Cycles, natural cycles, are made of creation and decay — Beginning, middle, end.
From what was, grows something new. Creation from what remains. But there is always loss.
And then, we must build structure in the abyss that remains. This is a long and difficult process. The weight of nothingness. There’s a necessary slowness here. Nevertheless, structure must be grown. Life demands it.
Where did all this chaos come from? I often wonder. The elusive answer may lie in a certain hectic velocity that becomes part of a lifestyle — part of an identity for some, perhaps. This way of surfing on chaos. Taking rapid, yet maybe calculated risks, always with a heightened sense of urgency. When it works, it feels normal, but that's no way to live.
When the momentum finally breaks — when the chaos quiets or crashes — we’re left with ourselves. No forward motion to distract us, no incoming tide to ride. Just the echo of that frantic pace and the hollow it carved out. It’s then we realize: the urgency was never the foundation. It was the fuel, sometimes, but never the ground beneath our feet. And without ground, without slowness, without intention… nothing truly holds.
Everyone who lives this life suffers losses. That’s the nature of it. We must learn to accept the losses we suffer and somehow find a new place to start. I’ve experienced the loss of loved ones to death, more times than I care to recount, and have come to expect more of that pain that I’ve grown to know, though I will never truly understand it. I can’t even describe it. The only thing I can tell you, or anyone who asks, is that it’s different every time. That’s it.
Multitasking won’t help you here. Much in the same way that chemicals won’t. No distractions — whether blissful or busy — can offer real shelter from the storm of suffering that will inevitably come. This is Life, after all. So, what’s your hurry?
Maybe the only real move is to stay. To let it wash over you without flinching or fleeing. To sit in the wreckage long enough to notice the shape of it, to see what’s still standing. That’s not weakness — it’s a kind of courage. A willingness to witness the truth without numbing out or running ahead to the next thing. Slowness, in this light, becomes a kind of rebellion. A refusal to let the world rush you past what matters.
And so, we begin—slowly, quietly—to build. Not from certainty, but from presence. A cup of coffee in the morning. A walk with no destination. A meal with a friend. These small gestures become scaffolding. Structure doesn’t have to look like ambition or achievement—not right away. Sometimes it’s just choosing not to disappear. Sometimes it’s learning to be gentle with yourself in the ruins. Because even in the emptiness, even after the breaking, there is still a life here. Damaged, yes. But not destroyed. And that difference—however slight—is everything.
So that’s what I’m trying to do now. Not to fix everything. Not to chase some grand reinvention, but to iterate with intention. Pay attention to the pieces I’m left with. Let the small things matter again. I’m learning that building a life doesn’t always look like scaling — sometimes it looks like staying put long enough to feel the ground again. And I think that’s where real strength begins anew. So if you’re in the wreckage too, start where you are. Start with what you've got. I’ll be here doing the same.