15 aug 2026

will rogers state beach / los angeles, CA

weird fishes, ego & causa sui

It makes me nervous to be so radically optimistic. I worry that I might come across as insincere or unnecessary. To me, optimism is everything but.

I find it odd that I have this desire to be seen and to be known in any capacity— much less as the voice of unreasonable positivity. Especially now.

The older I get, the more reason I find to be unkind towards myself. When I am kind to others, I mock myself afterward. When I am anything but kind, the shame lingers like phosphenes. I worry that earnestness might be mistaken for self-importance, or that open mindedness will be mistaken for indifference. I find myself overly enthusiastic about things that other people might not find significant. I crave sincerity that I do not exude.

I find it hard to just be. I've always loved the performance of socializing. The performance of culture and art and music and industry. I want to be able to express myself. I wished to be heard or to be able to write and be read but never seen. I wished to be perceived but not judged and loved but not known. There is so much absurdity in insecurity. I will never have full control over being understood. Not through the quality of what I say, not through the quantity of it, not through the truth. Even my own understanding of Self is clouded in judgement.

I don't have any reason to write. I haven't yet convinced myself that not having any reason is every reason. I wish not to write in sanctimony.

It took two days to put these thoughts together, but I hope to write every day. I want to be able to say one day that in my life, all things go. I have the means and the gall and the exigence to become a better writer through consistency. If not for the purpose of integrity, then for the sake of keeping record.

I will never stop learning. There is no world where I am not a student and consumer before a teacher, or creator. I guess I just have more to say. Or, at least, it feels that way.