I’ve always believed that dreams are tiny sparks-small, quiet, but powerful enough to light an entire future. Mine change shape sometimes, but the feeling behind them stays the same. I dream of traveling first. Not rushing through airports, but really seeing the world: sitting in cafés in Paris with my notebook, walking along misty cliffs in Ireland, photographing cities that never rest. Another dream of mine is to publish a book. I don’t need it to be famous; I just want someone, somewhere, to read my words and feel a little less alone. The thought of my stories reaching strangers feels like a kind of magic. I also dream of finding my place-somewhere I can wake up and feel that I’m exactly where I belong. Maybe it’s a tiny apartment filled with plants and sunlight, or a studio where the walls are covered in sketches. My dreams aren’t about perfection. They’re about becoming someone I’m proud to be.

Ever since I was little, my hobbies have been the compass that guides me through the chaos of growing up. Writing is the first one people notice. I can spend hours curled up by my window, letting words fill the page like they’re pouring straight from my heartbeat. But writing isn’t my only escape. I also love drawing-mostly quiet sketches in pencil. I draw faces I’ve seen only once, places I dream about visiting, or moments I’m afraid to forget. My notebook is full of half-finished lines and shadows, each one a tiny piece of me. When I need to clear my mind, I pick up my camera. Photography teaches me to slow down and actually see the world: light on water, strangers laughing, the sky changing colors for no reason other than beauty. These hobbies aren’t just pastimes. They’re the way I understand myself, the way I hold on to the small, fleeting things that make life feel real.