I’ve become so lazy that I don’t even feel like typing anymore—so I’m recording this instead, to talk about my life.

I wanted to be famous. Truly famous. I used to dream of being someone like Einstein. I wanted to be proud of myself. I wanted to show off my abilities. I craved people’s praise. Deep inside, I felt that if people knew me, if they remembered me, I could be proud—even if I wasn’t around anymore.

But then… what’s the use of pride if I’m not even here? What’s the point?

My spiritual and religious beliefs have shaped me over time. They’ve taught me that pride doesn’t bring anything real. It’s like building a castle in the air—it might look impressive, but it has no foundation. So, I hope this recording can be something more than that—something meaningful, something useful for others. And I hope the Creator forgives me for the pride that once lived in my intentions, and still rewards me if there’s any goodness in what I share. I truly want that.

My earliest memories go back to when I was around three and a half or four years old. I remember sitting by a window, watching other children play. I used to enjoy just sitting quietly and observing. I remember standing near a well, dropping things in just to watch how they fell. I remember walking with my parents early in the morning.

I was always a very sensitive child. I felt everything deeply. I took myself seriously—my thoughts, my feelings, my identity. I didn’t like being disrespected. I was desperate to be “me,” in my own way.

I remember once, when I was about four and a half, I wandered off toward my father’s office. Everyone was worried, but I felt free. It was a moment untouched by others’ influence. I enjoyed the walk, the freedom, and being somewhere that felt right. Eventually, I was found and brought home.

Everything I did in life, I did to understand myself. I was never satisfied just seeing myself as a body. I wanted to know how I think, why I feel what I feel. That journey has continued to this day.

Trust has always been important to me. I need stability, things I can rely on. As a child, my parents were my anchor. They were always there. They explained things honestly. They failed sometimes, but they loved me. They gave me a place where I could feel safe.

Because I relied on them so deeply, I started to fear losing them. Even as a child, I often thought about their death. It scared me. I couldn’t imagine living without them. I didn’t see myself as grounded in this world—I only saw them as my anchor.

That fear stayed with me. It shaped my childhood. I took it seriously, just like every thought I had—until life proved otherwise. That fear of loss, especially of my parents, stayed with me for about 35 years.

Eventually, I found some answers. But before I share those, I want to go back and talk about my earlier years, especially my school days and the experiences that helped shape who I am.

I’ll continue in the next part.