Writing, for me, is not a plan anymore. It happens when something becomes clear.
I’m working on two books. Not in a controlled way, but as things unfold.
The first one is my journey. Suffering, confusion, searching, questioning, breaking what I thought I knew, seeing how the mind creates everything, and what remains when that starts to fall apart.
The second one is about the art of being happy. Not as an idea, but as something practical. Dopamine, simplicity as a base, the peaks we chase, and what actually allows you to feel a moment fully, without needing more.
Some days I write. Some days I don’t. I no longer force it.
I don’t know when they will be finished. And I’m ok with that.
I’m not trying to guide. I’m just putting into words what I’ve seen and lived.