Nature is my first teacher. I learn patience from tides, humility from mountains, and renewal from weeds that split concrete. When I walk through a pine forest, the air feels like a promise kept; when I watch crows, I remember that intelligence can be playful. I collect seasons the way others collect postcards: the tart green of April, the brass light of October, the blue hush after snow. Loving the earth means attention before opinion and care before convenience. I try to tread lighter: mend, reuse, plant, and pay my joy forward. My attitude to the world grows from this soil. I believe we belong to one another, human and more‑than‑human, a web not a ladder. Wonder is a discipline, and so is kindness. I want progress that heals, not just speeds up. I choose curiosity over cynicism, hope over spectacle, stewardship over ownership. When the news is loud, I go listen to water, then return to do one small, useful thing. That, to me, is love made practical.

Drawing is the way I learn to see. A pencil slows the world down until light becomes geometry. In my sketchbook I chase edges—of faces, leaves, buildings. I love charcoal for its honesty and watercolor for its disobedience; both demand that I accept accidents and make them part of the story. Art, to me, is a practice of attention and care. It isn’t about flawless results; it’s about showing up, asking good questions, and letting curiosity guide your hand. I study old masters and street murals with the same respect, because courage lives in both a quiet portrait and a shout of color on brick. I draw to understand people, to map emotions I can’t name, and to leave traces of gratitude for the world. I also teach my hand patience by daily gestures, five-minute sketches that keep wonder awake. My attitude to art is simple: serve the work, not the ego; learn the rules, then bend them with kindness. If one viewer breathes easier, or looks longer, the page has done its job—and so have I.

Tattoos are a personal language etched into skin — small narratives that travel with you. I see them as acts of affirmation: reminders of survival, commitments to values, tiny markers of moments that shaped me. A positive attitude toward tattoos celebrates choice, creativity, and craft. Good tattoos combine intention and skill; they honor the conversation between client and artist, the care in design, and the patience in healing. For me, ink is not rebellion for its own sake but a form of self-expression that makes identity tangible. I value consent, aftercare, and the knowledge that bodies change — designs can be adapted, covered, or embraced as parts of longer stories. Tattoos invite curiosity rather than judgment; they open doors to personal histories and foster empathy when we ask about meaning instead of assuming. Appreciating tattoos means respecting others’ ways of keeping memories visible and recognizing art that ages with a person, gaining depth and companionship over time.

Hi, I’m Kris, 18, a first-year student learning how adulthood is built from small, stubborn choices. I’m most myself at dawn: camera in hand, sneakers laced, notebook ready. My hobbies orbit curiosity — street photography, riverfront runs, fingerstyle ukulele, and baking loaves that teach patience. I dream of building a warm studio-school where people make, learn, and feel safe to try again: open workshops, tiny concerts, shared critiques, kind rules. Relationships, to me, thrive on clear boundaries, steady attention, and humor; love isn’t ownership, but the daily decision to listen and stay. As for meaning, I piece it together like a collage: wonder that stretches me beyond fear, work that serves more than ego, and care that leaves a trace of light. I want to keep showing up, making useful things, and passing the spark along — so that, one ordinary day, someone else finds courage in the path we tended together. That would be enough for me: a life gentle, brave, and quietly generous.