Hello, it’s me! Just wanted to pop a wee thing at the bottom here to let you all know that I’ve put out a short story! It’s twenty pages long, and it’s called The Same Man. It’s a story about the self and how we can’t detach from who we are. You can download it for free by following the link below, but if you do want to give a little something for it, then that is possible as well! A brother like me will never say no to some pennies.

Enjoy!

THE SAME MAN

Many a person has approached this topic - the one of beauty, or of true beauty - and, I must confess, that each and every time I believe them to have it wrong. The pursuit of finding what beauty might be can, and often does, unfortunately, present us with the pursuer’s own biases. A work of art, almost divine, might be disregarded for its lack of acknowledgement of social commentary, and likewise, a song, painstakingly crafted to breeze over each note, heightening each and every sense upon listening, might be cast aside for being two minutes in length instead of four. No, my dearest reader, they have got it all wrong! How might one find beauty in the subjective? Furthermore, how might one find beauty in the craft of those who do not understand it either? A fool’s game!

I ask my reader now to turn their head towards the window and gaze out at what you see. I wish for you to acknowledge not the vehicles, nor the buildings, and not the commotion of crowds, but the people, the birds, the cats and the dogs, the trees, the breeze, and how the light radiates on it all. I wish for the reader to look, listen, and whilst doing so, acknowledge that they too are part of this infinite expanse - constantly turning, in motion, and always changing - and feel that the pull of beauty is not to be found within the subjective, but in the connection with that which we share this moment with.

I feel that many a person feels disconnected from the natural world, and to that I offer my sympathy. It is not an easy task when offered, at nearly every corner, with additions and subtractions to our own identity, more and more boxes and labels to adopt and bestow. It is how we find ourselves in the present moment: one cannot be certain that the individual across from us is not an enemy, and so the person across from us becomes a blank space: A void of doubt and, for the most part, defined through our boxes and labels, even contempt. No names are shared, no stories are told, and we depart having witnessed nothing. How I pity them! I wish to grab hold of them, tightly, and shake them until the noise falls from their ears! You fools, you see it is not these boxes and labels which have been crafted to unite us in shared belief, but instead they have been crafted to deflect from the beauty that humanity and the natural world brings! One can dedicate one’s life to accumulating wealth, status, social awareness point scoring, and I shall both devour it all and spit it out to show you that such things are arbitrary; nothing but a means to sway us from seeing how beautiful this world can be. My dearest reader, it is this, this beauty, this love for love’s sake, that will bring us joy. It is this that shall bring us peace. It is this that shall bring us to the aid of what is in need of aid, without a second thought. It is this beauty, my love, that shall save the world.

With love, as always

Aaron

The populace is rather small, likely just shy of a thousand or so people, which can both be a benefit and a curse to such places: everyone knows everyone, and as such, everyone knows you before you have had even a chance to learn their names. Nonetheless, the people are warm, friendly, and often appear of an older variety, though that may just be due to my timing when walking the main street. A bakery sits neatly on the corner, as does a butcher’s that, from my understanding, has been here long before I was born - some thirty years - and this, I think, can be best seen in the short dialogue I held with the owner, of whom I shall call David. Upon entering the shop and asking what he had prepared, I made the point of asking him if he had worked here long. His face grew confused, as though I were asking a man if his home, which I had wandered into, was, in fact, his home.

“Aye, son, it’s only ever me here” was the response, which gave me all the information I needed to craft a view of such a place. It seems lost on many, and even I before making a point of noticing, that such shops were just as common as the people in these villages for many years, and it is only with the rapid expansion of supermarkets and goods that appear cheaper and of similar quality, although the latter statement must be taken with a pinch of salt, that such places began to wind-down their business. Thankfully, although these supermarkets are far from out of reach, David’s butchers has remained in place, and to that, I hope it shall remain for all my time here.

Now, such places are not without difference. The Church of Scotland holds many a Parish, especially in the villages of the central belt, and both five and ten minutes in either direction from the Parish doors, on foot, would lead one to stumble across the Baptist Church, the Catholic Chapel, and a building that has been converted, internally, into a Mosque. The standard view of such an idea, and those who embody it, would stress to you that such places and their followers are in a state of perpetual war, and that, in regard to their own faith, only they can dispel the false from the true. I must here assert that such an idea can only come from the mouth of one who has been told that such an idea is true, and who believes that their eyes are better suited to watching where they might step as opposed to viewing the world as it is. Although frustrating, one can rest assured that such a claim brings the benefit of knowing that such an individual is likely to say what they wish to be true, as opposed to what is, in fact, true, and the reader can know that their trust and pursuit of reason can be taken elsewhere without much consideration. I myself have spent a Sunday in the local Parish, although not being confined to any specific denomination or faith. The people, as stressed previously, were lovely, and I took great pride in seeing my new home become littered with the masses of different faiths, who, upon meeting in the middle, passed on the common “good morning” stated previously, with some even stopping and bursting into conversations with those whom I might assume were dear friends or family members.

I have written this on the sandbank that lies peacefully on the tide of the Forth, and as the current pulls the water in closer, the reader should know that such a home is always possible, should they strive to find it.

With love, as always,

Aaron.

This past week I have moved into my first house. It’s been stressful, I don’t have flooring yet, but it’s mine and I love it. Outside of this stress, I’ve never been happier. Now, that’s awesome, and I’m so happy to feel happy, but it does draw in some issues with what I post.

I’ve said it before, but all of my posts are incredibly sentimental to me. Whether they’re directly about me or others, they’re still my depictions. Unfortunately, I’ve always used creative writing to deal with these feelings, and when I walked into this house, it felt like another chapter had closed. I don’t want to be sad. I don’t want to look at things through a “this is just life” lens. Life is incredible. All of this to say, I don’t know how to write something that doesn’t have these sadder emotions connected to it, and I don’t want to force myself to write either. My life is great, and I’ve done so much (let a brother get a bit ego-centric) considering the cards I’ve been dealt throughout my early years, even leading up to the present day, to the point that I know there is now nothing I cannot get through. I don’t want to taint that by forcing myself to write “sad stuff”, and so I think it’s time to wind down.

Am I deleting this publication? Definitely not! I’ve made some incredible connections whilst being here, and you’ve all been so lovely to me. I cannot thank you enough. I’ll still be floating around, popping in to see what’s up, but I think my posts are going to move towards a “if and when I feel like I want to” kinda thing.

This community, speaking specifically to everyone in The Sisyphus Club, has been incredible. You guys have truly validated my belief that I can write stuff that people will read. I’m not throwing that away, and I will still be firing into our chat here and there, but I just wanted to dedicate a smaller section of this post to the people that brought us here. I will cherish it more than you’ll ever know.

I have two or three collabs that I still need to work on (excitinggggg) and I wont be bailing on these! However, there is a good chance that they’ll be the finale of The Sisyphus Club, so stick around for a few more weeks!

Let’s say goodbye with a smile!

Love you guys, always and forever,

your wee silly Sisyhpus,

Aaron

I know that somewhere. I’ve been there. It’s the room behind the eyes, the one you slip into when the world out front gets too loud and asks too much, where you can watch your own life happen from a little way off and not have to be touched by any of it. It’s safe in there. That’s the whole trouble with it. It is the safest place there is, and no one who loves you can follow you in.

I think you’re carrying someone. An older version of you, the one who got hurt badly enough to decide that closing the door was the same thing as being wise. You keep that one close. You’ve worn this identity for so long now that you can’t tell where it stops and you start. I watch you carry it up every flight of stairs, and how I wish I could lend a hand. But stubbornness is a great disease, and if I were to lift the weight from you, I fear you’d only resent yourself more.

