Cars have been with me for as long as I can remember.
Not as a hobby. Not as a phase.
As something deeper — something that keeps me alive.
Some people find beauty in art galleries, architecture, or nature.
I find it in cars. In their lines, proportions, details you only notice when you really look. When you care. Of course — women are their own league, always have been. But cars… cars are my constant. My language. My religion.
Every car can give you joy if you know how to use it.
Not every car is perfect. Not every car is fast. But every car hides something. Character. Temper. A story. And when you learn how to listen, how to feel it, how to push it without crossing the line — it gives back. Hard.
For me, the car is a place.
The place where I think best.
Where my mind calms down.
Where I feel control — but also respect, because power without discipline will punish you. A car gives you dominance, but only if you know how to tame it. Otherwise, it reminds you very quickly who’s in charge.
I’ve always looked at cars differently.
Not just as machines, but as objects of design. I study the details. The stance. The curve of a fender, the tension in a shoulder line, the honesty of an interior. I used to draw cars obsessively. That was the dream — to become a designer.
But life happened.
Or rather, reality happened.
In Poland, like in many post-communist countries, dreams often get crushed early.
“What will you do with that?”
“Get a normal job.”
“Be realistic.”
Yeah. Thanks.
Thanks to that mindset, I didn’t become a car designer. And maybe that frustration never really left me. Maybe that’s why I still look at cars the way I do — with hunger, curiosity, and a bit of pain.
A car is one of the few objects in this world I can sit next to, alone, and feel peace.
I can just look at it. Touch it. Clean it. Detail it. Lose track of time. I don’t need anyone else. No noise. No explanations.
Maybe I’m fucked up — but I feel a bond with cars.
They piss me off sometimes, sure. I swear at them, curse them, hate them for a moment. But I love them. Deeply. They’re emotional. They’re imperfect. They’re honest in a way people often aren’t.
Cars are objects of desire.
Not just mine — the world’s.
Everyone has their dream cars.
Mine are clear:
Ferrari F355
Porsche 964 Turbo 3.6
Porsche 993 Turbo
Ferrari F50
Mercedes-Benz 500E
BMW M5 E39
That’s my top tier.
Not because of numbers or hype, but because of what they represent — raw engineering, timeless design, soul. Cars from a time when driving still meant something.
Cars didn’t just shape my taste.
They shaped how I see the world.
And honestly?
I wouldn’t want it any other way.
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