Reading Time: 3 minutes

elaboration, sometimes, is a tradeoff for legibility, i know. often, i write not with the desire to be understood as when I would wear hats for journalism and science; these “headwears” are unnecessary now. i also write to scrutinize my thoughts stripped.

Liminal spaces like a stop by a street or before the peak of a mountain, in a moving train or an airplane, parking lots and stairwells, and funeral homes and hospital waiting rooms transcend into a psychic mass beyond what we know of their material functions and identities because being present in them and their mere presence evoke anticipation, departure, and return. Here, we look ahead and turn our backs to wait, wander, and wonder, within their charted boundaries and enclosures, that separate and unite us from and with the public, families, friends, physical possessions.

What remains within the last few days of a year embodies this same feeling. Only now, like a ghost, have I stepped out of a body that has been stuck for a month tiptoeing into January after all the momentum harnessed in 2022, in awe of the reposeful limbo between actual living in the now and a desire to depart from the preceding year, and besieged by a great wave of uneasiness that only recently snapped me back into consciousness and the cadence of 2023’s relentless march.

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Uneasiness as a measure of time holds immense significance for me, because it has since been a constant nudge that I should reflect my life further even if, at other times, this ritual is something I neglect and abandon altogether to embrace serendipity and spontaneity. My perceptions of age and youth dwindle rapidly, not merely because of the passage of time, but also by the precarious state of the world in which we find ourselves.

I am learning to confront myself in the worst of times; to find comfort in my despair and indulge in my impulses; to bear witness to the events unfolding around me; to find complacency in momentary indifference amidst the chaos of existence. While I have been aware of this reality since grade school and have done this many times, only recently have I been reminded once again that I hold the power to shape my life (even end it when I choose), ascending as a self-fulfilling prophecy only when I set my mind and decide what I want to bring into being. There are no gods to claim control over me, only the infinite expanse of this world and the ever-present threat of annihilation from forces we abide to survive. My misery connects me to all things. My nothingness entwined with that of the fate of humanity. And so, I embrace the destruction within me and around me. It is my responsibility to remain ever-vigilant of this power I wield as much as it is an incapacity we are hindered by.

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I would like to diagnose myself with frühjahrsmüdigkeit, an untranslatable German word for early year tiredness in which one feels daunted and dispirited of the opportunities given by a new beginning and the fear of not being able to give justice to one’s potential.

My heart is heavy with hope that all the people I have crossed paths with have been staying afloat. And, despite the fleeting nature of our lives, I am grateful to be present for whatever time is left for me.

In ninth grade, I wrote a myth about entropy beause for years, we never stopped walking each other “home”, whatever or wherever “home” may be and whoever leaves another first as we leave for new “homes”. Hence, I hope these templates for annual reviews and goal-setting would be helpful to you in the same way it was for me. 🔭

In this blog is a treasure trove where I will archive what I have been reading, listening, and watching (and would be consuming) from the humanities and my studies to help democratize knowledge access and recommend what to also experience.