on the road that leads to all ends
I'm on the road that leads to all ends. I have been for some time. On this road lies an odyssey of dust and dreams where every traveler's footsteps echo with the whispers of infinity. It's a path woven with the threads of many destinies, a highway spanning the breadth of existence, touching horizons where the sun kisses the earth goodnight and greets it again at dawn.
I'm on this road. My eyes reflect the cosmos. My feet treading the fine line between wandering and wondering. The road stretches out, a ribbon through the heartlands of the soul, winding through the valleys of thought and over the mountains of imagination. It's the road less travelled, and yet it feels worn out by the journeys of countless pilgrims searching for the sacred and the profane, the ordinary and the extraordinary.
To be on this road is to be a part of a grand narrative, yet apart from it, writing my own story with each step. The road that leads to all ends is life itself—unpredictable, beautiful, treacherous, and profound. It promises nothing but offers everything: adventure, fear, love, loss, discovery. It's where the heart learns to dance to the rhythm of the landscapes it traverses.
Travelling this road, I collect souvenirs not of things but of experiences—each one a story, a poem, a piece of the puzzle that is me. There are crossroads marked by decisions, milestones defined by moments of clarity, and signposts written in the language of the stars, guiding me onward, ever onward.
The beauty of the road to all ends is that it is both literal and metaphorical. You might find yourself upon the asphalt veins that crisscross the land, or you might be meandering through the pathways of your own inner geography. Every end on this road is a beginning, every sunset a prelude to a new sunrise.
As the road unfolds, I realise that all ends are merely illusions, mirages on the horizon line where the sky's blue fingers clasp the earth's green hands. The road is endless, and I am eternal, a traveller whose journey is measured not in miles or years but in the breadth of my consciousness.
It's here, in the quiet moments of travel, that I understand the road is not something I conquer but something I become—a living map etched in the lines of my face, written in the stories I carry.
So, my friend, how will the road shape you, and how will you shape the road?
Welcome to the weekend, my friend.
Note: Last week I had what Bob Ross used to call “a happy little accident.” I had such a busy week that I didn’t publish the notes until Saturday. Well, as it turns out, it seems Saturday is a better day for you. The initial open rate was higher, and I had more email replies not long after the email hit your inboxes. On that note, I’ve decided to experiment with publishing the notes on Saturdays. I have been calling it “my weekend” newsletter. I’ll still write it on Friday because it’s a good day for me to do so, but I’ll schedule it to hit your inbox Saturday morning, just in time for your morning cup of coffee.
truth clings to a moment's breath
each second, a whisper of reality
reflecting in the waters of existence
rippling outward from where mind and matter meet.
In the courtroom, we swear to tell "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," as if it were a commodity we could package and hand over. Yet the stories unfold, witnesses recount, and lawyers paint pictures in starkly different shades. The jury deliberates not to uncover a hidden, singular truth but to decide which version resonates most convincingly with their collective perception.
Our lives are lived in the context of this fluid truth. We shape our identities based on a narrative that evolves with every new experience, every remembered past, every anticipated future. The 'self' that you declare true today is not the 'self' you might claim tomorrow. Just as a river carves canyons over millennia, the continuous flow of existence shapes and reshapes our understanding of our own truth.
we circle around the ancient fires of discourse
throwing our perspectives into the flames,
watching as the sparks rise to join the stars.
The only fixed truth about truth is its unfixed nature. What we hold to be true may tomorrow be refashioned, melted down, and recast in the light of a new day.
The quest for truth might be less about securing it to the ground and more about learning to ride its waves. It's in the act of surfing these swells of perception and understanding, with eyes wide open to the shifting winds and tides, that we might find the closest thing to a fixed point in a world where everything is in motion.
We stand by the shore, peering into the depths of the water, searching for the rock—the absolute truth—that anchors the fluid dance of waves.
If our truths are written in water, constantly flowing and reforming, how do we stand firm in our convictions while allowing the currents of new understanding to shape and refine them?
the hyperlink
can be a profound instrument in this blend, a modern-day manifestation of Eliot's footnotes in "The Waste Land," offering readers not just a path but a multitude of paths. Each link is a potential adventure, a door to another room of the vast mansion of literature and ideas.
hyperlinks act as secret passages that lead to caverns of context, history, and interrelated concepts.
