I am Nobody, in the profoundly ordinary sense—just an ol’ bloke who answers to Bro. Yes, Bro: that ubiquitous fellow from memes, the archetypal “guy who did this or that,” and the epitome of everydayness.

But I’m more than just Bro—I’m a patient here on Earth’s somewhat chaotic ward, with Ching Yi as my chief therapist and life’s enigmatic guide. Over the years, I’ve made significant headway in this puzzling thing called betterment. I’m not just treading water—I’m actually swimming toward some vaguely defined shore of sanity.

My late parents, glorious enigmas both, each carried their own brand of mental eccentricity. My father, a CIA operative who vanished when I was three, part secret agent, part benevolent ghost, left behind an aura of mystery and mild childhood apprehension. As for my mother, well… she was a psychological riddle wrapped in a fascinating paradox, wielding paranoia and auditory hallucinations. Yet from this emerged in her a fierce, almost otherworldly capacity for love and sensitivity — proof, perhaps, that only madness can birth such profound beauty in a person.

Carl Jung (the Swiss shrink with a thing for dream analysis) once said our minds tuck away truths in weird, encrypted symbols—like dreams doodling in secret code. As an artist, I totally get this: there’s always some big cosmic riddle peeking at me from behind my paintings. Ironically, it took painting goth girls for me to realize I was working through losing my mom. Mixing beauty with doom, like Beetlejuice or the Addams Family, was my way of laughing at grief.

Why Asia? Some head doctors might call it escapism. Maybe they’re right; I kind of figured it out back when I was scribbling novels . And no matter how many puzzle pieces fall into place, there’s always a big, blinking question mark out there—like I’m the guy sculpting mashed potato mountains from Close Encounters, determined that, yes, “this means something!”

Ah yes—Ching Yi. Not only my therapist, but my wife and my small, dazzling reason to wake up. Alongside my acrylic paints, she lets me chase my Don Quixote moments, windmills and all, while quietly helping me up the ladder to actual calm and peace.

So there it is. Just Bro. Just happy to be here, happy to paint, and—honestly—ridiculously glad to be alive.