So I won’t reach for it. What I’ve learned is that, if I pull at the door, you hold it tighter, and you’d be right to. Wanting you out here can curdle into its own sort of weight: one more person stood at the frame asking something of you, and you have had enough of being asked.

I’m not going to promise it gets better if you open up. I don’t know that. Nobody does, and I think you’d stop trusting me the moment I pretended otherwise. What I can tell you is that I loved your life when you were still in it. That hasn’t gone anywhere. I’m not waiting out here for a better version of you, an easier one, a finished one. I’m not even waiting for the old you to come back. The you that’s hiding is still you. I’d take the shut door over no door at all.

Step outside when you can. Just for the few moments it takes to feel the air wrap around you. If today isn’t the day, or tomorrow, that’s alright. I won’t keep count. The morning will come again, and I’ll still be in this side of it.

I don’t know if that’s enough. I don’t know if a love that waits is love, or just a kinder word for standing still.

But I’m not going anywhere.

And the door doesn’t have to open today.

This piece is largely inspired by a poem I scribbled down, which you can read below!

Dust around your eyes

How you learned to keep them shut

In quiet trepidation of what might lay forthright

In a lonesome corner stone, you bend and break your bones

Contorting into skin the wish to be cleansed


The January sky never brought you much relief from the you that you know

Cold seeping in and turning feeble joints to stone

Each step a fable

What’s the want of thoughts that guide you to the doorframe?

With their cracks and their ego formed carefully in your rest


Wont you step outside with me?

Wont you let the breeze make good?

I loved your life then, and I can always love it still

Wrapping your fingers in the psalms of each word

Hold it, tense, and keep in your pocket till the morning comes

Lots of love, as always,

Aaron

The idea of “staying” has always felt weird. You can stay with someone for years, and yet never stay with the person they are. You stay with who you want them to be. You stay with the idea. You stay with hope. They do the same with you, and eventually we end up with two people, sitting in the same room, sharing the space with different versions of the past.

Memories hold a lot of weight. We replay these scenes from memory when we can’t create new ones. We can recall the night spent in the field, every step taken that evening, and hold it as proof of who we once were. To show that, despite all reasoning, this is a worthwhile pursuit. I think that’s what makes these things hard: these moments aren’t fake or made-up, but it’s in these moments that the love we now want is confined. Two people, lying in the grass, remembered by two people who can’t quite work out where these moments went.

There’s no villain here. No one is lying. We’re both just great at pretending. You’ll say my eyes look beautiful, and you’ll mean it. It’ll land, somewhere, and I’ll feel it fall like a phone ringing in another room: I know it’s there, I just don’t know exactly where. We’ve learned to feel on cue. To turn it on when the room feels too honest. And if you only feel when you decide to feel, how could you ever feel more? How could it ever grow past the size we keep it at?

We always go back. Every time we go back to the field. Looking for the old versions of ourselves. Like a phase, we hope it passes, and that the feelings can be found again when the ground settles. With time, with age, they’ll come back. We’ll write a list of all our faults and turn the other side into a caricature: something that we feel resembles us, whilst never feeling true to who we are now. The page gets worn, the caricature still feels like an attempt, and when the wrinkles start to show, we’ll realise that we’ve still just been performing what we want to be natural.

And yet, there’s still this thing that won’t quite die. A small, stubborn hope that it could all be real again. A hope that, if we rooted our feet here and now, waiting, the old feelings might come back in the shape we’ve been looking for. It’s nostalgia. It doesn’t only show us what we had: it convinces us that it’s recoverable. These memories, this field, become moments that we can drive back to, when in reality, they are merely reflections of what once was.

Maybe it can come back. I don’t know. I’m not going to sit here and tell you it can’t, because I don’t believe that either, and because some part of me is still waiting in the grass with you, naming stars after people, hoping you’ll turn and the years will fall off your face. But hope and habit start to look the same after a while. They both keep you in the same chair. And I can’t always tell anymore which one is keeping me here. Whether I stay because I believe in us, or because believing in us is just the thing I know how to do.

Could we be, and be again? That’s the question we never ask out loud, because asking it would mean admitting we stopped. So, instead, we go back to the field. We name the stars. We hold the portrait up to the light and squint until it almost matches.

And we stay.

Not because it’s real.

But because we’re praying it turns real, and we’ve forgotten that praying isn’t the same as it being so.

This piece is largely inspired by a poem I scribbled down, which you can read below!

Lead me, from one to another
Long burgundy coat, middle of summer 
keeps the shoulders firm 
over-posturised
I’ll hang on to your every word
Just tell me when it’s over

Blank space, filled by two
Our arms locked around each other
Stargazing in the farmers fields
Naming constellations after people
We can replay the scenes
In fact, make it present
How you’d give to give again
Is it just the way it has to be
Or could we be and be again?

A frantic pen, a heavy hand
The list of who to be
Mould the page into a caricature
Embody it,
With age, it’ll “feel more me”
Wrinkled, dishevelled, 
Is that all we have in store?
If you only feel when you want to feel, how could you possibly feel more?

Perhaps the wind will die down then
Pull strands out to reveal
“Your eyes are beautiful, in this light”
Could we stop, 
root our feet, 
pray that it turns real

Lots of love, as always

Aaron

These poems were inspired, loosely, whether through image or idea, by these six images. These images, to me, represent isolation, escapism and idealisation, which are all themes I have structured these poems around.

I’ve been sharing more of my poetry on here, and I’m excited to keep sharing work that I am proud of.

I hope you enjoy them!

Read more

He’s still alive. Probably out there, somewhere, laughing at something I’d find funny.

Letting go of someone who hasn’t gone anywhere does something to you. The name brings back memories of someone who still exists, but the version of them that you know is in the past. Just a name on your phone that you’ll never text, holding the idea of a person who never aged past nineteen.

I think it’s natural to keep trying to find a reason. Some moment where it all went off the rails. A falling out, or some bad night where everything came apart at once. Something we could point to and say, “That’s when it broke.” But there isn’t one. We just stop showing up, little by little, until one day it has been a year, and then it’s been five, and the not-knowing stops looking like a problem to solve, and more like a truth that we must accept.

It’s easier when there’s a reason. You can put a reason in the box with the rest of the memories and kick it under your bed, occasionally pulling it out again and seeing how they’ve changed. You can’t do that with nothing. Nothing just sits there.

I think we invent flaws for the people we’ve drifted away from. I do, anyway. I’ll catch myself listing things I didn’t like, things I never thought about at the time, just to make the distance make sense. Like a couple after a breakup, suddenly finding new evidence every week for why it was always going to end. It’s not that these things aren’t real, but more so that we don’t care to look until we need justification.

The harder truth is that sometimes people just grow in opposite directions.

Nobody did anything wrong.

Nobody chose it.

Life just goes on.

Life always looks different when we want it to. Unanswered messages, strained conversations, and cancelled meet-ups all add fuel to our “what ifs”. We make ourselves seem better and the opposite worse, and keep contorting these images until we’re left with a fantasy that couldn’t be further from the truth. I heard this line in a song recently, but nostalgia has a way of looking better in your head.

​But who’s to say it would have been better? It all becomes speculation.

Maybe we could have fallen out?

Maybe we could have come to realise that we’re not the kids we used to be?

Maybe our past relationships could have been anything, but they’ll always be where we left them.

The past doesn’t need to be a lesson. It doesn’t need to be a turning point. Sometimes it’s just a part of you that sits still like a painting. Never changing, but always up for interpretation.

Ok so it turns out I really like writing poetry, and this post was actually influenced by something I wrote down in my notebook a few days ago. I hope you enjoy it!

