The short story that started it all, that marked the "Hello World" moment of who I came to be.

1. Experimented and created.

2. Know this, you know who robs you of sight.

3. Meaningless, said the Preacher. Meaningless.

There once was an older girl, a younger woman, who saved me.

On her good advice, I quit my job. I gave my notice at summer’s end, and Alain set me free from Génoise et Thé. “You can’t be kept, mon gars.” He patted my shoulder, and we shook hands, a parting between men. Waiting outside, Selene took off her sunglasses and dabbed her eyes.

I cleaned my room, fussing over details she fixed sooner and better. The curator was a lovely guest, bringing gifts and Charlotte. We were in bright humor from the change in the season, the shift in the wind. I did well as a host, as a man. I shaved my face, brushed my teeth, wore my shirt, and owned my life.

At the Old Port, we sat on a bench. She spoke, and I learned. I asked, she asked further. We leaned into mystery, and tackled the snake, fang and venom, as it was.

The questions multiplied, as she said they would. Questions — at the café, a glum place for me as a customer; at ritzy establishments around the city, places where she sought secrets and traded la bise with socialites, a trace of summer fever in her fashion; in the metro, on the last train of the night; in the calm of our chaste slumber, as I lay awake with her dreaming at my side, mouth open but a sliver.

So terrifying were the answers, I should never fall to sleep with a drop of her insight. I was glad, so glad to not sleep. It was the longest September, the best of my life. I soon forgot my sunrise oath, the promise made in early July.

A day before she left, marking a sudden end, was the one time she stood us up. Charlotte and I mused on epistemology over Alain’s coffee, and parted on the hour.

Later, the curator came in without knocking. Her tone commanded: “The place around the corner, my tab.”

She dressed the same, yet seemed not herself. I stood, and warned her to look away. I changed, and her sad eyes looked not away. Ah — they were a new color.

I have benefitted much from writing whatever I want and connecting them together as I go. Leaflet is a platform that rewards this kind of in-the-moment creation, and so I hope that this will be a way for me to build in public and not have to worry too much about the more technical side of realization.

It is much easier for me to have ideas than to execute on them. But what if having the ideas is directly the execution? Then I am good at execution. This is perhaps why I am more interested in writing than in any other medium. The very act of thinking aloud becomes a finished (though unpolished) work in and of itself. I think that this is something precious.

While it is unlikely that this space will be used as frequently as my Obsidian, given the technical limitations and the desire to work in privacy once in a while...who knows? If people like this and can use it, then I will keep maintaining this over time. I will keep on breaking this note out and also linking outward to other platforms, so that I can let trees grow from this plain little field. A digital garden must grow a digital tree that bears digital fruit, else not serve its purpose.

Subpages remind me of threading on Twitter. Still a great way to make content! Though here, the links are a little harder to track.

I started from two different places, but I end up in the same place of having a box full of notes that jumble against each other.