We all carry worlds inside our heads—some loud, some quiet, some a little strange.
This is mine: a peek behind the curtain at the curiosity, the quirks, and the caffeine-fueled chaos that shape how I see and create in this world.

One day, that guy in the mirror asked me, “Dude, what goes on in that head of yours?”

I gave him a long, hard stare back—wondering if he really wanted to know.

Fair question. Made me think.

I wondered what others saw. I wondered what I saw.
(Also wondered if that guy in the mirror ever sleeps—he always looks like he’s up to something.)

He said, “You’re not strange—just different. A little quirky, maybe.”

I’ve always known I wasn’t quite wired like everyone else. I fit the mold well enough—kept my grades decent, nodded at the right times, laughed when the room did. I even passed for normal in fluorescent lighting.

But underneath? Whole worlds were blooming. Ideas that zigged when everyone else zagged. Patterns where others saw chaos. Stories in everything.

There’s a kind of weirdness that’s subtle—not loud or disruptive, just… always floating under the surface, like a radio tuned to a slightly different frequency. Close enough to hear, but never quite turned all the way up.

That’s where I’ve lived most of my life. That’s where my curiosity comes from.

I create because it’s how I process the world. I find meaning in the margins, rhythm in the mundane, images in the clutter.

My mind connects dots no one else sees—and sometimes even I don’t know where it’s going until I’m already halfway in. (That’s part of the fun. And the chaos. And the caffeine.)

I’ve spent years learning to trust that inner current—that offbeat hum that never really goes silent.

I don’t chase perfection. I chase that moment when something raw and strange suddenly turns beautiful—usually right after I stop trying to make it make sense.

My work lives in that tension: fitting in while seeing the world sideways. It’s thoughtful, a little playful, often layered, and occasionally packed with metaphors I didn’t realize were metaphors until someone else pointed them out.

Like, dude—what are you even talking about?
I dunno… (that guy in the mirror shrugs.)

If you engage with me or my work and leave feeling a little less alone in your own weirdness—or just a bit more attuned to the strange magic in the everyday—then I’ve done what I came to do.

Those who know me will agree—but they’ll never confess it.

My creativity is both a reflection of my unique perspective—and a powerful declaration of identity. I’m pretty sure the caffeine plays a role here, though I haven’t quite been able to prove it yet.

And to answer that guy in the mirror, I say:
“Same stuff that goes on in yours—just a little more… me.”

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.