Holding, stiffed armed, 
“We could do this forever and again”
Our field is frozen, shade obscuring the view
Monumental, 

Staying on Forth street in your mothers attic
You might just be there now
“How’s the weather back there?”
Fragmented, 

Your car back in 19
Wheels spinning in the 12th
Snowed in, lights off, 
I’d never seen it look so bright

How’d we get so far? 
How’d you stay in one place?
Heard she passed a few months back
Is it lonely? 
Is it lonely stuck up there?

Lots of love, as always,

Aaron.

Some have changed for the better.

Others are still in that town I used to call home.

And some occasionally reach out.

“Hey man, I miss you”.

I seem to get caught in this trap quite often of praising who I am now, whilst simultaneously looking back at my former self with resentment. This isn’t the worst thing in the world: change can be good, no matter how it comes, but I’ve been trying to be kinder to the person I once knew.

He was scared, lost, and often confused.

“Why did you do that?” I’ll mumble to myself in these quiet moments of remembrance.

We are all so set on “becoming the best version” of ourselves that we begin to paint who we once were with this brush of disdain. But I think it’s worth remembering that, no matter how far you’ve come, you’re not a separate person from this nostalgic interpretation. I use the word “interpretation” as I often find that my own reflections lead me to focus on areas that I only want to focus on now. I don’t want to think about how I cared for others, or how I always tried to show up when needed. It’s not that these events didn’t take place: it’s that they don’t paint the image I want to paint.

We all want to look back and find ways to say “here’s who I was” so that we can follow it up with “and here’s who I am now”. But the two aren’t separate. They’re you, in a different light.

It’s easy to fall victim to this general want that we hold, and I don’t want to advocate for people swinging in the opposite direction and finding ways to praise the actions that they had previously tried to detach themselves from. No, instead, I want to show how these images we create can be a tool. A tool we can use to learn compassion. To learn empathy. To learn that, above all else, we got here, and are now able to see ourselves in a more positive manner.

We can list all of our flaws, not as a mask to hide behind, but as a way to work out who we want to keep being. We don’t need to throw ourselves under the bus. We need to treat these versions as one would a child. As someone who didn’t know. As someone who hadn’t learned. As someone who, with the knowledge we have now, might have done things differently.

I often think about meeting my past self. What might he say? Would he think I’m now some nerd who reads all day? Would he think I’ve capitulated to becoming someone I wanted to avoid becoming? Would he think I was stupid to leave my wee town behind in search of something better?

I’d hug him, if he’d let me. In fact, I think he would. I think he’d listen. He wasn’t as stupid as I make him out to be. I think he’d ask if I was sticking around. I think he’d want me to be his friend. I’d lie. I’d say yes. Not because I want to hurt him, but because I don’t think I’m ready for that.

So please, go ahead and miss me.

But, I’m so sorry, I’ve left town.

I don’t usually write poetry, let alone share it, but this piece was originally inspired by an idea I had for a poem, which you can read below.

Something anew

I held the road close through the waterways

Bare October gave me something new

He is young, he was young, I should stifle it

He didn’t know how to leave himself, soon.

Silver on the surface, through windows gaze

left open, but still sitting still

I knew when I looked in the shimmering, that who I saw would always be you

Your pale arms, cold breath in the morning

I left as I needed to do

I left you over the waterways

I turned into something anew

Turned hope into pride, then into something else

But my pride only kept me from you

And, if I could, I’d reach out, again

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through”

I’m gonna divide this post into two parts: the first will be how we grew to 1000, and the next will be a section where I’ll talk about myself, why I started this publication, and what’s to come next! So, without further ado, let’s get into it!

How cool is he btw? Had to level up the graphical side of things since we’re in the big leagues now. Anyway, how did we grow to this point where over 1000 of you have now clicked that wee subscribe button? There are three areas I tried to focus on.

1. Community

2. Consistency

3. Quality

Let’s break them down, with arguably the most important area first: community.

So many people write these kinds of posts, and I hate to break it to you, but they’re (largely) selling you a lie. Most of these “how to” posts come from publications built on Substack-growth content, and unless you’re churning out the same content as them, you’re gonna find most of the advice useless. I want this to be more of a broad, one-size fits all piece of advice, as it’s worked wonders for me, and for those who have reached out before and asked for advice, it seems to have worked for them.

You’re not gonna get anywhere on your own, sorry to tell you that. You can post notes and posts until the cows come home, but if you’re not actively engaging with others in your area/ comments, then you’re essentially chucking words out into the void and hoping that they alone make people want to come back. The reality is that content is a big part, but being active plays a quieter role in the background, and arguably, a far more important one.

It’s not hard. I’m not gonna hit you with the “respond to X amount of comments a day” nonsense, but respond to anyone who comments under your work. Whilst your reading other posts, comment on theirs as well. Did you find that note funny? helpful? weird? say it then! You don’t need to be writing bibles to people, but at least show that you appreciate them giving you their time, and likewise, show people that they too are not shouting into the void. This builds connections, which builds associations, which leads to collaborations, which, overall, brings more eyes and attention to your work. You’re no longer the weird person who’s occasionally sharing things and then disappearing: you’re now a figure in this corner.

I actually love him man haha OK, so now we’ve got you talking, good job! Next up: what are we talking about?

These gurus will always tell you to “find a niche”, ask “what does this post answer” or, my favourite, “what problem does this solve?”. The reality is that this is business talk, and we’re not a business just yet (we’ve only just got you talking!). Write about what you want to, and, if possible, try your best to keep each post somewhat related. You don’t need to be writing about Japanese cars from the 1960s to the 1990s for the rest of your days. Like cars? write about cars! Like books? write about books!

Next: how often? I can only speak from my experience, and my posts aren’t very long, so bare that in mind here, but I’d say weekly. Pick a day and time (it DOES NOT MATTER which day and time. Would you read something at this hour? if yes, there we go.) and stick to it!

The fact of the matter is that these gurus want to make it sound like growing on here is some game that they’ve mastered so they can sell you subscriptions or courses.

Write.

Show up consistently.

Don’t be weird.

There we go.

So, now you’re talking and doing so consistently! Good job! The final task is actually the simplest, so don’t worry your pretty wee boots!

If you want to grow on here, your posts need to be readable. No one’s expecting the second-coming of Shakespeare, but they do expect you to know the difference between “there” “their” and “they’re”. Grammarly is free: write a post, make sure it flows if you’re dividing it into sections, slap it into Grammarly, and BANG, you’re on your way to building something!

I don’t think this piece of advice merits it’s own section, so take it as a bonus for reading this far, but be realistic. What do you want? If you want to “blow up” so you can retire next year, then you’re better buying a lottery ticket. Can you make money here? yes. Will you live off of it? probably not! So keep that in mind when you’re setting up your publication.

Anyway, cheers for sticking around for my TEDtalk! You can click off now if you wish, but if you want to read me getting soppy on main, then you’re in luck!

I think it’s best to start with why I started this publication. There’s three reasons for that:

1. I wanted to build a community that I could come to whenever I needed to detach from the real world.

2. I wanted to break a stigma that has (and still does) play on my mind whenever I meet someone new.

3. I wanted to have fun.

I have Schizophrenia. I don’t share that with may people, let alone people I’ve just met. Part of that is my own worry that they’ll see me differently, and another part is because people have seen me differently once finding out about it. The most recent example was someone I met, once, finding out through a throwaway comment my friend had made when I wasn’t around. Not a negative comment, but it led this person to fly into a rant about how people like me are “dangerous” and how neglectful my friend was for “bringing someone like that” into her home. I’ve had people ask if I hear demons, if I think there’s bugs under my skin, and it’s even led to it being used against me when pursuing custody of my son.

