Today was one of those mornings where work didn’t really feel like work.
I headed into town to have a wander around and look at potential locations for an upcoming photography gig for Totnes Pride.
There’s something about photographing an event that makes you look at familiar places slightly differently. Suddenly you’re not just seeing streets, buildings and corners of town, you’re looking for light, angles, backgrounds and those little spots where a photograph might just come together.
Of course, I took the camera with me.
Because apparently I’m incapable of going anywhere without looking at things through a lens these days.
Once the location scouting was done, it was time for the important stuff.
Coffee.
A slow, relaxing coffee morning in the market, with some good friends, and friends I’d just met, absolutely no rushing about and nowhere particularly urgent to be.
And then, as if The Universe hadn’t already delivered enough, a calico cat wandered down the stairs.
Obviously, I had to say hello.
The cat seemed perfectly happy to accept some fuss, so who was I to argue?
Photography locations sorted.
Coffee enjoyed.
Cat fussed.
All in all, not a bad morning.
Sometimes the best days are the ones where you manage to get a little bit of work done…
…and still find time to stop and enjoy the small stuff.
What’s something you do completely differently from how you were raised?
Religion.
That’s probably the quickest answer I could give to this question.
I was raised Christian and, like many people, religion was simply part of everyday life.
Sunday meant church.
Not “would you like to go to church?”
Not “shall we discuss your spiritual preferences over breakfast?”
It was more along the lines of: get dressed, we’re going to church.
Then I went to boarding school and the tradition continued, except there it wasn’t really a family decision anymore. We were expected — forced, really — to go to church every week.
So church was something I did for most of my childhood and into my late teens.
And yet, somewhere along the way, I started asking questions.
Lots of questions.
Probably too many questions for some people’s liking.
I’ve never been particularly good at accepting something simply because somebody tells me that’s the way it is.
If someone says, “This is what you must believe,” my immediate reaction tends to be:
“Okay… but why?”
Which isn’t always the most convenient personality trait to have.
As I got older, I started looking beyond Christianity and reading about other religions and spiritual traditions.
And rather than finding one particular religion and deciding, “Right, that’s it, I’ve found the answer to everything,” I ended up doing something slightly more Bob.
I nicked bits I liked from different places.
Not literally, obviously.
Although I suppose spiritually speaking, that’s pretty much what I’ve done.
I’ve developed my own path, which is a mixture of witchcraft and Buddhism.
Now, before anyone imagines me wandering around the house wearing a pointy hat, stirring a cauldron and chanting at the moon, that’s probably not quite how it looks.
Although I’m not ruling anything out.
For me, witchcraft has brought an appreciation of nature, ritual, intention and the idea that what we put into the world matters.
Buddhism, meanwhile, has given me a different way of looking at suffering, attachment, compassion and, perhaps most importantly, myself.
And I’ve found that combination works for me.
That’s the important bit.
It works for me.
I’m not suggesting it should work for you.
And that’s where I think I’ve ended up very differently from how I was raised.
I don’t believe spirituality has to be a one-size-fits-all arrangement.
We’re all different.
We have different experiences.
Different personalities.
Different emotional needs.
Different things that frighten us.
Different things that give us comfort.
Different ways of dealing with grief, loss, love, death and all the other complicated stuff that comes with being a human being.
So why would we all need exactly the same spiritual path?
I’ve got absolutely nothing against organised religion.
If going to church every Sunday gives you comfort, community and a sense of purpose, then fantastic.
If praying helps you get through a difficult day, then pray.
If your faith makes you a kinder, more compassionate person, then I’m certainly not going to criticise it.
What I do struggle with is the constant use of fear.
“You’d better believe this or you’ll burn in hell.”
Really?
Is that honestly the best sales pitch we’ve got?
Imagine if we did that with everything.
“Try this restaurant or you’ll suffer eternal damnation.”
“Remember to renew your car insurance or Satan gets your policy.”
It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that.
And yet, using fear to control people’s beliefs is something that has been around for a very long time.
For me, faith shouldn’t need a threat attached to it.
If something is meaningful, surely it should be able to stand on its own.
That’s probably one of the reasons I’ve enjoyed learning about different religions so much.
The more you look, the more you realise that although people can have wildly different ideas about gods, the universe and what happens after we die, there are some remarkably similar messages running through many traditions.
Be kind.
Help people.
Don’t be a dick.
Look after your community.
Take responsibility for your actions.
Try to become a better person.
I’m paraphrasing, obviously.
Some ancient religious texts are considerably more eloquent than “don’t be a dick.”
But the general idea is there.
And perhaps that’s also why I enjoy Freemasonry so much.
Because when we’re in the temple, we’re not sitting around comparing whose God is bigger.
We’re brothers.
We have different backgrounds.
