departure confirmed

Happy 2026.
If you’re reading this while relaxing on the bed, good. That means you arrived correctly.

It’s been a long time since my last post, which feels appropriate because Jamal the goldfish insists time is a social construct, and Miles the cockroach believes calendars were invented by insecure mammals who hate uncertainty. The holidays passed in a blur of days that felt like soup. Not thick soup. More like that watery soup you forget you’re eating until the spoon hits the bowl and scares you a little. Anyway, I hope you rested. Or at least stared at the ceiling long enough to feel something shift.

So Jamal and Miles have been hanging out again, which is never a good sign.

Jamal swims in gentle, meaningless circles, convinced the universe is fundamentally nice. He believes in second chances, third chances, and the idea that if something is meant for you, it will wait politely while you figure yourself out. Miles lives behind the fridge and has survived multiple near-death experiences involving sandals. He trusts nothing, yet somehow assumes everything important will still be there later. Together, they form a dangerous philosophy: It’s fine. Probably.

One day, though day is a loose concept here, they decided not to rush. There was a thing they were supposed to do. Jamal said he needed to “feel into it.” Miles said urgency was a scam invented by capitalism and birds. So they waited. Jamal practiced thinking in circles. Miles laid on his back, staring at the underside of existence. Time passed. Or didn’t. Hard to tell.

When they finally showed up, the thing was gone. Just… gone. Like when you walk into a room and forget why you’re there, except the room remembers, and you don’t. Jamal laughed immediately, because Jamal laughs when reality becomes inconvenient. Miles shrugged, because Miles shrugs when something confirms his worst expectations. Neither of them panicked. Panic requires hope, and hope requires effort.

But much later, something weird happened. Jamal stopped swimming for a second. Miles went quiet, which is concerning. They both felt it, that soft, delayed realization that nothing actually promised to wait for them. That patience they assumed existed was just silence. And silence, it turns out, is not agreement.

Humans do this too, by the way. We are incredibly capable of discipline when we know something will move without us. When time feels sharp. When the window is clearly open and clearly closing. Suddenly we become impressive creatures. We prepare. We follow instructions. We show up early like we’ve been rehearsing responsibility our whole lives.

But most of life doesn’t announce itself like that. Relationships don’t say, “Hey, this is your final warning.” Health doesn’t send push notifications. Trust doesn’t knock before rearranging the furniture and leaving. So we assume time is chill. We assume things will understand. We assume “later” is a real place.

Jamal assumes there’s always another lap.
Miles assumes survival is enough.
And humans assume consequences will RSVP before arriving.

The problem is, most things don’t leave loudly. They don’t make eye contact. They don’t explain themselves. They just keep going. And one day you realize you treated something precious like it was infinite, when it was just quiet.

At some point, I think growing up means realizing you don’t want a life powered only by consequences. A life where you move only when you’re cornered. That kind of life is stressful and deeply unserious. You’re not choosing your actions, you’re just dodging loss. Jamal calls this optimism. Miles calls it realism. I call it exhausting.

There’s a difference between being pushed and being aligned. When something becomes a habit, you don’t rush. When something becomes a value, you don’t need fear breathing down your neck. When something becomes a way of life, you move not because you’re scared, but because you care. You show up before damage has to teach you a lesson.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself which parts of my life I’ve been treating like they’ll always wait. Which things I keep assuming will still be there once I feel clearer, calmer, more prepared, less human. And which things deserve a version of me that doesn’t need pressure to participate.

Jamal is learning this slowly, which for a goldfish is impressive.
Miles claims he already knew, which means he didn’t.

And me? I’m trying to move not because something might disappear, but because it matters.

Some things won’t tell you when they’re done waiting.
They’ll just keep going. Including myself.

Happy 2026.