My digital journey

I open the doors to my creative process, sharing valuable insights and tips.I dive into the intricacies of product design, offering practical tutorials, design critiques, and explorations of innovative design trends.

My Youtube Channel

Traveling and working as digital nomad is basically collecting memories. I love catching the moment by taking photos while I am traveling the world and so that I keep my memories with me forever! 

The Other Home

Some days, the silence in my apartment feels louder than the city itself.

I wake up to the soft hum of the AC and the distant buzz of traffic outside my 12th-floor window. Everything is in its place — spotless counter, skin serums lined like soldiers. My phone lights up with calendar invites before I even get out of bed.

Dubai is beautiful or is it just my only option to think it is. It’s fast, shiny, and always moving. Like me, I never stop searching, moving one place to another.. never settled.

After work, I took the long way home in crazy heat, hoping the skyline might distract me. But even the neon glow of towers felt hollow tonight. I ordered food I didn’t really want and sat by the window, staring out. Wondering if  the lucky version of me is cuddling tonight while I am lonely with the “freedom” and “options”..

I crave intimacy so much it scares me. Someone knowing me when I’m not performing. Someone who sees me when I’m quiet. Someone who doesn’t ask what I do, but asks how I feel — and stays for the answer. I feel like being pure soul is a curse here. People surprise to see how that person stays nice, pure, natural and kind.. They like the fake, the selfish, the toxic.. They think deserve it while I started to belive I am not fitting this society 100%..

Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend I’m her. That the kids are asleep upstairs. That the man I love is sitting beside me, reading. That the only light in the room is from a fireplace, not my phone screen. And then I open my eyes and remember — I’m here. Alone. In this curated life that I built and can’t breathe inside.

But I see her. And even though we may never meet, I hope she’s happy. I hope she feels loved. Because if she is, then maybe… some part of me is, too.

 

The Quiet Noise Between Universes

Sometimes, around 3:17 a.m., the silence in my apartment hums.
Not with traffic or humming appliances,
but with the low, aching frequency of other versions of me.

They bleed through the walls of this universe —
like ghosts brushing against the veil of my skin.
I don’t hear their voices.
I feel them.
Like a dream you wake up from, gasping, but can’t remember why.

There’s one version of me — let’s call her M.
She lives in a small town near a forest.
She paints on weekends,
laughs over candlelit dinners with her husband who always puts his hand on the small of her back —
like he’s reminding her she’s safe, she’s seen, she’s his.
They have two kids who sneak into bed on stormy nights.
Her house smells like cinnamon and pine.

And when I cry for no reason on a sunny Tuesday,
I think it’s her.
Maybe she lost a baby.
Maybe he forgot her birthday this year.
Or maybe — and this hurts more —
maybe she’s just happy, and I felt the absence of it.

Then there’s another me.
She lives in a neon-lit future where cities float above the clouds,
and love is forbidden — classified as a dangerous emotional contagion.
But still, she risks everything for a guy with silver eyes
and a voice like wind chimes in zero gravity.
They meet in secret on derelict satellites,
where time doesn’t move, and no one can trace a heartbeat.
Sometimes I wake up choking on air like I’ve just kissed someone in a place that doesn’t exist.

When my chest feels heavy, when loneliness curls under my ribs like smoke —
I think it’s them, bleeding into me.

But here’s the strangest thing.

They feel me too.
The one who chose freedom.
The one who never settled.
The one who still believes in miracles at train stations and kisses before earthquakes.
The one who hasn’t given up — even when it would be easier.

Maybe they feel me and cry,
just like I do for them.

And maybe that’s what makes us whole —
not the love we’ve found,
but the love we still believe is waiting for us
across time, across stars, across infinite versions of who we almost were.

So tonight, when I cry quietly into my pillow,
I whisper to them:

“I see you. I miss you. I’m trying for both of us.”

A Soul with No Borders, A Heart with No Anchor

There are souls born with compass needles for hearts. They point not North, but elsewhere—always elsewhere. These are the wanderlusted and the wild-hearted, the ones who collect cities instead of jewelry, and memories instead of milestones. Their minds are canvases smeared with stardust, their spirits stitched with maps. They are born to move, to marvel, to seek—but never to stay.

Yet in this endless motion, there is a quiet ache.

For while the world is wide and wonder is everywhere, belonging is not. No city whispers welcome home, no lover speaks in the same language of layered thoughts and kaleidoscopic dreams. The creative soul sees too much, feels too deeply, and suffers silently. Love often slips through their fingers like sand— never enough to build something real.

The people around them? Too often made of cardboard smiles and empty talk. Parties with shallow laughter, conversations without color. The vibrant soul becomes a moon among streetlights—bright, but not belonging.

Sylvia Plath once wrote,
“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”

“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.”

And for many of us, that desire is connection.
Even in solitude, we crave someone who sees the constellations in our chaos.
But most are too busy to look up.

So we go on.
Packing light.
Leaving fragments of ourselves in cafés and train stations,
filling journals instead of hearts,
and learning, over time, that perhaps the journey was always the home.

And though the loneliness bites,
the sky still sings.
And that’s enough—for now.