When I'm not writing music, I paint it.
They say being neurodivergent can mean many things.
One of my peculiarities is being able to instantly visualize a feeling or a word.
Sometimes I don't have time to paint, but that image always stays with me until I put it on paper.
These are some of my painted songs.

It was during my university years that my first important song was born. It was called 'Breathe' and it told how easy it was to hide in plain sight. All I had to do was keep going that way, just as I had every day until then. A life spent studying the behavior of others and adapting my own.

During the interpretive illustration course, I started using this character.
At the time, it was the simplest way to visualize myself: a being without a defined shape, often the victim of something that struck me.
I didn’t yet know I was autistic, but I was aware that I couldn’t understand the experiences of the people around me, nor could I communicate my own.

It was a very strange period of my life; I thought I was just tired and bothered by the chaos like everyone else. In reality, that tiredness was something deeply personal. Friends and peers carried on with their lives undisturbed, and I felt I had to do the same. I began to use an enormous masking, convinced that every individual in the world was doing exactly the same as me.

Yes. Because that’s what it has always been about: trying to make myself accepted as someone I never was, nor could ever be. Like everyone else, I have limits, but mine are far more difficult to overcome. They even say that mine are impossible to cross—unless I crash into them every day chasing an utopia which, I now realize, I don’t even like. I’ve lost quite a few people along the way, some only recently. They tell me that what I am cannot be understood, that they cannot—or will not—carry the weight of me. And the question I keep asking myself is always the same: is it really so impossible to accept that what feels natural to me might truly be so?