Spent the morning rereading things I wrote three years ago. The strange part isn't that they're bad, most of them are fine, it's that I can't remember being the person who thought them worth writing down. Somewhere between then and now the thing I was anxious about quietly stopped mattering, and nothing arrived to replace it. I think that's what progress actually feels like from the inside: not arrival, just the slow disappearance of an old worry.
Started keeping a list of questions I can't answer yet. It's the only document I've ever kept that gets more interesting the longer it gets. Everything else I write shrinks.
Someone asked what this site is for. Nothing, really. It's a place to put sentences that don't need to go anywhere else, which turns out to be most of them.