In a world obsessed with outcomes and productivity, it’s easy to overlook the quiet victories — the inner work, the subtle shifts, the moments of clarity that come without fanfare. This is a reflection on what it means to create for the sake of creating, to live deliberately, and to navigate the paradoxes of modern life: progress that often feels like distraction, freedom that still depends on screens, and a sense of purpose that resists being monetized.
. . .
I haven’t really made any money the past six months. But I’ve accomplished a lot of what I set out to do — things I actually wanted to do. I’ve learned new skills, picked up some shiny tools — essentially upgrades of the old ones, with sleeker interfaces and promises of efficiency. But honestly? They’re not much different. Just like back in the ’90s, more time gets wasted than invested. The illusion of productivity persists — streamlined workflows, endless apps, and the myth of optimization.
That’s one of the biggest lies of modern technology: that it saves us time. We forget, or we ignore it, because the alternative — facing our distractions and our resistance — isn’t as comforting. Still, the tools are useful. I’ve danced through the learning curve of new software and systems so many times now it’s become routine. But they do what I need: translate impulses, ideas, and concepts into something tangible — things I can shape, share, evolve.
I’ve written countless posts, essays, and articles — some read by a few, most lost in the digital tide. I published a book of my own material, and two more written with the help of AI. Now, I’ve started having in-depth conversations with the AI, which has become another creative outlet, another way of clarifying thought.
And still… it is what it is.
I write to write. I create to create. I learn because I have to. I don’t care much about the rest. And my life is a perfect mirror of that ethos. So really, why complain?
I live in the kind of place I always imagined: the sea just across the road, trees and trails in every direction. I can walk for hours and not see another soul. It’s quiet and dark at night, and generally peaceful all day. Now that I know what this kind of peace feels like, I can start refining it — aiming even closer to what truly suits me.
Yet, I’m still far too tethered to screens. The internet is both my sanctuary and my sedative — passive and productive, coping and creating. I’ve got a library of digital and physical books filled with profound ideas, vibrant characters, entire worlds waiting to be explored. But they’re gathering dust and sometimes mold. It’s puzzling — this dissonance between desire and action. Until I figure out how to absorb stories through osmosis, I’ll need to intentionally carve out space — disengage from the screen, re-engage with other faculties of mind and soul that have gone underused.
Earlier this year, I met the local tire guy — out of necessity. My car had a shimmy, and I wanted to rule out the tires. He’s 63, lived on this island his whole life except for a few brief stints away. A retired paramedic with 35 years behind him, now divorced, no kids. He has 72,000 subscribers on YouTube, where he shares videos of moonrises, island wildlife, and the serenity of life on Texada. We talked a bit — about the “plandemic,” politics, all that noise. He’s awake. Aware.
He told me about his nephews. One, in his 30s, just moved in after coming here for work. Doesn’t want to marry, earns well, but can’t get a mortgage. Seems content. The other got involved with what he called a “trailer park princess.” Now he’s got one kid with her, two more from her previous relationship, and a mountain of stress. He’s angry, in debt, trapped.
And I thought: we should all be getting paid to do what we love — to pursue what lights us up, what brings joy, meaning, fulfillment. That’s the world I had long believed in and imagined. One where our natural gifts benefit others and ourselves. If that world existed, self-help gurus and “life coaches” would be out of business overnight. Even the churches might see a resurgence — not out of fear or tradition, but because people would want to share their abundance.
But realistically? Only a small percentage of us will ever achieve these things. Just as only a very small percentage of us will ever be able to see beyond the veil of what constitutes “reality,” believing instead in the talking heads, pundits, and experts instead. No, most people won’t ever taste that kind of freedom, but they’ll watch others in the pursuit of it on any number of “lifestyle” YouTube channels. Perhaps worse, most won’t ever know what they truly want. And even fewer will risk going all-in on it. Instead, they inherit goals and dreams secondhand — from parents, teachers, ads, algorithms. We live in too many places at once — haunted by the past, anxious for the future. Meanwhile, life speeds by while we’re making plans.
We know how this story ends. We’ve seen it unfold in loved ones who are no longer here. Some accomplished what they aimed for, sure. But I’d bet every one of them left with regrets — the “should haves,” the dreams deferred, the truths never spoken, the love never expressed. And yet, if there is something beyond this place, I doubt those regrets matter there. Maybe they were never real to begin with.
I imagine them now, smiling knowingly. Letting all the noise fall away. Because in the end, none of it mattered. Not in the way we were told it did. But we believed it. That’s how they took our time — from us, from each other. One thought. One agreement. One silent contract at a time.
We piled on layers and layers of fiction — roles we didn’t choose, obligations we never questioned — until we ran out of time. Before we could learn. Before we could remember the simplest, most profound truth:
Just being here is enough.
We’re not here to win. Or fix everything. Or earn our place.
We’re just passing through.