There's something magical about having your own corner of the internet. Not a profile on someone else's platform, not a template that looks like everyone else's—but a space that's truly yours.
I've been thinking a lot about the early web lately, before everything became centralized into a handful of massive platforms. Back then, people built their own websites, designed their own layouts, and expressed themselves in ways that felt authentic and personal.
This site is my small rebellion against the homogenization of the web. It's a return to that spirit of independence and creativity. Here, I'm not optimizing for engagement metrics or algorithmic visibility. I'm just creating, sharing, and connecting in the way that feels right to me.
Building this from scratch has been incredibly rewarding. Every line of code, every design decision, every word written—it's all intentional. It's all mine. And that matters more than I expected it would.
We're drowning in content. Every day, millions of articles, videos, images, and posts flood the internet. The challenge isn't finding information anymore—it's finding the right information, the stuff that actually matters to you.
That's where curation comes in. Curation is the act of thoughtfully selecting and organizing content based on meaning and relevance rather than recency or popularity. It's a deeply personal act that says something about who you are and what you value.
When I share something here, whether it's a link, a thought, or a project, I'm not just passing along information. I'm saying "this mattered to me, and I think it might matter to you too." That's a form of connection that algorithmic recommendations can never replicate.
In a way, every personal website is an act of curation—a carefully selected collection of thoughts, interests, and expressions that together paint a picture of a person. That's what makes them so valuable.
I've been experimenting with what I call "intentional computing"—being more deliberate about how I use technology rather than letting it use me.
This means asking questions like: Do I really need this app? Is this notification serving me or just fragmenting my attention? What would happen if I checked this once a day instead of once an hour?
Building this website is part of that practice. Instead of posting thoughts to a platform designed to keep me scrolling, I'm creating something that exists on my own terms. It's slower, more deliberate, and infinitely more satisfying.
The goal isn't to abandon technology—I love technology. The goal is to use it in ways that align with my values and enhance my life rather than diminish it.
Have you ever noticed how certain songs can transport you instantly to a specific moment in time? Not just remind you of it, but actually make you feel like you're there again?
I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Music has this incredible power to encode memories in ways that nothing else can. A particular chord progression, a lyric, even just a specific production quality can unlock entire chapters of your life.
I keep playlists organized by time periods and moods—not because I'm nostalgic (though I am), but because I'm fascinated by how music serves as this emotional time capsule. Each song is a bookmark to a version of myself that no longer exists but is still somehow accessible through sound.
Maybe that's why I'm so drawn to curation, to collecting and organizing. Whether it's music, links, or thoughts on this site, there's something deeply human about wanting to preserve moments and share them with others.