closer to the truth

I tend to write to people who are, even when they’re at their happiest, there’s some kind of underpinning that might be a little bit pensive or sad.

They understood that repetition wasn't redundancy, but ritual! And each telling was both the same story and a completely new experience, shaped by the particular moment, the specific voices, the quality of attention brought to bear.

I was meant to wander. To dissolve. To hide. To build an inner life that sustains me when nothing else does. I was meant to arrive when the room had emptied and the music had stopped and the real ones remained.

And maybe what emerges in flow is something more essential—not the self we've constructed through repetition, but the self that exists prior to all that construction .

But here's what troubles me about this whole arrangement: we know belief isn't built on truth. It's built on repetition .

It’s easy to feel adrift

The writer is a person who wants to hide and be found.

I simply have to know when I’m desperately curious and deeply suffocated by specific work situations. I’ve learned there is no “arriving” anywhere, which is maybe what the deep ache I feel is about. Seeing this as part of life helps me settle into the moments, however brief they may be.

what matters more is who you are in your job, than the job itself