Be My Thrill.

📓 Excerpts from a book I’ll never write is now live on Substack.

It’s a space I’ve been meaning to build for years. A home for the fragments, the half-finished scenes, the old essays I never let go of. Some fiction, some truth. Most of it somewhere in between.

The first post is up now. It’s called “this was never meant to be anything at all”—written at 3 a.m. with three beers, a nicotine buzz, and a little too much honesty.

If you’ve ever left something unfinished—love, grief, a sentence—you might find something familiar in it. Or at the very least, something real.

I feel more like a stranger each time I come home //

Here’s a little update. Lately, I’ve been all over the place—geographically, yes, but also in the less tangible ways: the mind wandering, the heart pacing. The kind of movement that leaves you simultaneously untethered and awake, propelled forward by some unnameable force. It’s strange how a single decision—pulling back from a job that drained me to the dregs—can feel like resurfacing. Like remembering how to breathe. It’s not reinvention, not exactly, but a quiet realization: I need to start taking care of myself, the kind I used to reserve for everyone else.

My circle, always small, has narrowed to something finer, almost fragile in its simplicity. But what it lacks in size, it makes up for in significance. Somehow, I’ve reconnected with people I thought I’d lost to time, or perhaps my own neglect. It’s surprising how seamless it can be, falling back into rhythm with someone as though no time has passed, as though the gaps were always meant to be filled. These relationships feel different—solid, essential. Not like the others, the ones I cobbled together out of convenience or proximity.

For the first time in what feels like years, I have things to look forward to. It’s not a flood of optimism, but more like a glimmer on the horizon—something to walk toward. My depression, ever faithful in its recurrence, hasn’t disappeared. It still loiters, draping itself over the edges of my better days. But I’ve found strength, real strength, the kind that lets me stand when it would be easier to sit, to create when it would be simpler to stop. There are days when it’s hard—harder than I’d like to admit—but isn’t that always the way?

I think two people can meet and, in an instant, feel something—a charge, a pull, the faint but undeniable sense that the ground beneath them has shifted. Have you ever met someone and known, in that moment, that nothing would ever be quite the same? It’s startling, almost disorienting, like stepping into a story you didn’t realize you were already part of.

Another year. Another sequence of departures and arrivals, though I’ve stopped marking the difference. Leaving has always been a ritual, hasn’t it? A quick inventory of what you can carry, a sharp glance at what you can’t. The boxes are always the same, labeled with names I no longer say out loud, filled with objects that remember more than I do.

Trust is the currency you keep spending, even when it bankrupts you. You think you’ve found someone who sees you, really sees you, but what they see is their own reflection. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” they say, as if intent makes a wound less permanent. The cuts stay, even when the faces blur.

I used to think the act of leaving would erase the pain. But leaving isn’t forgetting. You find traces of it everywhere: in the smell of rain on pavement, in the way sunlight falls through unfamiliar windows, in the hollow quiet of rooms you haven’t yet learned to fill. You tell yourself the memories will fade, but they don’t. They only soften, turning sharp edges into dull aches.

And then there are the habits—the old ones, the ones you thought you left behind. They don’t announce themselves. They reappear like an old lover you never quite forgot, offering a kind of comfort you know better than to trust. You recognize the shape of them, the way they fit into the empty spaces you swore you wouldn’t leave again.

This is how it goes. The circle doesn’t close because it never really begins. You run and run, and the cruelty isn’t in the motion—it’s in the stillness that follows.

So here’s to another year of circles. Of heartbreak, of misplaced trust, of holding on too long and letting go too late. Where does one great moment start, and where does this cruelty end? I don’t know. Maybe the trick is to stop asking.

It’s strange, the way lives intersect. Like the moment when two planets cross paths in their orbits, each carrying the weight of its own gravitational pull. You meet someone, and for a brief period, your trajectories align perfectly. You share the same stretch of sky, breathe the same air, and perhaps for that fleeting moment, you even share a glimpse of understanding. There’s a spark, a sense of inevitability, as if the universe conspired to bring you together.

But then, as naturally as it began, the alignment shifts. The forces that brought you close now push you apart, and you find yourself drifting, slowly at first, then faster, as the pull of your own life takes over. You return to your own orbit, to the familiar rhythm of your days. The other person does the same, and soon enough, you’re just two distant points in the vastness of space, each following a path that no longer intersects.

And yet, sometimes, the universe plays a cruel trick. There you are, content in your own momentum, the memory of that intersection fading into the background, when you find yourself crossing paths again. But this time, something is different. The other person, the one who once shared your orbit so effortlessly, seems lost in their own world, oblivious to the fact that you’re passing through the same space once more.

You reach out, hoping to recapture that moment of connection, but it’s as if they don’t even see you. They’re so absorbed in their own journey, their own trajectory, that they don’t notice the familiar orbit they once shared with you. And so, you keep moving, carried forward by the inertia of your own life, the intersection now just a fleeting memory of what once was, and what might have been.

Lately, I've been absent from these pages. Life, well, it's been a wild ride, to say the least. Moments of brilliance mingled with the mundane and the downright messy.

Since I first ventured into this digital space, so much has unfolded. I poured myself into my work, and the universe responded with not one, but two promotions within a mere six months. Yet amidst the professional triumphs, my personal life was a tumultuous sea. Three men passed through, each attempting to mend the broken pieces they saw in me. But my heart, stubborn as ever, refused to yield to their well-intentioned efforts.

Instead, I found solace in the quiet act of journaling. Sometimes, I wonder if these intimate reflections should have found their way here, into this shared space. And then there's the smoking. A habit rediscovered, a crutch in the chaos, offering a fleeting sense of relief amidst the storm.

There are moments when I question my place in this world, when I doubt my ability to navigate its twists and turns. But in those moments, a voice from the past whispers words of reassurance. A childhood friend, a rare confidant, confessed to following along with these scattered thoughts of mine. "At least you're trying to stay alive," he said.

At first, it seemed like a mere consolation. But upon reflection, I realized the weight of his words. Trying, in its simplest form, is an act of resilience, a testament to one's inner strength. Perhaps I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. Time will tell.