Journal
Slow writing from the places I go and the thoughts I can't shake.
We treat speech as the proof of presence. But sometimes the most attentive thing in a room is the person who hasn't said anything yet.
There is an hour in Kathmandu, late in the afternoon, when the light goes thin and gold and the whole city seems to remember something.
Some of the things I want to say in English have no shape in English. They were born in another language and they refuse to leave it.
I have spent years trying to engineer the perfect morning. It turns out the good ones share almost nothing in common.
Familiarity presents itself as knowledge. But most of the time, it just means we stopped looking.
I lost 80% of the clips I loved most from Mustang. What I didn't expect was what that loss would teach me.
I started leaving the house without knowing where I was going. It changed the way the city looks back at me.
There is a quiet shame that comes with being slow at things in a world that rewards speed. I am trying to outgrow it.
I don't believe in big morning routines anymore. But I do believe in small repeated gestures that quietly hold a life together.