In the U.S. where I have lived majority of my adulthood, before I can be anything else, I’m a “legal alien.” This categorization has been the most dehumanizing experience: to be an artist, legally, is to be an alien wearing a
human meat suit wandering around, but of extraordinary ability. It’s difficult to dream the future when your permission to exist is a trap of capitalist exceptionalism. So my practice, equally an artistic pursuit and also a survival tactic, is to write myself into existence.

Writing and making theatre are ways for me to heal and connect. I’ve come to recognize that creating community involves recognizing solitude. And I try to be a writer of both. To extend some part of me to create a rubik's cube and mix it. And to gather my friends to turn it again and again into different shapes and realities. All the while we will be eating and drinking on someone’s living room floor. In my practice, opposites coexist: the mundane and the exceptional, the personal and the universal, and authentic and the fictionalized. My works are heavily influenced by the frameworks of radical passivity and queer negativity, where we question if inactivity and even self-destruction can be methods of finding freedom. To fight is to remain within the
structure. To refuse is to exist outside. Formally, with my previous literature training, I hold deep interest in the intersections between words on stage and on page. Content-wise, I create for everything outside of “happily ever after”: the ugly, the painful, and the blank.