No Sync, No Sun

I've been up since the grey hour, when the sky is neither night nor morning but a dirty dishcloth wrung across the city. "Havahtuu aamuvarhain ja mielessä on joku käsikseen liittyvä kysymys, ja sit ei enää tietoakaan unesta." Wake up early with some pressing question in mind, then can't get back to sleep.

Five hours. Good enough, I tell myself. I once prayed that life wouldn't disappear into mattresses. Prayer granted.

Lapsing into the Long Illness

Coffee tastes like burnt paper. My hands shake anyway. "Long bout of serious illness indeed."

Art practice has become its own fever dream: half-finished projects, phantom deadlines, an inbox that looks like a mortuary drawer. I scroll LinkedIn for what—absolution? Wrong kingdom entirely. The feed keeps reminding me that my résumé is a ghost wearing a suit.

When the Clock Stops Granting Miracles

The stairs of Vekkula—that fun-house escalator that once whooshed me upward through impossible synchronicities—are silent. "Ei synchronicityja aikoihin. Miten mä nyt nousen vekkulan portaita ilman synccejä?" No synchronicities in ages. How do I climb these stairs without them?

No secret doors open. No cosmic gears click into place. Just rain sawing at the window and bills on the screen. I wait for the universe to cough up one small omen; it waits for me to get off the couch.

Invisible Friends and Other Static

I text an invisible friend until the battery dies. Thirty messages in, the dialogue feels like tapping on aquarium glass. "Invisible Friend alkaa väsyttää… Loputon tekstarien virta." The Invisible Friend is getting tiresome... endless stream of messages.

Connection? Maybe. Distraction? Definitely. The phone glows like a cheap altar; I keep kneeling.

Strategy Is a Shallow Grave

I dig up my old business corpse, try to dress it in fresh jargon. The smell is immediate.

"Business imee mua takaisin… Onks tää nyt sitä et ei oo escape velocitya." Business is sucking me back in... Is this what it means to not have escape velocity?

Strategy wants me back, but I'd rather haunt than hustle. I bury it again and leave the shovel sticking up like a warning.

Daylight Never Breaks Clean

First snow arrives: thin white noise on every surface. For a moment I feel the world has turned the page with me. Then the slush starts, grey bleeding into white.

"Ensilumi… Nyt mun päässä pyörii tää businessnäkökulma—ikäänkuin nyt kun mä olen keksinyt mitä art for business voi olla niin mä olen validioinut itseni." First snow... Now this business perspective is spinning in my head—as if now that I've figured out what art for business could be, I've validated myself.

Validation tastes like freezer burn.

Exit Question

"Mitä aiot tehdä huomenna ottaaksesi elämässäsi uuden, virkeämmän suunnan?" What are you going to do tomorrow to take a new, more alert direction in your life?

Sleep twelve hours, drown in coffee, stare at the page until it bleeds—then maybe write something that doesn't beg for approval.

There is no moral, only weather. Today the forecast is blunt: no sync, no sun. Just the slow grind of teeth in the dark, waiting for the gears to bite again.