Alright, so, lemme talk to you for a second.

You’re here. I’m here. You probably clicked on this thing because you were avoiding something else—an email you don’t wanna answer, a chore, the low-grade hum of your own existential dread. I get it. I’ve been building a career on that feeling for decades.

So now we’re in this weird digital space together. You’re staring at a screen, I’m… well, I’m probably in my garage, metaphorically speaking. It’s not a real garage, this is the internet, it’s a construct, but the feeling is the same. It’s a little cluttered, there are probably some half-formed thoughts lying around next to the emotional baggage, and there’s a decent chance we’re both gonna overthink this.

But look, we might as well get into it. Let’s try to figure out what the hell this is all about. So plug in. Or don’t. I’m not your boss. Let’s just… talk.

I’ve been travelling a bit the last week. Part pleasure, part business. It was cold. Very cold. I don’t enjoy the cold.

(Sighs, leans forward, one hand on the knee)

Look, let’s be real. The actual act of travel is a nightmare. It’s a curated series of humiliations. You’re herded through fluorescent-lit tubes, you pay fourteen quid for a bag of pretzels that tastes like despair, and you end up in a room where the art on the wall is just a beige square. It’s designed to break you. But… and this is the thing… if you can push through all that, the payoff is… it’s weird, man.

You’re just walking down some street, a street that means nothing to the people who live there, it’s just where they buy their weird, different-brand toothpaste. And it hits you. The light is different. The air smells like a spice you can’t name. You see a guy arguing with a shopkeeper over a piece of fruit and you have no idea what they’re saying, but you get the whole story. And for a second, your brain just… stops. The little hamster wheel of your own anxieties—the career regrets, the relationship stuff, the whole internal monologue that sounds like a bad talk radio station—it just shuts off. It gets replaced by this pure, simple input. You realise your way of life, the whole architecture of your problems, it’s not the default setting for the planet. It’s just one option. It’s like getting a system update for your soul, or at the very least, a half-decent reboot.

(Leans back, gestures vaguely)

And you come back. You’re travel-lagged, you smell like car seats, and you’re burdened with the profoundly annoying knowledge that that lady in Shrewsbury who was just hanging her laundry out on a line? She might have it more figured out than you ever will. And it’s frustrating, but it’s a good frustrating. It’s the kind of thing that keeps you from fully ossifying. It’s a stone in your shoe. And you need that. I need that. Otherwise, you just end up stuck in your own story, and let’s be honest, my story is this nonsense, and I can’t afford to get stuck there. The ads for mattresses and meal kits only pay for so much enlightenment.

Alright, look.

You get into a rhythm, right? A groove. Or, let’s be honest, a rut. You wake up, you make the coffee, you have the same three thoughts in the same order, you fight the same traffic, you get annoyed by the same… everything. Your world becomes this little snow globe you’re shaking at yourself every single day. And you think that’s it. That’s reality. It’s a tight, anxious little package and it’s yours.

But then, you get shoved out of it. You go somewhere—could be another country, could be the next town over, hell, could just be a different neighborhood—and you see it. You see a guy on a bicycle carrying a ladder and a live goose. You see a family having a picnic on a tombstone, laughing, not in a morbid way, but in a ‘this is just where grandma hangs out’ way. You see an old woman meticulously polishing a door knob on a building that’s falling down. And your brain… it stutters. It goes, ‘Processing error. File not found.’

That little moment, that stutter, that’s the good stuff. That’s the crack in the wall of your own certainty. For a split second, the whole carefully constructed opera of your own problems, your own worldview, just stops. The record scratches. And in that silence, something else rushes in. You realize, ‘Oh. My way isn’t the way. It’s just a way.’ It’s not even a thought, it’s a feeling in your gut. It’s the visceral understanding that the script you’ve been reading from isn’t the only one in the universe. It humbles you. Or it should. It opens up a little space in your head, and if you’re lucky, some new, less-neurotic idea might just move in. Or, you know, at the very least, it gives you a better story to tell than the one about your router malfunctioning.

So I came back, eager to warm up and very eager to get diving into some creative tasks. (Sighs, runs a hand through his hair, stares off for a beat)

So you get this idea, right? It comes to you in the shower or while you’re staring at a wall. And for a second, it’s perfect. It’s this gleaming, beautiful thing. It’s gonna be the one. The thing that finally explains you, that connects all the dots, that makes the whole stupid struggle make sense. It’s a goddamn revelation. So you rush to your desk, or your notebook, or your instrument, whatever your particular torture device is, and you think, “Okay, this is it. This is the moment.”

And then you start. And almost immediately, this… other voice kicks in. It’s not even a voice, it’s a presence. It’s like a greasy, cynical stage manager in the back of your brain. And he’s just leaning against the wall, smirking, and he goes, “Really? This is the take? This is the best you can do? You know, a real writer would have a better metaphor for me right now. A real musician wouldn’t hit that note so flat.” And the gleaming thing, the perfect idea, it starts to tarnish. It curdles. You look at the words or the chords or the brushstrokes and they feel clumsy. They feel fake. It’s not a revelation anymore, it’s just… you, fumbling around in the dark again.

And the confusion sets in. The absolute vertigo of not knowing if you’re building something or just making a pile of trash. Is this a breakthrough or a breakdown? Is this deep, or is it just stupid? You can’t tell anymore. You’re just stuck in the middle of it, this swamp of your own making, and you’re losing the plot. You’re not even sure what the plot was supposed to be. You’re just a person in a room, arguing with a ghost you invented, trying to wrestle a feeling into a shape, and most of the time it feels like the most arrogant, ridiculous, and pointless thing a human being can possibly do. But you don’t stop. Because what’s the alternative? Going outside? Talking to people? (A dry chuckle) No. No, you stay in the swamp. You have to. It’s your swamp. Realise that your way is just a way, and you need to stay in that swamp.

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