✨ Why I Choose to Be Artistic — A Preface ✨

I do not reject comfort.
I work honestly, earn my living, pay my bills.
My parents sleep peacefully because they know I stand on solid ground.
Yet beneath that ground runs an untamed river:
a restless, reckless need to feel life deeper than my paycheck allows.

This is why I choose to be artistic.
Because a quiet income keeps my body fed —
but poetry feeds the hungrier animal inside me.
Because reading is my second breathing:
novels, essays, philosophy, blogs, sacred verses —
I devour them all like a man who knows tomorrow is never promised.

I write because silence becomes too heavy to bear alone.
I weave my wounds into lines that remind me:
nothing is wasted if you can shape it into something beautiful.

I let music enter me like a secret prayer.
It stays long after people leave.
A song at dawn, a ragged melody at dusk —
these moments mean more to me than any bonus or promotion.

And when life allows, I slip away to the sea.
A cheap bus ride to a salty breeze, sand underfoot,
waves that drown out every nagging thought —
in that moment I am not an engineer, not an employee, not even a son —
I am just another wandering soul, equal to the horizon.

✨ A Quiet Worker, A Storm by Night — My Manifesto ✨

I stand here, palms open —
unashamed to admit:
I do not dream of being a billionaire lorded over by my own possessions.
I do not crave vaults overflowing with coins I have no time to spend.

What I crave is this:
A life that earns enough to protect my family,
to honor my parents’ sweat,
to walk through the world with dignity —
and yet leaves my soul free enough to wander barefoot through storms
no wealth can command.

Yes — I am an engineer by day.
A man who knows invoices, project deadlines, taxes, and paydays.
Let the world see my salary slip and call me comfortable.
But let the heavens see my heart and call me ferocious.

Because when the world sleeps —
I sit with my quiet madness.
I listen to my wounds and translate them into words.
I turn the boredom of a Monday into a secret cathedral of thoughts.
I take life’s insults and plant them like seeds,
waiting for poems to bloom where even despair cannot kill them.

People think money saves you.
It does, to an extent — it softens the floor beneath your fall.
But only art teaches you how to stand up again.
Money buys pills for the headache.
Art teaches you why the headache was holy in the first place.

I do not scorn riches —
I simply know their place:
A servant for my comfort,
but never a master for my spirit.
I want enough — but never so much that I forget
the flavor of longing.

I choose to feel deeply,
even when it cracks my ribs.
I choose to sit beside suffering,
not to wallow, but to listen —
because inside pain there are seeds of songs
that a numb man can never hear.

And when my final paycheck comes,
when my hands fall silent and my eyes close,
I want the world to say,
“He did not die a king —
but in the dark corners of his mind,
he ruled empires no money could buy.
He was a quiet worker, but a storm by night.
He earned enough — and felt everything.”