Not metaphorically. Literally. Too much stuff, not enough floor, and a growing risk of accidental self-impalement via resin. At some point, you either reorganize your life or accept your fate. This is me attempting the former.

What started as recreation drifted into reflection, then quietly into something resembling therapy (unlicensed, unpaid, and ongoing). Things accumulated. Physically, mentally — you get the idea. Also, social media felt like shouting into a void full of noise and fragile egos, so instead of participating, I made a shop. Questionable decision, but here we are.

This space holds the results: honest, unfiltered, sometimes moody, sometimes playful pieces — usually driven by emotion, often accompanied by sarcasm, and occasionally by a complete lack of clarity about what I’m doing. More often, the work seems to have a mind of its own. Somehow, a whole cast of characters showed up along the way. I didn’t plan them. They just… happened, and then…stayed.

They all carry a story. Each piece comes with its own story card — partly for your understanding, partly for my sanity because apparently my brain refuses to produce anything without context. Also, writing it down helps keep things manageable, there’s only so many stories a person can keep in their head before things start slipping.  So this is me making space. Physically, mentally, existentially. Preferably without injury.

If something here resonates, feel free to stay. If not, that’s fine too. Either way, you’ve been warned.