The reality is that people “like me” are, for the most part, “normal”. “Schiz-posting” has done a number on public perception of this condition, and the horror stories that do exist are often seen as the norm, no matter how few there are in the grand scheme of things. Most of us are often scared and are just trying to navigate the world around us. We’re rarely violent, and, in fact, are often the victims of violence. I wanted this publication to show that people with schizophrenia do have something to say and that, often, unless stated, people would have no idea that we’re even dealing with this condition. There’s now over 1000 of you here, and 99.9% of you (reading this far) will have only just found out that I have schizophrenia.

Will this post break the stigma? no. But I hope that, in some small way, it helps to paint us in a better light than the media often does. I want to talk more about who I am now, so I’ll let golden boy take us there.

My name’s Aaron. I’m a father raising his son alone. I’m currently studying for a degree in philosophy, religion and ethics. I want to be a teacher. I love football (or soccer for you American lot). I love reading, specifically Dostoyevsky and works of Ancient Greek philosophy. Let me break this down a bit.

My mother chose the name Aaron after my Dad protested at her choice of Ethan (cheers faither).

At age 22 I found out I was going to be a dad. The following two years were turbulent, and without going into great detail, I spent nine months being abused in all manners of ways. I finally managed to get out of that situation, and at age 26 I was granted full custody of my son.

After escaping that situation I slept in the dinning room of my family home before moving into a homeless shelter. It was around this time that I was studying photography, but had fallen in love with philosophy. I can’t sleep in the dark now, and so would often have quiet history videos playing on my TV whilst I slept. These videos meant that my recommended page was full of things about history, art, and, most importantly, philosophy. These philosophy videos took my interest, so let’s touch on that next.

At age 21 I went to university for the first time. It didn’t last long, but I took a module in philosophy whilst studying for a degree in film production. I done one class, and once it was done called my best friend to tell him that “philosophy is just a load of nonsense! There’s no answers! Just “why’s”!”. So, when I started to put on these philosophy videos in the background, around three years after this class, I started to get it, somewhat. The honest truth is that it lead me to question life, existence, purpose, and that was exactly what I needed at that time. I bought three books from World of Books, and would take a copy of Human, All Too Human with me to college. I would read on the train there and the train back, and it got to the point that I had to stop as I’d be in class thinking about my book. Come the end of my course, I had two choices:

1. continue to study photography

2. pursue this new interest in philosophy

I took a few weeks to decide, and come the end, I enrolled in a degree through the Open University. It was the best decision I ever made. I love philosophy. Everything I do now is somehow related to it. I read about it. I watch videos about it. I listen to podcasts about it. I even dabble in my own theories! It would be a stretch to say that philosophy saved my life, but its given me a new perspective and life goal, and I think that’s close enough.

So how did we start on Substack?

I remember being sat in the kitchen of the home my partners family had rented out for a trip. I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to write something, but I didn’t know what. Furthermore, I didn’t know where to write. I went through a few reddit posts, blogs, and the overall consensus was that Substack was the best option.

I began writing reflections, aphorisms, poetry and even short pieces of fiction. All of these existed on various other publications, and each one eventually became a graveyard. In August of last year, I started again. I posted a few short reflections, then moved onto essays, and in late October decided that, if I actually want people to read my work, then I’d need to stick around longer than a few weeks. I was (and maybe still am to some degree) someone that needs to see success or improvement quite soon after starting something new. Each publication I had ran before was met with a few views and not much else, and this lead to me feeling unmotivated to continue. I wanted this one to be different. I wanted to see what would happen if I actually kept posting, even if no one was reading. So, I done just that. I wrote a few essays, a fictional dialogue series, and slowly, people started to stick around. I then, in December, moved to the “my dearest” works (an advancement on the former series I was writing by the same name). Each Monday, no matter what, there was something. And not just a random idea with no thought behind it. These were (and still are) pieces that I devote time and thought to, and each post that goes out is one that I am genuinely proud of, regardless of the numbers. I’ve had pieces underperform, I’ve had posts do much better than I expected. But each one is a piece of me, and I’m just glad to have put them out.

The Sisyphus Club has become one of my favourite hobbies. When studying, travelling, anything really, I check-in to see how things are doing. Sometimes there are 80+ notifications. Sometimes there are none. But each time, I look at the wee logo, and I’m happy that I’ve managed to create something which brings me so much joy. I didn’t find it. I created it, and you guys came along and made it special.

From the bottom of my heart, I want to say a massive thank you. , , , , , , , , You guys have been here almost since the start, and although this extends to everyone, I want to say a huge thank you to you guys specifically for always showing up.

So, what comes next? The honest answer is that I don’t know! Whatever comes to mind! I will be turning on paid subscriptions now for a monthly piece (inspired by ) where I just talk about things I’ve been enjoying over the preceding month, from books, music, other forms of media, and also random thoughts and things I want to say that maybe don’t make it into longer pieces. The reason for them being paid is that they’ll be much longer posts, but they’re also very specific to me, and so I don’t want to just through them out into the inboxes of people that aren’t too interested in what I have to say outside of my regular posts!

Cheers for 1000 guys! Mon eh Sisyphus club!

Lots of love, forever and always,

Aaron.

“What a life”, I thought.

What a funny little life.

I’m crying while writing this. I’m not sad; in fact, I’ve never been happier. I always hear people say how much they hate their lives. It’s not good enough for this reason, or life would be better if they had this instead, whatever this might be. And, don’t get me wrong, I used to be one of them. I hated my life. I hated waking up and not knowing where I would be in one year. Three years. Ten years. And all the while, I’m just expected to get on with things? How can I “get on with things” when I don’t know where I’m going? You don’t tell the lost driver to keep going: you tell them to get out their map and recalibrate. I thought it was ludicrous, and, in some regards, I guess it is. But I realised something in my mid-twenties. Something that had been under my nose this whole time.

Perception is one of my favourite words. It gets used a lot. Many of you reading this, I’m sure, will have, at some point, been told that you just need to “look at it from a different angle.” I’m not gonna regurgitate that back at you, as it’s near impossible to do when someone else is telling you to do it. I don’t understand you, and you don’t understand me. And yet, I feel there’s something between us which goes beyond that. So, before you click that little X button and close this, give me a few more seconds.

I had to do this, but I couldn’t do it under the instruction of someone else. I had to choose, on my own, to look at life differently. I had to choose to look at the stranger walking down the street and realise how beautiful it is that they’re there. I had to choose to listen to the waves and acknowledge that there’s more to this existence than I’ll ever grasp. I had to choose to look at myself and see someone, something, that only I knew, and that only I would get to experience. I had to choose to love being here. I had to choose to love the beauty of it all. We live in a world where the wind can carry the songs of birds, and where each living thing you see is merely a different form of yourself. Existence is necessary within us all, but your existence is only yours to know. How crazy is that? How crazy is it that, no matter what, we will always have that in common? I’ve never met any of you who are currently reading this, and yet, we have common ground? Something that means, no matter where we are, we’ll always be together? Don’t try to tell me that’s not incredible. It’s hard-wired into us now to see life and a “lived life” as two separate things: the first is given, the second is earned. One is your ticket, the other is the fee. But it doesn’t have to be this way. You don’t need to chase others. You don’t need to set goals that involve years of tireless work, just so, come the end, you can say “I worked hard to live this life.” It’s there to be lived already. It’s there to be lived now.

It’s not easy, and reading a silly wee post on Substack isn’t gonna fix whatever issues you’re dealing with, but there’s more to this life than you know. Try not to get caught up in the crowds, in the social-status contest, in the “they have this, and I don’t” conversations. Take your earphones out. Put the phone down. Find a quiet path, and experience it all.

Try to live for yourself.

Live the life that only you can live.

It’s a beautiful life.

It’s a funny little life.

