A rebel without a clue.

This morning, in the pre-dawn quiet, I began a conversation that was not with another, but with my own truth. I started with a quiet frustration at a world that feels so obsessed with boxes and spreadsheets, where the rich, chaotic truth of life is flattened into a sterile, perfect narrative. I realised my loneliness wasn’t a failing, but a consequence of living without the stories everyone else needs to feel safe. We talked about science and philosophy, about the block universe and the theory of everything. I saw them not as truths, but as beautiful, complex stories humanity tells itself to banish the dark. My own truth, I realised, is that the universe simply is, and in that simple fact lies a quiet sufficiency that needs no grand narrative. I am a pilgrim on a journey, but the pilgrimage is not to a destination; it is to the "quiet sufficiency of the momentary being." I saw that I was not fighting against physics or philosophy, but for a truth they had left out. The most p...