I am the one who reads romantic passages and then discusses them with my cat.
I am the one who can write three paragraphs about the view from my window while simultaneously realizing that my life is as chaotic as the neighbor’s washing machine at three in the morning.
I am the author of “litporno” – and no, this is not some cheap pornography for fun. This is emotional ecstasy with a philosophical aftertaste. This is when your character wrestles with their loneliness, and you wrestle with your keyboard, searching for the precise word for “a shiver of the soul between two paragraphs.”
I am the one who writes about intimacy but feels awkward when people ask exactly how I did it. No, it’s not about sex – it’s about turning loneliness into passion, sadness into tenderness, and making the reader feel both shy and enlightened at the same time.
I am someone who knows that love can be like a wardrobe: open it, and you’ll trip over old mistakes, and in some corners, it smells of sorrow and ambition. I am the one who loves fantasy because in the real world, it’s too hard to feel important enough, but in an imaginary world – anything is possible, even being a literary playboy with a philosophical soul.
I am the author who can write “litporno” in a way that makes the reader smile, pause, and then feel a little guilty for laughing at their own loneliness. I am the one who knows that every page is a miniature scandal between sincerity and aesthetics.
And yes – I am the one who takes pride in doing all of this while appearing perfectly innocent, even though inside it’s simultaneously a soul-shattering and literary flirtation with the universe.