine but still move me.

Writing, for me, is an act of remembrance and resistance-to silence, to forgetting, to the fear of not mattering. It's a personal ritual that now longs to be shared.