With love, as always

Aaron.

I had eaten something, I am almost certain that I had eaten something. This was largely backed up by the plate now sitting on the drying rack in my sink. After that, I confess to confusion, and little more can be recounted.

The flat looked much the same as always, which is to say that I had not moved much since I last decided that it was time to move things around. You will surely understand that such a lifeless place will sometimes require some life to move it into a new form of lifelessness? A chair sat by the ajar window, the same place it had been sitting since I purchased it some three years prior. There were books still finely pressed together in my bookshelf that I kept acknowledging, but never pulling out. My honest intention was to use the chair as a designated reading area, the way one will often set parameters to follow through on wants that, beyond all reason, must still be regimented.

I went into the kitchen (although it is worth noting that these flats can be rather small, and to walk into the kitchen means merely taking two paces from the centre of the living room). I stood there, and then walked the two paces back, and then back again to the kitchen, moving aimlessly in search of something to fill my time. Neither offered much to this endeavour, and like most who seek something but cannot place what or where it may be, I felt disgust for these two rooms that, for all certainty, did not possess it.

“Right.”

I grabbed my coat and tapped my pockets out of habit. Turning to look down the tight hallway into my living room, it all looked fine. It always looks fine. There can be nothing wrong with a room such as this: each object is placed, and any complaint can only be directed at my poor interior design skills. It was mine, but it could be anyone’s.

I pulled the door shut and carefully meandered down. Outside, the cold came all at once, and I must confess that, for all my wants to not appear feeble, I had to take a mere moment to adjust to its bitterness. I turned left for no other reason than the fact that I could. The street was quiet. I walked with my hands firmly placed in my pockets for long enough that, when I turned around, the flat was far enough away that it blended in with the rest of the buildings surrounding it. Not far enough, but far enough.

I had been walking no longer than ten minutes when I came to a stop. Across the street from me, a first-floor window with the blinds pulled up an inch or two, despite the cold. I focused my gaze and at once noticed the yellowish-green light that illuminated what I had realised was a kitchen.

“No one of sane mind would pick such a bulb” I thought to myself, but realised that, perhaps, who ever was inside, had not chosen this bulb. I had a similar issue the first few weeks I moved into my flat: money was tight, and a bulb seemed like the least of my worries, so I resigned my accusation to a potentially similar situation.

A man hovered over a pot on the stove. Much older than me. Grey at the sides with sunken eyes that looked entirely disinterested in whatever it was that was within the pot. He stirred it, slowly, as if lost in thought or a daydream. His movement seemed to have been decided: the body moved whilst the mind sat elsewhere. I was quite taken with this man for reasons I cannot find the words to describe, but you should know that I stood there for long enough for a worry to creep in that I, too, had entered his daydream.

Although the window sat open, no sound came from the room. No music, no voices, nothing but the occasional tapping of the spoon against the pot, and once, albeit briefly, the clicking of the dials as he adjusted the heat.

He did not look up at any point, nor did he feel the weight of my gaze. After a while, he turned the heat off, stood for a few moments longer, before shifting himself out of view. The window stayed open. The light stayed on. I waited to see if anything would change, but after a few more moments, I accepted that the show was over, and continued onward down the street.

I stopped a few streets later under an awning where the wind dropped and lit a cigarette. The street lay empty. Across the road there was a flat above a closed shop, with one of those metal stairwells running down the side of the building, with the door at the bottom of the stairs was propped open with a bin: warm light was coming out of it, and from inside, faintly, music - a party that had been a party earlier in the evening and was now whatever a party turns into at this hour. I don’t attend many parties now, but I do recall how, as the night dragged on, the enthusiasm and joy would slowly creep into something more suited to a room where joy had once been, and where idle conversation now reigned.

I had been standing there perhaps a minute when the door pushed wider and the two of them came down: a man and a woman, both, I should think, in their thirties, although I am no judge of these things. Here, though, I must add that the gentleman looked rather worn, whilst his companion embodied youth that had been confined. His face appeared scrunched, though not through effort, whilst her cheeks appeared smooth under her wide eyes.

He stumbled down the stairs, closely followed. Once at the bottom, he took a few steps forward, setting the perimeter for what I had rightfully assumed would be their colosseum. She set her drink down on the pavement a few paces back, appearing to forget about it once she had placed it. The young gentleman spun himself around to face her, and by the erratic placement of his hands - by his side, then out in front, then upon his hips - it was clear that he had something to say but had no knowledge of how to say it. Both stood silent for a moment, with her facial expression unchanged from the moment she left the door.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

Silence, again, filled the space between them.

“I’m sorry”, he repeated.

“I know”, she hastened to reply.

Again, silence. She said nothing further, although it appeared as though the gentleman had been waiting for her to say something more. He began to speak at a pace which one speaks at when they feel the conversation is nearing it’s end, with more yet to say.

“I’m going to stop,” his hands came up behind his head, “I mean it this time. I know what it looks like, and I know I’ve said it before - I know I’ve said it many times before, but I mean it this time”

He took a short, deep breath. Talking seemed to be a struggle, for reasons unknown to me, but his quivering body seemed less to do with the cold than the conversation at hand.

“I believe you,” she said. Her face still showed no change.

The conversation paused again.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me”, he stuttered, “I look at you and - I don’t know. I don’t know what you see. I don’t know if you see the good of it, or - I don’t know if you see - I see -”

He didn’t finish. His hands fell from his head and bounced from his side. She reached out and put her hand against the side of his face. He closed his eyes, and they stood that way for several seconds. The door behind them was still open, and the music was still going.

Then she took her hand away.

“What happened to us,” he said.

She looked at him for a long moment.

“I don’t know,”

They walked away from me down the street, not touching, but close - he said something to her that I could not hear, and she nodded, or shook her head, I could not tell which.

Then they turned the corner, and they were gone.

I finished the cigarette. The door was still open. The light was still coming out. I dropped the cigarette and stepped on it before walking the other way.

I had turned a corner when I almost walked into someone - or rather, he almost walked into me, since I think he was the more careless of the two, although I will allow that I was not paying particular attention either.

He was a large man, drunk in the sad way rather than the angry way, although there was some anger in him too. I could tell by his glaring at me that he was in two minds: to either confess something to me or to take out his frustration on me. In the end, he chose neither. He stumbled back from me and put one hand against the wall to steady himself, and said, more to the air than to me:

“People don’t know where they’re going. None of them. None of them knows.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Have you got a light, friend? I’ve lost mine. I had one earlier, and now I’ve lost it.”

I gave him the lighter. He cupped his hand around it and lit his cigarette. He nodded gratefully as he handed the lighter back, standing for a moment with the cigarette in his mouth, not yet drawing on it.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Home,” I said.

“I can’t go home,” he said, before I had finished, as though my answer were not relevant to the question he had asked. “I can’t go home. I need away from it. You understand. Just away from it.”

“Yeah,” I said.

But he was already nodding, and turning, and he raised one hand without looking at me, and walked off down the road in the direction I had come from, the cigarette glowing between his fingers.

I watched him go for a moment. Then I walked on.

I walked home via the longer route. I could not tell you why, other than I was both done with my walk for the evening and yet still unable to accept the idea of being home. I both rejoiced and resented each step I took down the still, often quiet streets.

I thought, as I was wandering, about the man at the stove, and the couple from the party, and the drunkard who could not go home. I tried to find a word for what I had seen: the word loneliness came to mind, but that seemed misplaced. Loneliness is a feeling, and this was more than mere emotion. It appeared to me as though these people, whilst sharing the same night, some even sharing company, could not have been further apart.

Disconnect was the word I landed on. I am no psychologist, just someone who enjoys observing, but what I will say is this: a man can live a long time inside a world, side-by-side with those in a similar setting to himself, and come the end know no one.

