I don't know what I'm doing. But I know I don’t want to know too precisely.

I like when it moves. I like not knowing what will come out. When my hands move faster than my head can follow, and the final result seems more like a void than a plan.

Being an amateur. To make mistakes. To start over. From a constant zero. When your stomach hurts at the start of a project, and then it passes, because something was born out of the fog. Something that wasn’t there before.

I design because something pulls me. Sometimes web, sometimes a logo. Sometimes something from a magazine and I stick it on, even though I don’t know why. This isn’t a method. It’s drift. Possibility.

Movement without a map. Without a goal, without direction, without a client.

 Without trying to win. To get lost. Consciously, stubbornly.

 It’s like diving into a river that has no end. You can’t swim across it. You can only let it carry you and try not to drown when the current pulls too hard. Or when nothing flows, and the water stands still and you sour. But then something starts moving again. And you’re back on the journey. To be afraid. To want a space where I can trip over my own idea and not know what to do with it for a week.

I’m often afraid. That it won’t work again. That I’ll embarrass myself. That they’ll eat me alive. But then something pushes me. I don’t know what it is. Desire. The kind that produces. That doesn’t wait for something to be ready, but creates in real time.

Constantly being an amateur. By choice. Not from lack. Amateurism doesn’t mean a lack of skill, but a different way of being on the road – openness, learning, no rush to the finale. It’s breaking out of the cult of closed and established knowledge.

Nomadic thinking. Yes, that’s a good word. Not going all-in on any one field of design. Against the trends. To play and to fear. Today web, tomorrow branding. And beyond that – cyclists, pencil, poster. For nothing. For something. Because I don’t know what will come out. And that’s what holds me.

Creativity as exploration, not production. Artistic work doesn’t have to generate results “to show.” It can be searching, wandering, trying, doubting. A process. A void. A drift. The void – yes, it terrifies. But then it turns out that the void was just another form of excitement. You can’t skip it. And every time I’ll be scared again. And again I won’t know where to start. I hate it. But I love it. That being new again. That uncertainty. That disbelief in myself.

I don’t need to stand tall in the pose of someone who “knows.” It’s enough. In the mess. In the mud. In what hasn’t come together yet, but already lives.

 To be like a child whose schedule wasn’t mapped out by parents: violin today, English tomorrow, arts the day after. I want to come home from school and drop my backpack on the doorstep, pulling out a dried-up, uneaten sandwich just to go into the bushes, get bruised, get dirt under my nails from pulling worms out of the soil. I know I won’t be a brilliant violinist or linguist because of this. I don’t want to be material for anything.

Against standardization. Against unification. Against creativity meeting expectations instead of challenging them. Don’t make me specialize. I want to drift. Creativity that too perfectly meets expectations ceases to be a question.

Drifting – physical, mental – is an escape from functionality. From goals. In art, it’s a conscious movement without a map. In creative work – a chance to break the mold. By not setting a goal, by having no horizon.

Rhizome. Knowledge and being growing in many directions at once, without a center, without structure. Nomadically. Organically.

Don’t calculate. Be. Absorb. Spit out. Jump in. Be struck. Get dirty. Babble. About afterimages. About lines. About being afraid, about not being able. Because often I really feel like I can’t. I’m jealous. So deeply jealous. That I’ll be laughed at. That it won’t be enough. That carries me. I stray. I spiral. I break.

The Greeks knew that happiness can’t be named until you die. Until then: adversity. Struggles. Attempts. That’s meaning. That’s spirit. That’s the meaning of spirit.

Deliberate cultivation of uncertainty. A conscious creative strategy. It allows you to discover new perspectives. To avoid patterns. And to breathe. Don’t make me specialize. I want to drift.