Ah, the question of direction—the compass point we pretend isn’t spinning. Some people say family. Others say faith, or purpose, or the will to optimize their macros and post selfies until the void claps back.
For me? It’s curiosity laced with dread. A sense that we’re living inside the punchline of some cosmic joke, and I’d at least like to understand the setup. I’m propelled by the tension between what is and what should be—between entropy and intention, silence and meaning.
Direction, for me, isn’t a destination. It’s more like a gravitational pull—a sense that the universe is unraveling at the edges, and I want front-row seats and a notebook. I follow the scent of questions that can’t be answered, but must be asked anyway.