Why we write

A lot of my life right now is questions, so I’ve been reading. It’s how I’ve always found answers, and it’s always worked, so I don’t see why that should change. I’ve been reading a lot recently. Reading all the things I don’t need to be, in all the time I don’t have, to find answers to questions unknown.

This week, I’ve read Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, de Cleyre, Camus, Dostoevsky, de Beauviour, … Some guy called Lawrence Freedman and a math historian. A confusing bunch, I’m sure. But each of these has had an answer and more questions too. Something about their newness, their increasing difficulty, their unending novelty, makes them feel important. I want to remember the answers, so I need to write some. This here, I hope, can be memory of that, and one day, rememory too.

If you end up here, consider this an attempt to live an examined life. To live. Consider it in the gentle light it is written in. At 4 am, mid-Juul-rip. Give it the grace of someone growing. Of someone young trying to figure it all out. Give it the privilege of assuming it coherent. Maybe one day, it will all make sense. Because all I have now is questions. Those can be asked wrong. Can’t they? Maybe. But things begin somewhere and end up somewhere. This is me attempting to enjoy the journey.

Stay tuned… or don’t. I pray I can learn not to care.

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