Undocumented

A new data set

Idle Time | April 2026

I wrote something earlier today and wasn’t sure if I should share it, but it felt honest. Thought I’d share it here if you don’t mind.

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“Why don’t you ever take pictures of yourself?”

It’s because I’m always by myself…

There’s a kind of unnerving feeling in that—knowing the years will pass without capturing the moments. Only having the experiences, the mental notes, the memories that sit with you as the sole evidence they took place. Maybe some eyewitness accounts, but even then there’s a degree of haze.

I always sought companionship—a lifelong friend. Not just a witness, but the presence of another that would know all my transitions, all my arcs, all my moments that reignited my spark. The endless confessions in the dark. An animate confession booth with functioning legs and arms, where I don’t have to explain or relay a rehearsed response—a performative calm or poise.

They say be selective of the company you keep, and I have—I always have. But they’ve never been able to stay. From my adolescence to my now adult age—just brief encounters and experiences. Lessons and signposts all the same.

But was it me who changed?

Was my tunnel vision the reason others felt they were unimportant in regards to staying in frame?

Have I ever explained how much those moments mattered to me?

How many times have I replayed those encounters, and still revisit them from time to time?

How, in those brief moments, they did light up my day—how I always looked forward to it?

The jokes, the banter, the sly remarks and debates—and simply bearing witness to the performance they came with.

How many of those moments were actually our last?

March is now in the rear-view mirror—how many months like it have passed? Where four weeks felt like eight days. I’ve long since lost my sense of time. I try to stay present and show up for myself daily, even in the smallest ways, but I can’t do it all. There’s always a little give and a little take, and I hate that.

But I guess this is the curse of solitude. I constantly feel like I’m walking alone—a life lived undocumented. Do I really have the power to stay?

Even as a muffled whisper in their hearts or their minds—

Be it triggered by one of my interests, niche references, or jokes.

Not even “cult classic” energy, but becoming someone others would claim.

Like, I knew that guy, or I’m grateful for the years, months, or weeks we shared. Like those moments in documentaries where you see callbacks from different parts of the person’s journey—classmates, school teachers, teammates, colleagues, childhood friends…

I wonder how the cards would fall if it was my turn…

I guess it all comes back to the fear of being fully seen—at the cost of awkwardness, of shame. Of those moments where you feel as if you overshared and lost the picture you so meticulously created.

I always hated others knowing when I didn’t have it all together. I always felt that they relished it—like the one girl in high school who was envious of my clear skin and prayed and wished I’d get a pimple, then rejoiced when I did—right between my brows at that.

So is it worth it?

Letting go of this curated image of myself—and thus the distance it created—would my fall from grace be glorious, greeted by gratitude at the fact that I finally lowered my walls?

But I know that moment would never arrive. The cinematic fall, the round of applause, the climactic music—a classic score by Hans Zimmer. Just a silent recognition, if that.

Maybe I’m just searching in outdated feedback loops…

Maybe it’s time I start anew.

A blank page.

A new data set.

Riddled with uncertainty, fear, and doubt.

No tried and tested pathways—just one I found myself.

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