2026.4.29
There is not enough ink in the world to express every intricacy that you can explore with words. Words reassemble time and space, shifting perceptions which lie underneath dormant senses. To target such delicate crevices of the soul is a job of a surgeon. His scalpel is his choice of word which can pierce, stitch, poke, and expose. Every word of a sentence moves the psyche around to look for room, a spot untouched, and zigzags its way through the soul.
This entry of the blog is a scattered recollection of notes written throughout 2026 until May 11th. While I am not a professional surgeon, these short writings are the artifacts of my practice.
2026.5.11
How adversarial should you be toward life? How much pressure must you exert onto life in order to be fulfilled? One would assume a significant amount of force is be needed to ābend the world at will.ā But could it actually snap? A life in which you attempt to control and change everything to you own accord, exerting insurmountable force to propel your life against the stream of causalityā¦ Is this fulfilling or is it forming cracks on your reality? It is impossible to know how much force is excessive until the cracks form.
Recently, Iāve been noticing these cracks. So, I pledged to reduce the amount of negative clutter in my mind. Iām adopting the belief that all will be OK, not within any axis of good but set as a constant which denies all other variables, an unyielding force of stability. It requires force to be still in a storm. The sin of sloth is not being at rest but being drifted along life, swept up by the world.
2026.4.20
It hurts, it truly hurts, to give everything you have and get nothing in return. Because it says something about you, your value, and places you among those who did try and succeed. You feel exposed in the middle of the arena. Good. That is where you must live to survive. To hide amongst the crowd in normalcy and pristineness is not living. Walk into the arena, intoxicate yourself in pain. Whatās the worst that can happen?
2026.4.6
I am sometimes infatuated with sadness and tiredness. Writing heals, but also debilitates. I am forced to produce this because I am stuck in inaction. Or, I am stuck in inaction because I forced myself to produce this. Translucent whips wait for me, constantly in watch, I anticipate pain and even wish for it. Something to let me know how bad it is to fail.
Must I choose between a blind cog or an awakened rock? A blind cog, once woken up, screams in agony as pain materializes. I wish to be neither, a hidden third thingā¦ an awakened cog? A wolf in sheepskinā¦?
2026.4.5
My desk contains an unfinished clutter of objects in motion. I often need a workspace which signals arrival in order to start a new task, a new beginning from a stationary point. But today I felt an urge to simply write within this transitory area, notebook spread next to my infinite array of un-belonging items. The notion of belonging suggests that everything has some preordained state in time and space. This pseudo-rule of the mind seeks completeness in the ever-marching sequence of time, our effort to decelerate and divide time.
I remember one ski trip where I was offered a āsnowboarding lessonā by a friend. I found out the hard way that no lesson is comprehensible as you accelerate down a slope with no ability to slow down. I was soon met with hard earth, a painful but reassuring proof of the division of time, a complete state where I am not rushing toward incomprehension, a new beginning where I can begin from idleness. Our division of time can only segment using the unit in which you measure the present moment, the atomic time unit. To be in an infinite present is to divide this unit up infinitesimally where death, or the fear of it, lives outside of comprehensible reality. Or in other words, death is incomprehensible within infinite present because infinite is incomprehensible. This is flow state.
So Iām writing on a desk in transit, my thoughts superimposed between coming and going, living and dying, expressing beyond motives. An artist is fueled by death but during his creation of art, he is beyond death. When I place my pen down, time will once again be tangible. Hard earth will remind me of my mortality.
2026.2.18
Globalism, stemming from Christianity, unites the worldās fate into a linear history. The dichotomy of the united globe and the individualās faith points toward stoic helplessness where we can only control our faith, not our external conditions. Under this human condition, to suffer, under love, under fraternity, as a unity of the lowly, seems to be the optimal choice. Strange. What if this is a condition fabricated by those in power to wield their stick? But those lonely souls who still suffer, without love, perhaps they are the ones to be pitied, as they rot in their manufactured excellence.
2026.2.7
Felt the limits of my physical strength. Itās a good thing that humans domesticated horses and pigs; physical strength is only a small tool within oneās set of assets. Might this be cope?
2026.2.3
To find intrinsic value in humans, weak and strong, is manufactured ideology. This is true. But, one must follow this doctrine for grace despite knowing of its origins, in order to practice faith. The greatest faith is jumping from knowledge to dogma for the purpose of love and committing to a constructed axis of goodness. The choice to believe, after looking from outside, is what transforms belief into faith.
2026.1.12
I must avoid stringing people along an axis of quality. To accept the gift of human connection, I cannot size up my presents next to other gifts lying under my tree. How can I be happy when I am constantly measuring the gift boxes instead of unwrapping them?