one of one

I feel more regular than ever, and it terrifies me.

Nothing feels special anymore. Art is a mirror reflecting the same tired image. Music echoes with a dull familiarity. The world moves on a loop—buildings, cars, architecture—all blending into one long déjà vu. I’ve seen all of this a million times, and it hurts me that I’m not moved by it anymore. I want to be in awe. 

But everything feels numb.

“Finding ourselves” is a paradox, but not in the way people think. It isn’t about locating something that’s missing; it’s about deciphering something that’s buried under years of influence, conditioning, and noise. We don’t arrive in this world fully formed—we inherit circumstances, we absorb experiences, and we spend the rest of our lives questioning what was given to us, trying to separate what is truly ours from what we’ve merely carried.

What have I ever been 100% certain about?

Every time I near conviction, just as I reach 90%, the ground shifts beneath me. The answer reveals itself only when I am submerged, staring up at the sky through the distortion of water, defeated.

I see too much of myself in others, too much of others in myself. The similarities between what I create and what already exists make me feel inconsequential. I refuse to be another variation of the same recycled concept.

The answer, I think, is to find my voice. But I haven’t found out how.

I have an inkling that for me, it’ll be through writing, running, creation, and silence.

I despise how unamused I feel. I’ve never felt this desensitized to life itself. Nothing sparks. Nothing ignites. But maybe this frustration, this insatiability, is what pushes me deeper. Maybe this dissatisfaction is not a curse but a catalyst.

I am made for this. For the hunger. For the refusal to accept the world as it is. I am an explorer, not of land or oceans, but of thought, of meaning, of the unspoken things that press against the edges of existence. I am here to revolutionize, to disrupt, to challenge the way life is seen.

I am a miracle.

Is this how Da Vinci felt before his innovations? Is this how Picasso felt, paintbrush in hand? Is this how Frank Ocean feels right now during his hiatus? Is this how Earl Sweatshirt felt when he made East? Is this how Basquiat felt in his studio?

I want to dismantle everything handed to me and rebuild it in my own image. I want to defy it, reject it, obliterate it until only the truth remains.

Dissatisfied and insatiable. A dangerous combination.

When have I ever truly made a choice? Or have I only ever been consuming, processing, regurgitating, and calling it my own just because it passed through me?

That’s GARBAGE. That’s not creation. That’s not me.

For a man who has built his existence on passion, curiosity, and joy for life itself, this feels like that dream we’ve all had where we’re just falling in fear towards an impending doom.

But the worst part is I’ve grown accustomed to the sensation of falling. If I splatter onto the floor, will it even matter? If I learn to fly, how long until the thrill of flight fades? If I wake up from the dream, how long before I crave sleep again? Is this just the nature of things? The cycle we must surrender to?

I hope the answer is no.

Right now, I’m searching for the next thing.

I’m back in purgatory. But this time, it doesn’t feel like a punishment. It’s a challenge. And something tells me that many revolutionaries pass through this space before their breakthrough. Because so far, every question I’ve ever asked has been answered in time.

If there is a God, I have only seen benevolence. I have only seen kindness. Everything I’ve ever asked for, I have received from someone or something that has my best interest in mind.

So here’s my next ask:

I want my voice. I want to know myself.