🎧 Listen
And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death
time
For me, this song captures the essence of the human condition, where time is both a pursuer and the pursued. We chase after the days, reaching for moments that slip like sand through our fingers. The sun—our goals, our desires—seems always just out of grasp, dipping below the horizon just as we approach, only to reemerge behind us, a taunt to keep moving, keep striving.
And in the cycle, there's beauty and tragedy intertwined. Each day the sun rises, it's a rebirth, an offering of new chances and fresh starts. Yet each sunset is a whisper of the inevitable, a tick of the cosmic clock counting down. The road then is not just a journey but a measure of time, and we, its travellers, are acutely aware of the footprints we leave behind—imprints of existence that fade slowly from the dust.
But is there solace to be found on this treadmill of time? Perhaps the relentless chase is not about catching the sun but rather learning to revel in the run. It's about the breathless moments of awe as the sky blushes at dawn, the warmth of the sun on our backs as it climbs, the gentle resignation to beauty as it descends, and the tranquil acceptance of the night.
The endless road then becomes less a path of monotony and more a canvas of continuity, where each day is a stroke of paint and each year a shade of colour blending into the next. We are not just racing against the sun; we are dancing with it—a daily pas de deux with the cosmos.
In the heart of this cosmic dance, we find that it's not the distance covered that matters, but the depth of the journey within. The road stretches out infinitely before us, but it’s the steps that delve into the soul, the moments that expand the heart, and the breaths that deepen with wisdom that make the journey worthwhile.
How do we find meaning in the endless run? Is it in the pursuit itself—the constant striving for a sun that promises a new horizon with every revolution? Or perhaps it is in the quiet realisation that within this cycle—the tick of time, the chasing of the sun—lies the very essence of our being, the poetry of our existence?
ignore these truths at your peril
1. Not everyone will like you, and that's okay. Seeking universal approval is an exercise in futility. It's essential to focus on your own values and those who appreciate you for who you are.
2. Life has no inherent meaning; you create it. The significance of your existence isn't prewritten. It's up to you to discover, define, and pursue what gives your life purpose.
3. No one actually cares about you as much as you think. People are largely focused on their own lives. Understanding this frees you from the weight of others' opinions and allows you to live more authentically.
4. Change is the only constant. Embrace it, or you will be left behind. The world is always evolving, and flexibility is key to navigating life successfully.
5. Perfection is an illusion. Chasing after it can lead to a lifetime of frustration. Instead, aim for progress and improvement, which are realistic and fulfilling goals.
6. You are the author of your own story. Waiting for someone else to direct your life is a mistake. Take charge of your decisions and the direction you want your life to go.
there's a moment
a fracture in the mundane, where the veil between what is and what could be thins, and we see—not with eyes, but with the soul.
Opening a window is such a simple act. The catch of the latch, a slight push, and the world outside rushes in to meet us. Yet, it is in this act that something profound can take place, a ritual of sorts, inviting a different kind of air to fill our lungs, our rooms, and our thoughts.
As the window raises, the subtle play of light shifts, casting a square of illumination onto the floor, a stage for dust motes to dance within. Or maybe it's the sound that changes first—the outside noises that merge with our internal monologue. The distant bark of a dog, the laughter of children—the score to which our lives are unknowingly set.
These are not just noises; they are the soundtrack of existence, each note played by an instrument we cannot see but can feel deep within our bones.
Turning on the radio, then, becomes a curious partner to the open window. If the window allows the natural world to whisper into our lives, the radio is the medium through which we hear the whispers of human creativity. Frequencies filled with ideas, with music, with voices from both near and far, converge within this small box, a magician's hat from which rabbits of sound are constantly pulled.
But the radio I'm thinking of isn't bound by the usual frequencies. It's not limited to the wavelengths allocated by some distant authority. No, this radio is attuned to something else—the ethereal, the not-quite-sayable, the feelings that language tries to dress but somehow never quite fits.
This is the radio of the psyche, the one that plays the songs of dreams just remembered, the symphonies of half-felt emotions, and the talk shows of subconscious musings. And we are all tuned in, whether we know it or not.
An unearthly breeze enters through the gap in the window. Not the chill that tells of an impending storm, nor the warmth that speaks of a sun just beyond the horizon. This breeze is something entirely different. It carries with it the scents of places we have never been and the echoes of words we have never said. It's a gust of inspiration and connection.
In this ritual, our consciousness is not just opened but unfurled, like the petals of a flower meeting the dawn. We become more than just flesh and bone and thought. We become a part of the dance of existence, the play of light and shadow, and the melody of the cosmos.