When I got back to my street, I stopped on the pavement opposite my building and looked up. The light was still on, leaking through my half-drawn blinds. I had left it on when I went out. In fact, I always leave it on. It gives the impression that I am there, even when I am not. At least, that’s what I want people to think. I can only say what I prefer, as not once has anyone asked me about it, and so not once has anyone been able to tell me what they think.

I stood there for some time, and then for some time longer, before, if just for a moment, I wondered what might be inside.

I didn’t have much money, in fact, I had almost none. I was a student studying for a degree that I didn’t want anymore, but the money it provided me, although short, kept me going. It still wasn’t enough to afford my own place though, and so, after a few rushed and panic driven phone calls, I was offered a room in a nearby shelter.

Initially, I felt relief. I had always wanted to live on my own. The room was made-up of two single beds, a “kitchen” with only a fridge, a sink, and a kettle, and a solitary window that looked out into the local park. This in and of itself wasn’t terrible: I even have a video of myself dancing with joy on my first night. However, this “joy” would be short-lived. Due to plumbing issues, my ceiling would vibrate from late evening to the early morning, and so sleep was hard to come by. The whole building was lit by bright yellow lights which gave the feeling of an early 2000s horror film. Each floor had only one bathroom and so, on my floor anyway, fifteen people would share one toilet and bath, with seemingly no want to clean up after themselves. A horrid, pungent smell would linger around its general area. To round it off, the only way to cook a meal was to venture downstairs to the shared communal kitchen, where you would often be accompanied by three or four strangers with much to say, and little to talk about.

I cannot talk to strangers. I struggle to find my words, and often find that I end up embodying whatever demeanour they possess just to feel comfortable. In this setting, there were many demeanours to embody, but I chose to “hang back,” so to speak. I would linger in rooms, not making eye contact, engrossed in some other activity, listening in on what was being said. This was my entertainment. I would hear gossip about people I had, nor ever will meet. But such an activity will, of course, from time to time, drag you into conversations that you do not wish to be in.

I picked up few names whilst inside the shelter, and even now I fear I might be making them up, but oftentimes I would hear of “Jack” and his exploits - the building supervisors were always keen to gossip - and one night, whilst waiting for my microwave meal to finish spinning, he approached me.

“How long you been in here for?” he asked.

“A week, I think” I stuttered out.

He grunted and didn’t say much more to me, but this was the first time anyone had really approached me, and suddenly this “invisible bystander” identity that I’d tried to craft had been undone. I had been noticed. And I would be noticed again only a few nights later, again, by Jack, whilst I was outside in the designated smoking area.

The conversation wasn’t the kindest, and I’ll spare much of the racist details, but to summarise, Jack had informed me that he was “fucking raging”. I asked why, and was told that he’d been denied entry to the military in a recent interview. He was lost as to why, claiming that he was of sound mind and that “if they just gave me a gun and sent me over there, I’d be sound.” It is worth noting that Jack, only an hour prior, had told me in passing that he used to go to the gym with a man from Afghanistan, and with only this detail, felt the need to stress that “he was alright though.” He was often drunk or high on something, and would wander through the building at night calling out for someone who had left before I’d arrived. The night supervisor would eventually find him, berate him, inform him of all the rules he was breaking (as if there would be any consequences), before a heated exchange would break out in which threats were often thrown by both sides, before Jack would eventually be led back to his room. I felt an irritation at the fact that someone in their forties could continue to exhibit the same behaviour that, I can only assume, led him to this place.

After a week of being in the shelter, I felt like I’d hit rock bottom. I couldn’t even recognise the person I was two years prior. I felt ashamed, lost, and by all metrics, hopeless. Yet, when I met Jack, I felt something.

I felt anger.

I felt frustrated.

I could not understand how a man, who likely felt the same way as I did about being here, could continue to “take the piss” and, if the supervisors were to grow a spine, risk being thrown back out onto the street. I spent hours thinking about this, and every conversation with him only fuelled my resentment.

One evening, however, when back at the trusted microwave, a new character walked in. A young girl, no older than myself (I assumed), quietly walked past me and towards the sink to wash her plate. This wasn’t too out of the ordinary, but in the way she compressed herself into only taking up such a small area, it seemed as though she was scared: not only of someone talking to her, but of anyone even acknowledging that she existed.

As she turned the tap, water burst out, bouncing up off of the plate.

“Gotta be careful, the taps are like that sometimes” I joked.

She glanced back at me, finished cleaning, and quickly walked past me without saying a word. I had lied. Or, at least, I think I did. I did not know if the taps were “sometimes like that,” as I washed my dishes in my room, but in such an environment, I felt it possible to perhaps befriend someone who was as outwardly uninterested in being here as I was.

She lived on the floor above, and often we would pass each other when going to and from the kitchen. I would always pass her a cordial “you alright?” but not once did she respond. In fact, she never spoke to me. Or anyone, for that matter. The only time I did see her speak was when passing the supervisors office one night, and even then, it didn’t seem like much was being said. I was quite interested in this girl, not in any sort of romantic way, but purely due to her demeanour. Everyone that had spoken to me so far was keen to share their stories, no matter how far fetched they seemed. This girl, however, was the complete opposite. She seemed unwilling to even look at other people in the shelter, let alone tell them anything about herself. When chucked into these environments, I think it is only natural to become interested in the extraordinary, no matter how ordinary it might be.

One night, whilst kept awake by the vibrations, I began to think about everyone I had encountered so far. I tried to draw parallels between them, or source an underlying issue that they all shared.

We all seemed so different. It was a building of talkative, dramatic, and in each their own way, often aggressive individuals, barring the girl I had mentioned previously. My irritation returned upon hearing Jack shouting down the hallway.

I thought it best to stop thinking, wait for him to pass, and go for a walk.

It was late, and although against the rules, I had built a good rapport with the night supervisor, and so was able to negotiate leaving outside the designated times. I took myself across to the park and smoked some cannabis that I’d kept hold of when I first came to the shelter. I looked up from between the dark trees that outlined the park’s perimeter towards my window, and again, began to think about everyone within the building.

I hit the same roadblocks again and again: different in theory, but their inability to change only pushed me back towards frustration and irritation.

“You’re in a fucking homeless shelter? How does this not tell you “it’s time to change?”” I argued with myself.

I sat down at a nearby bench and continued to take draws from my joint, continuing this inner monologue. It continued for around an hour, until, exhausted, something clicked. I had still been quite interested in this girl and why she was so open about her anxious state: I had assumed that anyone anxious, when put in this setting, would act in a similar sense to myself, partaking in a role-play of characters until back within their own room. But it was here that I realised that this girl had done something that none of us had done so far: been honest about who we were.

I began to play out scenarios in which other people I’d encountered, including Jack, had been told they were going to stay in a homeless shelter. I tried my best to argue and align it with their demeanour I’d seen, but not once could I confidently play out a scene in which any of these individuals were happy about being here. In fact, I couldn’t picture a scene in which anyone would be happy about being here. We all just had to be here.

I finished my joint and slowly made my way back to the main entrance. I made eye contact with the night supervisor and exchanged an acknowledged nod in each direction. I made my way back to my room, fell onto my bed, closed my eyes, and listened to the vibrations from above.

We all have a perfect version of how our life will pan out, and I don’t think we ever consider the way in which it might turn out, at least, not in any serious way. Everyone I had met here never pictured being twenty, thirty, forty or fifty whilst living in a shelter, but somewhere along the way, the freedom to choose one’s own path had, as it could anyone, dragged them in a direction they had not accounted for. Fear became the reason to keep going, and that fear had developed into a defence mechanism against the world they once sought to conquer. Now, this fear had become who they were.

