Walking Away
November 12th, 2025
I used to write with stilted prose, but now that I realize it, I really like having long grammatically incorrect sentences color my diary entries: it's silly to think that this whole time I wrote shorter sentences because I thought they sounded better when in the quiet reality the long flowing sentences are really what makes prose prose. And I shouldn't be afraid of writing paragraphs, because they're a lot more flowy and connected and all the more, and, well, sure, I'll lose readers here and there, because my and all our attention spans are shrinking under the demise of the technical powers that be, but at the bare minimum I'd like to be able to communicate what I'm thinking without that staccato rhythm. In other words, returning back to the stream-of-conscious style I ought to have been writing in the first place.
On the train, I look out into the night and put my phone down. No more social media addiction, scrolling reels and blasting it all in my mind, there's no need for all that, and I want to say that there's a freedom in putting the phone down. There's freedom in not letting the tech barons that be to give away your precious time for some likes and information that rarely if ever will be used again. Cognitively speaking I can agree with the sentiment, but there's an emotional aspect that just lurches at me, just as the train lurched to a halt at the next stop.
Do you see it? Dimly lit streets with that florescent glow, oh now the lamps are orange, and you can see the dust floating around the city lights. Sometimes I wonder who it is that maintains these lamps along the trainside, and if they know how much more beautiful it is when they do this work.
I'm on the way to see my friends in Palo Alto. The train ride is long, and I travel a lot to see the people I care for. It's interesting how life works, and how often it is that I do and go and do things. Lots of time spent traveling. Lots of time spent with other people.
The streets are empty and I feel a bit down. But the dinner cheers me up, and it's funny.
Humming a Lullaby
When I was a boy, my mother would beat me. I'd run to my room and hide under my blue wooly blanket. I'd hum lullabies to myself to soothe, to make the pain go away. Sometimes, she'd follow me into my room and keep beating me. When it hurt, I cried. When I cried, she beat me harder. Only when I stopped sobbing and crying, and tears rolled down my face in silence, she would leave.
I still hum lullabies to myself when I'm alone. It helps a lot.