And as we sit there, in the confluence of these phenomena, perhaps we realise that these are not just metaphors for the mystical experience but are the experience itself. For what is mysticism if not the acknowledgment of a reality greater than the one we can see and touch? What is spirituality if not the recognition that we are a note in a melody that spans the universe?
So, we sit. We feel the breeze. We listen to the radio. We are present in the profound simplicity of a moment that is both entirely ordinary and completely transcendent. And we wonder, as we must, what else is there just beyond the limits of our perception? What songs are being played just beyond the threshold of our hearing?
Open your window. Let the air fill the room. Mingle with the ambient hum of life. Let the moment engulf you, and if you're willing to listen, what is being transmitted to you?
fragments
In the trenches, the sky is a staccato rhythm, a bitter tang that coats the tongue of earth. Voices, distant, the weight of the earth above us, boots shuffle past, the dance of the living that I’m apart from. Metal through flesh, the world tips sideways, and there's warmth spreading, the memory of rain. Earth cradles me, a symphony with the percussion of shelling.
The pain is there, a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my consciousness . The fabric of my uniform sticks, a mix of mud and something unnervingly softer, the stink of war. The ground beneath my fingers, a cruel joke of peace not mine to have. The world in jagged pieces, I see a sliver of grey, the cruel cold whispers promises of rest.
The heart, that drum of life, beats a stubborn rhythm in the face of the abyss. I smell gunpowder, my mind kick-starts and wanders, refusing to sleep, the call of the void, perhaps. Shards of memories pierce the present, a green field far from here, the laughter, the softness of hands. It’s hard to tell, and it doesn’t matter. It’s human, and that’s enough.
And so I cling to the touch, the voice, as the world dips and sways, as the fragments of me threaten to scatter. A man made of flesh and blood and memories fights to hold on, even as the edges blur and the cold seeps in. The human spirit woven from threads of survival, hope, fear, love.
What is it about the human spirit, the narrative we carry, the story of who we are, who we love, what we hope for, that clings so desperately to life? It's more than just biology. There's the primal urge, the evolutionary drive that insists 'survive', the fierce whisper of life urging us to hold on against the pull of the abyss.
*this is a hyperlink adventure, the links add an additional level of textuality to the piece.
moments
Remembering that the opportune moment is always the present. Misguided is the belief that success has passed you by if it hasn't happened yet, or that it's too late to embark on a new path because you're too old or too entrenched in your current way of life to begin anew. Cliché though it may be, it truly is never too late to start
Dog sitting for my best friend
I love the contrast of humans; we're capable of astonishing depth and remarkable triviality at the same time
I feel like something important is happening right now. A seismic shift is occurring within my being, altering my way of operating and my purpose. It feels as though shackles are being removed. There's a sense of clarity emerging around my identity as an artist and a creator
The joy of discovery is in the journey itself, not necessarily the destination
Literature and life make me happy
Discovering that I am a metamodernist, which is to say I am both a sceptic and a dreamer, embracing the possibilities of technology while questioning its impact on our souls. I'm playing a complex game of light and shadow, seeking solidity in a world of shifting sands
Seeing the world as it is, not as I want it to be
Sometimes, in the quiet moments of perceived isolation, I find the greatest insights and growth
Having games night with my son and his girlfriend in their new house (rented).
recommendations:
i’ve been reading a lot about experimental writing this week, which has led me through modernism, postmodernism, and a new term for me, metamodernism. this video does a good job of explaining all three.
this is the book i’m reading on experimental fiction: Experimental Fiction: An Introduction for Readers and Writers
until this week, I had never heard of magnet fishing. Like me, you're probably scratching your head and wondering, "What the heck is that?" I only heard about it because this week, the Peaky Dippers pulled a whole lot of WWII guns, grenades, and bombs out of the river in Leamington Spa. of course, you know, i had to jump straight onto amazon to see how much a magnet fishing kit costs. it looks like a cool hobby.
postscript
What’s been working for you this week?
Literature and life have been significant to me this week. Coming to grips with the death of the author and embracing the modernist idea that the text and subtext are more important to literature than the author has been a transformative experience.
On this journey, I've found solace in the abstract beauty of words and their ability to transcend the confines of the author's mind. The freedom to interpret and find meaning in a text, independent of the author's intent, has been a liberating experience. It's like unearthing hidden treasures, with each interpretation revealing a new layer of complexity and a new perspective that enriches the reading experience.
I hope this finds you well.
Take care,
Clay