With love, as always

Aaron

I have many a story to tell, and you should feel so lucky to even hear my voice call to you!

Do not look at me like that.

A man is his ego, and I’ll be damned if-

My apologies.

Come, please, sit with me, I wish to tell you about myself.

I was never a “good man” in the sense you might have become accustomed to.

Often I could be found wandering, aimlessly, without right or reason, and I revelled in my own scarcity.

One might wonder how such a man could possibly entertain the affections of another, and it is here where I will stop you, as he cannot.

I found this out in my younger years: rejection was followed by vile hatred for the mirror, and then unequivocal serenity for the realisation that I was something they could not possess.

One may be right to call it egotistical, but one may also wish to understand the self-preservation it can breed.

All of this played out in much a similar manner for years upon years, until, quite remarkably, some poor fool stuck around.

I use the word “fool” as that is exactly what you must be to believe that change in another is yours to bring.

What she saw was a scoundrel who could both love and despise himself at the drop of a hat.

And how that hat was often flung across rooms!

Don’t dare pass a questionable look in my direction, for I might just turn into God before you!

Or should I sooner ball and quiver at your attempt to pay me any form of attention?

Ha! No, she would soon understand, and as any ill-equipped saint must do, she would eventually pack up her things and call time on this endeavour.

I should interject here and say that at the very moment it happened, I wished her nothing but the best, quickly returned back to me.

My eyes were wide!

I had shown to yet another that I was not to be a trophy, but a trophy I was!

A trophy I am!

No, I should be honest and say that this moment passed rather quickly, and I would see the error of my ways

You see, my dear companion, I had not yet felt such a love from another until her arrival.

And my nights would soon be filled with questions of “why?”

Why would such a person see me fit?

Perhaps she too was hellbent on changing someone other than herself?

Or perhaps she saw something that I was yet to?

There can be no denying that I was far from perfect, and yet perfect stayed.

The years that followed would drive me mad.

Mad!

I became a quiet lunatic!

Quick to keep quiet, and quick to turn my thoughts a blaze!

Who might she lay with now?

Perhaps he is better than me?

Perhaps he-

I’m being too graphic for our first meeting, excuse me!

But you understand?

I had become obsessed, not just with the image of her, but of the image I had constructed of myself if I still had her.

One must note a difference.

It is here that I must touch on “importance”

I am not a man who feels much of it, and nor am I a man who wishes to give it out.

But you will surely know its pull?

To feel that importance, even when one does not hold themselves in the highest of regards, is but a puddle in the Sahara: I had learned to live without it, but could not have been quicker to lap it up like a dog!

And how I loved it!

Oh, how it was all mine!

How I could hold my head above anyone!

There is less to be said about how it was given and what I done with it, but the matter should progress.

I was addicted.

And my addiction would go unsatiated after her.

I would chase it in the back alleys of places I would not go in a sober mind!

And would feel it pressed against me, if for only a moment, with the least desirable beggars.

Begging for exactly what I wanted.

But in my head, we were different.

One cannot explain why, and maybe that’s because any why is not to be found.

But oh, how it hungered for more.

But somewhere, anywhere, she’s there.

Every corner.

Every trip and fall.

She watches.

I know it.

I just know it.

How could anyone forget such a man?

He was sitting across from me with his legs out.

Not crossed.

Just out, taking up whatever space was available.

His bag was open at his feet and he wasn’t checking it.

I watched him for longer than I should have.

He didn’t notice.

I am not the sort of person who gets noticed on trains.

Or anywhere, for that matter.

I used to have a version of him.

Not exactly him.

But a man I had decided that I would become.

I kept him somewhere that I could look at him.

The way you might keep a photograph of a place you’ve always wanted to visit.

I never went.

And somewhere along the way I stopped going back to the drawer.

The strange thing about this is that I cannot tell you exactly when I stopped.

It wasn’t a decision.

It wasn’t even a gradual thing I noticed at the time.

It just happened.

One day the photograph was there, and then one day, months or years later, I realised that I hadn’t looked at it in a long while, and I couldn’t for the life of me work out where I had placed it.

This man I had planned to become was free in a way that is hard to describe without it sounding like a complaint.

I do not wish for that, as it is not made to be one.

He was constructed, mentally, before I understood what I was actually like.

Before the bad weeks.

Before I found out how I behave when I am frightened, or tired, or when I want something I cannot have.

He didn’t know any of that.

He didn’t know, for instance, that I get quiet when I should speak.

Or that I will agree to things that I do not want to do because the alternative, which is saying no, feels, for some reason, like a larger ask than just going along with it.

He didn’t know that I lie awake sometimes, turning over things that were said ten years ago by people who have almost certainly forgotten that they’d been said.

He didn’t know any of the small, unflattering things that make up an actual person, because I hadn’t found them out yet.

That’s the thing about the person you build at twenty.

You build him from the outside.

How he moves through a room.

What he doesn’t apologise for.

The version of himself he shows to other people.

You don’t build the inside, because at twenty you haven’t yet been inside for long enough to know what is in there.

And ideas don’t age.

I have gotten older and he has not, so the distance between us has moved in a direction that I wasn’t expecting.

It wasn’t that I fell short of him.

It is more so that he was never real enough to fall short of in the first place.

I remember being in my early twenties and thinking that the future was something I was walking towards at my own pace.

Two roads.

His and mine.

For a long time they were close enough that I could see him keeping pace.

I remember looking across and being comforted by it.

There he was, still there, doing what I had imagined.

Moving carelessly.

Without purpose or reason.

Without the tiredness that comes from trying to be something to too many people at once.

Then the gap opened.

Slowly enough that I kept thinking it could still be closed.

Right up until the point where it obviously could not.

I would catch a glimpse at twenty-four.

Then twenty-six.

Then twenty-eight.

Each time, further away, with the details harder to make out.

I kept telling myself that I would do something about it.

That I would pull back onto the right road.

That I just needed a little more time, or a little more money, or a little more of whatever it was that I was telling myself I needed.

I don’t remember the moment I stopped telling myself that either.

That’s the pattern of it, I think.

Nothing about this happens in moments.

It all happens in the space between them, which is, as it happens, where most of a life turns out to be lived.

I am not unhappy.

And I want to say that, because what I am writing could read as the account of a man in mourning, and it is not.

I have loved people and been loved back.

I have had work that meant something to me.

I have become, through the ordinary accumulation of years, someone I can mostly tolerate.

But there is still something in me that turns towards the other road.

Not often.

Not in any way that affects the day.

But it is there.

The man I was going to be never had to find out that freedom is not a place you arrive at.

He didn’t have to find out that most of what you want is going to require, in some way or another, being tied to something that you would rather not be tied to.

He didn’t have to find out that the people you love will also, occasionally and without meaning to, be the people who are the hardest to be around.

He didn’t have to find out any of it.

He was perfect in the way that imagined things are perfect.

He had none of my flaws because I had not yet found out what my flaws were.

The young man got off two stops before mine.

He stood up, swung his bag over one shoulder without looking inside it, and stepped onto the platform.

He didn’t look back.

There was a time when watching someone move with that kind of ease would have done something to me.

I would have carried it around for the rest of the day.

I did not do that this morning.

The grief of it, if that is the right word, has become a mute companion.

It does not make a scene.

It just sits next to you and waits.

This morning it was a young man with an open bag.

Tomorrow it will be something else.

Or it will be nothing.

Either way, it will still be there.

As will I.

This home, once cracked and rife with decay, had become my palace.

A place where only I could be.

A place where all were guests, and where my own thoughts pressed against these walls when my voice was not to be found.

How I loved it.

But you, with your keen eye, will notice that this palace I speak of is no more.

