I’ve decided to write something every day — not because I believe in discipline (I don’t) or because I think the world needs one more person narrating their existence (it definitely doesn’t), but because there’s something oddly comforting about putting a few words in a row and watching them behave. Or misbehave. My mind is a neighborhood where thoughts wander around unsupervised; this blog might be the closest thing to community policing I’ll ever attempt.
I’m not aiming for revelations. Most days aren’t built for epiphanies — they’re made of groceries, emails, half-forgotten intentions, and the quiet hope that nothing catastrophic happens before bedtime. But still, there’s meaning hiding in the mundane, like a cat under a car pretending it isn’t obvious. Maybe that’s what I’m hoping to catch: the small truths that only show up when you stop trying to look impressive.
If you’re reading this, don’t expect grand statements. Expect a mind stretching its legs. Expect tiny reflections about the strangeness of being alive, the generosity of certain moments, the unnecessary cruelty of others, and the way everything feels both fragile and bizarrely stubborn.
Today, this is enough: I’m here. And if the days ahead decide to bring clarity, chaos, or some combination of the two, at least there will be a place to put them.