It's 2025. Has been for seven months now. I somehow always come back here. Maybe there's a lesson that needs learning from me journaling online, again.

I don't know that there's an audience for this. I'm unsure whether this is an open therapy session or the least platform-aware blog there is. There's a thin line between doing this and starting a vlog about my everyday life. Some part of me thinks the text format still counts as an act of humility—or maybe shame—that knowingly lowers the probability of being discovered by large numbers of people.

I'm not here to debate the genesis of my being here. I'm merely noticing that something needs to be said or incarnated in these lines that seemingly cannot take form elsewhere. I'm fascinated by my own duplicity: wanting to be known yet fearing to be observed.

I don't feel like I have something to hide. My words feel more like a stage play—the premiere of a show that's always teased but never hits the stage. It feels like I'm constantly on the verge of saying something profound but choking at the last second, retreating to observations about how long it's been since I've done this, or marvelling at the act of doing it at all, like a clumsy lover.

However, I will say this—and it has taken me years to conclude that it probably won't be as exciting for you as it will be for me, and I have to be okay with that—I know now that my writing is a game. Those of you who remain curious every time I return from hiatus share this same predisposition, this liking taken to paradoxes; trying to utter the ineffable, the real, literal one.

After all, this is and should be the only preoccupation of the poet: trying to tell the stories that have fallen between words, to wonder at the limits of language—one of the vastest and most ancient tools known to mankind—only to compare it with the infinitely vaster universe.

The thing is, when you start playing this game for real and get down to the nitty-gritty of what makes it fun, you fall down a rabbit hole you didn't expect. To outsiders, you start sounding like a pastor of sorts, a preacher man. I suppose that's why The Book isn't one of Shakespeare's, and why in that Book, first was the Word.

I am not a man of any religion. Yet comparing tongue and cosmos has a weird enlightening effect on consciousness, and nowadays, I've become curious about where it all leads.

I also feel as I’m in debt to all of those that dare read me, to know why they do so. Toady I’d like to give them a first reason, or at least an understanding of the subjects I’m keen to entertain here.

I remember a conversation with an old friend. It was late and we were past the decorum of recent news, affairs and job drama. I suddenly noticed I never really knew of his background. I knew he was a pragmatic guy, raised by an engineer around two brothers, modems and computers but I never once asked about his philosophical take on the world or, maybe even more profoundly, his spiritual perspective on who he was and what all of that was about. I asked him and he cut me short, rather instructing me, thinking  my question was cute but only showed I was not in the knowing of the robust scientific evidence that the first principles of Physis pointed out that entropy was the inevitable fate of our universe and that in the end, what was going to happen was nothing as particles of matter would stretch along the expansion of the cosmos while every possible chemical reaction would eventually burn out only for whole galaxies and superclusters and multiverses to end up in a heat death, were no significant movement or happening could be possible.

But then what?

Obviously, there was no then. To him, the deal was done, the question answered; we were going nowhere fast and the best we could do is to delay the inevitable. It’s in times like these that I wish I was more persistent. But I already sensed that my question made him uneasy, like he hadn’t asked it himself in the past and that beyond this short but poignant presentation, he had no answer, probably leaving him on his dad’s side of the Why game, knowing all too well that this particular one has no end. All I could think about at that moment was is he going to ask me what I think? But he didn’t. For our friendship it might have been for the best but I am here now and you have nowhere to run so you’ll have to receive the answer to your non-question.

This is what I think. I played out what it would be in my head to be God. Not a white man with a beard nor his son here on Earth. I played out the most sincere approximation of what I thought could resemble God. I thought of every follicle of feather of every hummingbird. I thought of the space between protons cast from solar flares hitting pine trees in Siberia. I thought of the chemical, genetical and phytohormonal reactions triggered by those same protons within the tree’s needle. I thought of the universes, whole realms and civilizations of microorganisms that were impacted by the photosynthesis in their host, their systems, circuits and politics and then I thought about every possible tree, counted organized and flourishing. Symmetry and ratios, the necessary means of consuming other beings to ensure the creation of more of one’s own kind. I thought of beings and non-beings, Everett’s Theory, the mass of a lone galaxy. I thought of every possible arrangement of words and knew they held meaning for a Being magnitudes larger than all of them.

That is when it struck me.

If I were this Being, there would be nothing to do. As when every word in a book is highlighted, there is no information that stands out as being more relevant than any other. Since God is the total sum of all information across all spaces and all times, nothing exists outside of him, leaving him no reference on which to base his own existence, inevitably forcing him to forget that He existed at all.

That’s where the first split happens. Some call it the Big Bang but really it’s just the Universe having played out every scenario, this famous heat death, splitting from the zygote state again so that everything can begin anew.

In this fashion, I see us in an endless game, the ineffable being this; you spend your whole life trying to reunite with some kind of meaning, a bigger picture, only so that when you have won, and that everything has been put into place and you’ve cleverly understood everything, you become one with God and then you realize that God can’t help but become you.