My wallpaper is peeling.

My carpets hold stains that have been there for so long that now, to me, appear as part of its design.

No matter how much I have scrubbed - down on my hands and knees until my fingertips tore open - they remain.

The dust has now settled, and it feels strange to even entertain the idea of taking a small cloth to it.

I live in ruin.

But, my dearest, as mentioned, I did not always live in such a manner!

No!

No, my home was once the envy of many!

They had seen its prior state, and would take great pride in exclaiming that, should they have been offered such a home, they would have turned their nose up at the quickest possible opportunity!

And so, naturally, I wanted it more.

I wanted it to become a testament to my character.

I wanted to show anyone and everyone that no task would be impossible.

I wanted to show them that I had done more than they ever could.

And I did!

Oh, how I did!

I recall the early days of it - the windows, grey with years of neglect, and how I would press my palm flat against the glass and feel the cold come straight through.

There was something satisfying in that.

Something that told me: this is mine to fix.

And I took to it with everything I had.

I sanded floors until my arms gave out.

I repainted walls twice, three times, because the colour was never quite right, and I would not settle.

I replaced the guttering in November - and if you have ever stood on a ladder in November, in the wind, with frozen hands and a jaw so tight it ached, then you will know exactly the kind of stubbornness I am describing.

A man is what he builds.

That is what I told myself.

And when the neighbours would walk past and slow down - just slightly, just enough - I felt it.

That recognition.

The one I had been searching for.

They could see what I had made of something that, by all reasonable accounts, should have been left to collapse.

I invited people in.

Not because I particularly wanted the company, I will be honest with you.

But because I wanted them to see it. I wanted to stand in the doorway of my restored kitchen and watch their eyes move across the room, and know, without a word being said, that they understood.

This was not luck.

This was me.

And is it not a curious thing, to love a place not for what it gives you, but for what it tells others about you?

I think about that now, and I cannot decide if it is sad or simply human. Perhaps those are the same thing.

It was in the quiet, after the last coat of paint had dried and the last guest had gone home, that I first noticed it.

Not the house.

The house was fine.

The house was exactly as I had wanted it.

No.

I noticed that I was still there.

Still the same.

Still carrying whatever it was I had been carrying when I first pushed open that rotten front door and decided that this wreck of a place would become something worth having.

I had expected the house to do something for me that, in hindsight, a house was never going to do.

We dress our surroundings in the hopes that what we wear might change what we are.

I had been so busy with it, with the guttering, the floors, the plaster, the pipes, that there had been no room left for anything else.

And I do not say this with regret, not exactly.

There is mercy in having something that demands all of your attention.

It lets you off the hook entirely.

No one can ask you to confront yourself when you are up a ladder with a mouthful of screws.

But the ladder comes down eventually.

And there I was, standing in this house I had made beautiful, and I felt nothing that I had expected to feel.

I sat in the front room on an evening in what I think was October, the place exactly as I had wanted it, and I waited for whatever it was I had been working towards to arrive.

It did not arrive.

I went to bed.

I came downstairs the next morning.

I made coffee.

I looked at the walls I had painted.

“The man who builds a palace is still a man when the scaffolding comes down.”

That is a thing I wish someone had told me.

Though I suspect I would not have listened.

Because the truth of it, my dearest, is that I had not been restoring a house at all.

I had been using it.

The same way I have used other things, other people, other projects.

And when the house was done, and there was nothing left to point to, I had to sit with the uncomfortable reality that the question I had been drowning out with hammers and paintbrushes was still there.

Waiting.

Patient as anything.

What am I when there is no one watching?

My wallpaper is peeling now.

I noticed the first strip lifting about four months ago, up in the corner of the hallway where the wall meets the ceiling.

I watched it for a few days.

Thought about getting the paste out.

I did not get the paste out.

I do not know exactly when I stopped caring for the house.

It was not a decision I made.

It was more that, one day, I looked around and realised I had already stopped, and I could not say with any certainty when that had happened.

The carpets, they look, as I said, as though the stains were always part of them.

And maybe now they are.

My dearest, I find myself in a position I do not entirely know how to describe to you.

I am not unhappy in the way I was once unhappy, when I first came to this house and decided it would save me.

That was a louder unhappiness.

It had direction.

It had a project attached to it, a reason to get up early and go to bed late and feel, at the end of the day, like I had done something that counted.

This unhappiness is quieter.

And I have found, over time, that quiet unhappiness is the harder kind to escape.

There is nothing to push against.

It simply sits with you.

I thought that, once the house was done, I would know what I wanted next.

That the act of completing it would make the next thing visible, the way finishing one road might reveal the start of another.

But I look around at these walls, at this peeling hallway, at these carpets, and I do not know where I go from here.

I do not know who I am without something to restore.

And I am not sure I know how to find out.

As you know, my days spent in this woodland are days spent entirely within my own company.

My thoughts are the only human things I hear these days, and for that, I could not be more grateful.

However, it was only two or three days ago now, I chose to venture out! I chose to explore my surroundings; something I have not done in years.

And as I trudged through the mud-drenched shrubland, I heard something else.

Not a thought, but something human that wasn’t me.

I froze.

I wished to go back, but I also felt this pull to get closer: to see something other than myself in the pond’s reflection.

I continued on, following.

It was here that this thing I had been pursuing became visible.

It wasn’t some monstrosity, nor was it some folkloric creature.

It was a man.

A man accompanied by another, who I should assume to be a close friend.

They laughed, shared water from their bottles, and continued through the woodland much the same as I had done to get here, only louder, the way people are loud when they have nothing to hide, or perhaps nothing to protect.

These two men fascinated me, and, due to my best efforts to be quiet and hidden, they seemed to have no knowledge of my presence.

What an opportunity!

I had not seen man in, oh, so long!

And here, under the cover of dark pines and rustling greenery, I had such an opportunity to observe as though one was at a zoo.

They continued on, and I followed close behind.

“Green jacket” as I termed him was quite the talker.

“Blue jacket” wasn’t quiet by any means, but he definitely played second fiddle in their conversations.

Green jacket would drag out every detail of his point, no matter how mundane the subject, and Blue jacket would weigh in, only to be cut short and subjected to an even longer ramble thereafter.

He didn’t seem to mind - which boggled me.

Surely his inner monologue was screaming at him?

They set up their tents as I continued to crawl silently through the surrounding bushes.

A fire was started, and again, Green jacket took the lead.

He began by thanking Blue jacket for coming out on this trip.

He mentioned how his mind had been “scrambled” with “everything lately”, whatever that might allude to.

My interest, however, began to shift from what was being said to what was not being said.

Blue jacket, still as I between those dark trunks, did not speak a single word.

Green jacket went on and on about whatever had led him to want an “escape”, and not once did he consult his friend about his wants, or worries, or anything for that matter.

I took great displeasure in this.

As you know, I haven’t had many interactions with people since coming here.

In fact, as I think about it now, these letters to you are the only interactions I’ve had since setting out to live in this cabin.

But you understand, my letter writing is not merely a monologue: it opens conversation!

If you ever chose to respond, you’re free to write whatever you please, and as you do, it would be impossible for me to interrupt.

Not that I would want to, of course.

But Green jacket seemed so centred on his own life that, at that very moment, I nearly stormed out from my residence within the shadows!

I wanted to slap him, zip his mouth shut, and march back towards my cabin, hearing the fading voice of Blue jacket finally getting to speak at length.

But no.

No, my dear friend.

As the ramblings came to an end, Blue jacket stood up, walked over to Green jacket, and embraced him.

Green jacket seemed to collapse into his friend’s arms, bubbling about something I could no longer make out.

I scoffed.

And just as quietly as I’d followed, I made my way back home.