What happens when my interpretation turns into an alleged fact? I know how easily my mind mistakes its creations for “objective” reality, turning my speculation into certainty with barely a pause between.

Could there be a way to hold these necessary stories more lightly? The simple acknowledgment “I don’t know, but I suppose” creates space where my certainty once stood. Not abandoning interpretation altogether but recognizing its provisional nature.

We clawed, we chained our hearts in vain.

What changes when attention returns to what’s undeniably present? The understanding that everything appears from countless factors beyond complete comprehension, not as abstract ideas but as lived observation. My disappointment diminishes when expectations are held more gently.

My fixed categories that persist despite evidence to the contrary—how do these maintain their grip? My lingering self-assessment contradicts direct experience. Yet perhaps simply hearing myself can sometimes dissolve these persistent misclassifications.

Kissing like a bandit, stealing time…

What about those gaps in the seemingly solid expectations? The spaces between variants, the friendly openings in what appears strictly continuous. Could these already-existing interruptions reveal something about the provisional nature of even my most cherished stories? No need to scold myself, there is always a change to try again.

Everyone has perhaps the chance to recognize the tendency to their interpretation into fixed facts and the possibility of holding stories a bit more lightly. Everyone could see both the habit of identifying with narratives and the freedom of seeing their compound structure in every moment.

You are always welcome.