I’m good at a lot of things.
I’ve always been good at things.
(Not bragging… just being honest.)

Drawing. Painting. Sketching.Music. Hands-on tinkering (mainly taking things apart just to know). Cooking. Eating.And—surprise twist in the third act—writing. (Who knew overthinking could finally earn its moment?)

Good at many things, yes. But a master of none.

Unless you count overanalyzing conversations from five years ago.
In that case—black belt level.

I learn fast. Freakishly fast, sometimes.
I observe things as they happen, and they tend to stick.
My mind is a weird and wonderful machine.

It doesn’t run in straight lines or obey traffic signals.
It loops. It tangents. It detours.
(And cycles back mid–creative outburst.)
It occasionally stalls in front of the fridge, wondering why it opened it in the first place.

The way I see things—frame things—is…
well, let’s say unique.
To me, it’s crystal-clear logic.
To others, it might look like a squirrel trying to file taxes.
And that’s okay.

Creativity comes to me in spirals.
In overlapping layers.
In a “Wait… didn’t we already finish this project?” kind of way.

Ideas connect in ways that don’t always make sense to the outside world.
To them, it’s beautiful chaos. Or just… chaos.
To me? It’s perfect order.

Imagine opening a junk drawer and finding a fully functioning time machine
made of Legos, yarn, and expired coupons.
That’s how it feels in my brain.
Confusing at first—but oddly… effective.

People say, “You should focus on one thing.”
But how do you choose one color in a kaleidoscope?
One song in a mixtape?
One tab when you have 47 open—and three of them are playing Van Halen?

I’m not wired to walk a straight line.
I zig. I zag. I occasionally moonwalk.

But in the middle of it all—there’s intention.
Creative purpose.
And maybe a few Post-it notes I forgot to read.

So yeah—call it madness.
(Some say it’s ADHD, but that’s just a rumor started by the guy in the mirror.)
Call it magic.
Call it “whatever this is.”

To me, it’s just… how I work.
It’s exhilarating.
It’s exhausting.
Some days it’s an adventure.
Other days, it’s like licking stamps in slow motion.

I’ve caught myself staring at myself while I work—
like even my reflection is trying to figure out what the heck I’m doing.

There’s no blueprint.
No map to follow.
No instructions.
Just me.

Just 100%—not from concentrate—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.