Notes, fragments and reflections.
July 28, 2026
We think a diagnosis explains. Received in adulthood, it does something else: it cuts a life in two. There is now a before and an after, and what tips over between them is not a piece of information, but the place of the real.
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July 28, 2026
For twenty years, cognitive science has described an organ that does not receive the world but guesses at it, and whose first task is not truth but the reduction of surprise. If that hypothesis holds, it tells us not only how we perceive. It tells us what we are, and the verdict is far from flattering.
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June 30, 2026
The queue, the lift, the start of a dinner: those moments when you must produce speech about nothing, on pain of letting a silence fall that everyone seems to dread. Some live them as an ordeal and blame themselves for the difficulty. What if it were not small talk that is easy, but small talk that reveals what no one wants to see?
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June 30, 2026
We offer it like a gift, before an interview, in a moment of doubt: just be yourself. It is meant to set you free. Yet to some it brings no rest, but vertigo. For to hear it, you must first know who this self is that you are summoned to bring forth.
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June 30, 2026
It is a hard impression to put into words, one many people feel without daring to voice: the sense that something, in the world as it presents itself, rings false. You wonder whether you are turning cynical, or merely tired. But the impression resists. What if it were not the gaze that blurs, but the gaze that sees true?
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June 30, 2026
There is a kind of tiredness that nothing physical explains. Not the tiredness of the muscles or of a sleepless night, but the one that falls over you after an evening that was perfectly pleasant, after a few hours simply spent among others. You come home emptied, unsure why, and you end up blaming yourself. That tiredness is real, and it has a cause. All that was missing was a word for it.
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June 30, 2026
There is a weariness that sleep does not repair. You rest, you even settle the worries that seemed to cause it, and it remains, intact, beneath everything else. We call it weariness of living, and the word plants an error. Perhaps it is not life that weighs, but the fact of knowing it.
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