If you asked me right now what's alive within me, I would need to pause to check.
Disconnection is protection. It's regulation.
So much wants to be known inside me that isn't.
Curiosity—that's the pilot light. A pulling warmth. A coming towards.
Curiosity is movement.
Altar for San Martín de Porres, Iquitos, November 2025
You can't fake character.
I've been deep in true crime podcasts, watching people maintain their innocence from prison. After scamming thousands. After killing tigers. After being so toxic that everyone said: "This guy was a ticking time bomb."
The blame game is hilariously consistent.
Then you see the footage. The depositions. The pattern.
And here's the quiet justice:
No lawyer can rewrite what twenty people experienced.
If you lie, people know.
If you're cruel, people know.
Every dismissive comment, every tantrum, every manipulation—it goes in the jar.
You can dodge questions. Perform confusion. Hire three Italian lawyers.
But energy doesn't lie.
Character doesn't lie.
Results don't lie.
The pattern always emerges.
Truth has a longer memory than your story about it.
Last night, I sat on the roof of my apartment building during an unusually cold and rainy evening in Iquitos. It's the weather that helps you remember how small you are.
My partner sat across from me under this enormous mango tree. Its fruit is about 2 weeks from ripeness, but right now it's still hard and green.
It didn't seem to matter, though.
Through the balcony railing, it felt like the tree was attempting to give a mango to my partner—its branches had entered through the railing with a fruit waiting close to his hand.
It's worth pausing to consider the amount of fruit that will soon be available.
We don't need to accept a small amount of mangos.
