I Code, Therefore I Create.

A manifesto in fragments. Not a roadmap. Not a landing page. Rather a breath of fresh air. An open map for those who build from the gut.

I love coding. But not to produce. To create.

I'm not a deliverables factory. I'm a seeker. A creator of spaces that breathe. The more empty space, the freer I feel. I love floating scrolls. Interfaces that whisper. The kind of site you feel — not just use.

Less friction. More direction. Fewer gadgets. More well-placed silence.

I want code that flows. Not that snaps. And if I can make it fit in three components and a useEffect, even better.

What do I love above all? A well-twisted database.

The DB isn't just the backend. It's the heart. It's where I breathe. I twist it, map it, bind it. I threaten it sometimes. And it answers me with a foreign key constraint failed. Checkmate.

But I love it anyway. Because a well-thought-out database is a war machine. And a playground. And a logical poem.

Supabase, you're not my "heart's cry". You're my nuclear laboratory. And sometimes my battlefield.

I build with rigor. But I do it like an artist.

I polish my paddings like cutting a diamond. I place my z-indexes like trapeze artists. I search for the right line — the one that makes the structure both readable AND tactile.

I write code that compiles. But sometimes, I hope it makes you shiver.

I don't care about being "optimal". I want to be intense, readable, elegant. I love when my code has flow. When it dances a little. When it dares.

I live by the water. And that changes everything.

The sea is my pair programming. The wind helps me sort my ideas. Sailing forces me to think in motion. And the lagoon reminds me that all this — the code, the web, the noise — is nothing if you don't have a clear heading.

I create to breathe. Not to impress.

Many of my ideas emerge while sailing. They come like gusts of wind. Gentle sometimes, often brutal. I've learned to make room for them.

I've tried everything. And I've chosen my side.

FTP? Never again. WordPress? Thanks for the years. But I've moved on. Today, it's Next.js, React, Supabase, Vercel.

I ship straight ahead. I keep control. I want to build useful, stable, powerful things — even when they're small.

My stack is my comfort zone. And my springboard to go further.

I'm not looking for perfection. I'm looking for resonance.

I don't need my site to be perfect. I want it to provoke a silent "yes" in those who stumble upon it. A shiver. A desire to write to me. A feeling of "she gets it".

I build for those who catch on quickly. Who love details. Who don't need to be shouted at.

I publish rarely. But when I do, it shakes things up.

I'm not here to make noise every day. When I speak, it's because something inhabits me. When I post, it's because a project has moved through me.

And often, it hits home. Because it's rare. Because it's not marketed. Because it's real.

The algorithm respects fire more than rhythm.

I love coding. But I also love transmitting. Listening. Taking someone's idea and taking it further.

I'm a developer. But also a translator. An alchemist. I listen to an idea, absorb it, deconstruct it, and make it tangible. That's what I love.

I coded PHP, WordPress themes, sites without databases for a long time... but what I love today is giving life to a vision that needs form, momentum, and a bit of magic.

What I read transforms me. What I learn nourishes me.

I reread Harari constantly. Sapiens. Homo Deus. These books haunt me. Wake me up. Push me to create human tools, not just pretty interfaces.

I also love words. Not perfect poems. But the right phrases. Sounds that snap. Languages that open up. I speak French, English, Spanish. And tomorrow morning, I'm starting Japanese. To see. To feel another logic.

I don't just code with a stack. I code with everything I've lived, read, loved, learned.

In summary?

I code like I live: with intensity, curiosity, and a touch of insolence. I live like I code: in deployed version, never in draft.

If you have a raw project. If you have an idea that keeps you up at night. If you're not afraid of the void — come chat with me.