Some mornings I wake up already mid-thought, like my mind kept walking while I slept. Not toward anything, exactly—just pacing. The question I fell asleep with resurfaces before my eyes even open. It has no new answer, but it returns as faithfully as breath. A strange comfort: to be haunted not by ghosts, but by inquiry. There’s a pattern to these questions. They orbit. Disappear for a while, then drift back in disguised forms. “What am I doing with my life?” becomes “Is this enough?” becomes “Would I recognize peace if I had it?” They change costumes, but not essence. Like light refracted through time. Answers, on the other hand, are cowardly. They rarely stay put. The ones I trusted at twenty have become hollow at thirty. Truth ages poorly. It sheds skin, then masquerades as something wiser. Maybe this is why I distrust conclusions—they feel too much like ceilings. Some people collect answers like trophies. I collect questions like old books with marginalia—underlined, dog-eared, ...
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.