A purpose? Maybe. Maybe not. For me, life never unfolded as a straight line. It’s more like smoke, shifting, dissolving, lingering in the air even after the flame is gone. If you ask me what my purpose is, maybe I’ll tell you it’s to devour moments. Like watching how someone trembles when they speak their truth, how silence can ache louder than words, how desire can make the body honest in ways the mind refuses.

I don’t want a grand purpose, not the kind you write in history books. Mine is quieter. To write, to witness, to unravel. To find beauty in what others hide, even if it’s raw, broken, or fleeting.

So do I have a purpose? Maybe it’s not about having one at all. Maybe it’s about burning slowly, deliberately, until someone notices the smoke and decides to follow it. That’s enough for me.