It’s been a long time since I wrote anything expressively.

It surprises me how time moves so quickly when you’re doing nothing in particular. Just sitting idle, letting days blur into one another. It feels like still water. Quiet on the surface, no ripples above or movement below. As if everything is paused, muted.

And yet, beneath that stillness, something has changed. A new ecosystem has taken shape, silent but alive. New thoughts, perspectives, habits. The old fades quietly, making room for what needs to grow. That’s just how it works. The past must serve its purpose while it’s still here because once time has passed, its utility begins to fade.

I know I may be rambling. But it’s necessary.

The bad writing has to come out first, the clumsy thoughts, the stale concepts. That’s the only way to clear the space for something fresher, sharper, truer. A mind that’s been quiet too long has to stumble before it speaks clearly.

I crossed 40 this year. By now, I must know a thing or two about a thing or two.

This space is going to be my scribble pad. I’ll write with honesty, not necessarily identity. Some will relate. Others will disagree. That’s fine. I feel disagreement is a sign of life. A sign that we’re engaging.

The more you disagree, the more I’ll get a chance to clarify myself.

Be honest. Utterly.

There’s no need to sugarcoat your words. I don’t care for politeness when it filters thought. I’d rather know what’s in your head before it slips out of your tongue. Words dilute meaning. Thoughts deform on their way out, squeezed through the limits of language.

That’s why poetry exists because metaphor reaches where plain speech fails. Poetry is how we complete a thought when language runs out of road.

Nature, too, is poetic.

It doesn’t explain itself. It simply arranges seasons, flowers, trees, crops, bees, clouds, and rain in a rhythm too vast to decode. It makes space for everything, living or otherwise, without needing to justify it.

I used to think clouds were alive before I learned the word phenomenon.

Then I understood, clouds are not alive but the atmosphere is. Or at least, it behaves like it is.

Water isn’t alive either. It’s just a chemical, two elements in perfect ratio, flowing obediently with gravity until it reaches the sea.

But inside it, life swarms.

Strange, isn’t it? That something lifeless can hold so much life.

Then who gets to question the absence of life elsewhere in the universe? Why must life always be something that eats, crawls, walks, talks, or clings to survival? If clouds are alive because they drift and roam, then isn’t the moon alive too? Circling the Earth, faithfully, month after month? We define life so narrowly. Maybe because we fear admitting we don’t fully understand it.

With that thought, I begin a new voyage.

Not my first, but perhaps the first that feels urgent.

This time, I won’t be chasing answers out there, in books or screens or the sky.

Because now, at 40, I’ve understood this much: The deeper questions don’t live outside, they live inside.

And so tonight, I begin. Not by arriving anywhere, but simply by paying attention.

This is where the journey starts.