Different experiences.
Different opinions.
And yes, different ideas about the divine.
But that’s put to one side for the greater good.
I really like that.
Perhaps because I’ve spent so much of my life being told that there was a particular path I was supposed to follow, I appreciate being somewhere where we can acknowledge that other people might walk a completely different path and still sit beside us as equals.
I don’t need you to believe what I believe.
And I don’t expect you to.
You can believe in God.
You can believe in several gods.
You can believe in something else entirely.
You can be deeply religious.
You can be spiritual but not religious.
Or you can sit somewhere in the middle and spend your time wondering what the hell is going on.
Which, if I’m honest, is probably where most of us are.
And that’s okay.
I’ve come to realise that I don’t actually need all the answers.
In fact, I’m increasingly suspicious of anyone who claims they have them.
I’d much rather remain curious.
Read another book.
Ask another question.
Listen to somebody else’s point of view.
Change my mind occasionally.
And continue figuring out what I believe as I go along.
So, what’s something I do completely differently from how I was raised?
I was raised to follow a particular religious path.
I’ve chosen to explore my own.
And perhaps that’s the biggest lesson I’ve taken from all of this:
Your spiritual journey belongs to you.
You don’t have to follow somebody else’s map.
You don’t have to be frightened into believing.
And you certainly don’t have to agree with everyone else.
Just try to be kind.
Try to leave the world slightly better than you found it.
If the salary was the same, what job would you be doing right now and why?
This one didn’t take me long to answer.
I’d probably be working with animals.
There was a brief moment where I considered saying giraffes, because I absolutely love giraffes.
There’s something wonderfully ridiculous about them.
They’re basically proof that nature occasionally just makes things up as it goes along.
But then I thought about it properly.
And there was really only one answer.
Cats.
Definitely cats.
More specifically, I think I’d like to run a foster home for elderly and terminally ill cats that are currently in rescue centres.
Because there’s something about the idea that really gets me.
Imagine being an older cat.
You’ve already spent much of your life being someone’s companion. Maybe you’ve known a warm home, a comfortable sofa and someone who loved you.
Then, for whatever reason, you find yourself in a rescue centre.
Surrounded by unfamiliar smells.
Strange noises.
Other cats.
People coming and going.
And perhaps, because you’re old or poorly, nobody chooses you.
Everyone wants the kitten.
The young cat.
The one with years of life ahead of them.
And I understand that.
I really do.
But those older cats still have something to give.
They still have love.
They still have personalities.
They still deserve a warm lap, a comfortable bed and someone to tell them that they are a very good cat approximately seventeen times a day.
So, if money wasn’t the deciding factor, I think that’s where I’d want to be.
I’d have a house full of elderly and terminally ill cats.
There’d probably be blankets everywhere.
Cosy beds in every room.
Furniture specifically chosen according to feline requirements, obviously.
And enough scratching posts to make the place look like a particularly eccentric furniture shop.
And cats.
Lots and lots of cats.
The giraffes might have to wait.
Because what I’d really want to give those cats is something that every living creature deserves.
Comfort.
Not necessarily more time.
Sometimes we simply can’t give them that.
But we can make the time they have left better.
If a cat has only weeks or months left, I’d rather those weeks or months were spent somewhere warm and safe, surrounded by affection, than sitting in a cage because nobody wanted an old or poorly cat.
And perhaps that’s what appeals to me most about the idea.
You wouldn’t be saving every cat.
You couldn’t.
Nobody can.
But you could make a difference to this one.
And then the next one.
And the next.
Sometimes we get so caught up worrying about whether we can change the whole world that we forget we can make one tiny corner of it better.
For one person.
And if I could spend my working day doing that?
Honestly, I think I’d consider myself incredibly lucky.
There’s that saying:
“Find a job you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.”
I’m not sure that’s entirely true.
I suspect cleaning litter trays for twelve elderly cats would occasionally feel very much like work.
But if the reward was knowing that, for however long they had left, those cats were warm, comfortable, loved and safe…
I think I’d cope with the litter trays.
After all, what better way could there be to spend a life than making another life a little bit better?
Even if that life happens to shed fur on absolutely everything.
Share a hobby you’ve picked up recently — what got you into it?
Photography.
Now, before anyone gets excited, I should probably clarify something.
I’ve described myself as a poet for quite a few years now.
And, increasingly, I’ve started describing myself as a photographer too.
But photography?
Until relatively recently, it was just something I did with my phone.
That’s it.
No fancy camera.
No collection of lenses.
No camera bag weighing more than the average toddler.
Just me, my phone, and the occasional, “Ooh, that looks nice.”
I’d be on holiday and see the photographers wandering around with all their kit.
Camera hanging around their neck.
Bag over their shoulder.
Various lenses.
