All my most successful weekends were not planned in advance. Usually, it all starts with me waking up too early — and realizing that I don’t want either TV series or friends in a cafe. I want to make something with my hands. Once upon a time, these were old notebooks that I pasted over with magazine clippings. Then I bought old acrylic paint and tried to make my first “masterpiece” on cardboard.

My apartment sometimes turns into creative chaos — scraps of paper, jars of glue, brushes in glasses. But this gives me a strange sense of order inside. As if I wash the noise of everyday life out of my head.

My friends are surprised: “Why do you need all this, you’re not an artist, are you?” And I don’t argue. I’m not an artist. Just a person who breathes easier when there is something to touch. When your fingers are covered in paint. When a tiny piece of colored tape can start a whole day.

Once I got so carried away that I covered the entire table with old posters. Since then, it has been the most fun for me. And let someone say that it is stupid - I love every blot.

Now I have started inviting my friends to draw together. We put on music, drink tea and are silent. At such moments, I understand: creativity is not only about "being able to". It is about "allowing". Allowing yourself to be illogical. Ineffective. And at the same time yourself.