I know when I am alive.

It is when I am capable of being extraordinarily moved by ordinary moments. In a whirl of constant motion — thinking, questioning, having epiphanies, letting go, feeling an entire spectrum of emotions, flooded by an overwhelming stream of thoughts, allowing everything to come to me: fear, trepidation, fatigue, anticipation, love, wonder, amazement, sadness, grief — I feel alive.

I see, I feel, I express. Over and over again. I spot stories everywhere, in unexpected corners and folds. I am constantly on the edge, a very uncomfortable edge, but I cannot help looking over at it. Should I leap? The question hovers.

I love stories in all shapes, dimensions, forms and colors. Stories behind a person, a building, an art piece, a city. The story behind a story. Traveling brings me an endless stream of stories. I see them everywhere, I get overwhelmed, still I want to hold on to them in some form. I try to capture these moments with words and pictures. I am compelled to share what I see through my eyes with the world.

The longer my journey, the more stories I collect. This is who I am. I collect stories and tell them in my own way — through fragments of words and pictures, unspoken sentiment between the lines, pauses and sudden bursts of unapologetic winding prose.

This is how I piece myself together, time after time. This is how I piece the world together and experience her expansiveness. This is how I learned to love humanity, because in spite of it all — we make beautiful stories, even when it is a cosmic tragedy meant to break any spirit.