Tripods.
Enough equipment to suggest they were either photographing the Grand Canyon or preparing for a small military operation.
Meanwhile, I’d pull my phone out of my pocket.
Click.
Done.
And, to be fair, I was happy enough with that.
I’ve always enjoyed taking photographs. Nature, birds, beaches, random things that catch my eye.
People had occasionally told me I had “an eye” for photography.
I never really knew what that meant.
I still don’t completely.
I’ve never studied photography properly. I don’t pretend to know all the technical terminology, and there was a time when things like focal lengths, apertures and shutter speeds might as well have been written in ancient Greek.
Then I turned 50.
And decided that apparently I was going to buy myself a proper camera.
Enter the Pentax K-x.
A camera that, even when I bought it, was hardly the latest bit of technology.
12.4 megapixels.
Which, compared with today’s cameras, sounds positively prehistoric.
But I loved it.
Suddenly, photography wasn’t just about pointing my phone at something and pressing the button.
There were settings.
There were choices.
There was experimentation.
And, perhaps most importantly, there were lenses.
Oh my word.
The lenses.
You start with one and think, That’s enough.
Then you discover another lens.
Then another.
Then you convince yourself that this particular lens is absolutely essential because apparently you cannot photograph a bird properly without it.
Before you know it, you’ve gone from:
“I take pictures with my phone.”
to:
“Hang on, which lens am I taking today?”
And somewhere along the way, something changed.
Photography stopped being something I occasionally did.
It became something I wanted to learn.
Something I wanted to get better at.
Something I looked forward to.
I started noticing things differently.
The light.
The weather.
Birds sitting in places they probably shouldn’t be.
The way the sea changes from one day to the next.
A moment that might only last a second.
And that’s probably the biggest difference.
When you’ve got a camera with you, you start looking.
Really looking.
I’ve found myself standing somewhere I’d walked past a hundred times and suddenly seeing something I’d never properly noticed before.
That fascinates me.
Because perhaps photography isn’t really about the camera.
Perhaps it’s about paying attention.
The camera is just the excuse.
These days, I’m still learning.
I still take photographs that make me think, Well, that didn’t quite work.
And occasionally I take one that makes me stop and think, Bloody hell, I actually did that.
Those are the moments that keep me coming back.
Photography has become another creative outlet alongside my poetry.
With poetry, I use words to capture a thought, a feeling, a moment.
With photography, I use an image.
Different tools.
Same basic idea.
Tell a story.
Capture something.
Make someone stop for a second and look.
So yes, I suppose I’ve picked up a new hobby.
Although, knowing me, calling it a hobby is probably underselling it now.
It’s become a passion.
Another string to my bow.
And somewhere along the way, the bloke who used to watch photographers carrying all that expensive-looking kit around while happily using his phone has become one of the people carrying the bloody kit.
If you could go back and witness any historical event, which one would you pick?
This is one of those questions that sounds incredibly easy.
Until you actually try to answer it.
If I could go back and witness any moment in history, what would I choose?
There are, obviously, quite a few possibilities.
I could go back to the time of the dinosaurs.
Although, having thought about this for approximately three seconds, I suspect I’d spend most of my time hiding behind a tree while something enormous wandered past.
Not exactly the historical experience I had in mind.
I could witness the signing of some great historical document.
I could stand on the sidelines of a famous battle.
I could meet one of the great writers, scientists, artists or thinkers who changed the world.
Or I could go and see something completely ordinary that, at the time, nobody realised would become history.
But there’s one moment I keep coming back to.
Apollo 11.
20th July 1969.
The day human beings first stepped onto another world.
I’ve always had a bit of a thing about space.
Give me an old science-fiction programme, a ridiculously complicated spaceship and the vague possibility that one day humanity might wander around the universe and I’m interested.
I blame Red Dwarf.
Or Star Trek.
Possibly both.
But Apollo 11 feels different.
Because it actually happened.
On 16th July 1969, Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins climbed aboard a Saturn V and left Earth.
Four days later, Armstrong and Aldrin landed on the Moon while Collins remained in orbit above them.
And then came that moment.
The ladder.
The lunar surface.
The first human footprint in the dust.
I’d want to be there.
Not watching the footage on an old television.
Not seeing it years later in a documentary.
Actually standing there.
Which does raise one or two minor logistical problems.
For starters, I’d need a time machine.
Then I’d have to explain to NASA why a bloke from the future had suddenly appeared at the launch site.
And I imagine that conversation would probably end with somebody asking me where I got the time machine.
At which point I’d have to admit that I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.
Assuming I got past that part, I’d probably be told not to touch anything.
Which is probably sensible.
Because if you’ve spent years and an enormous amount of money building a machine capable of taking three people to the Moon, the last thing you need is some bloke from 2026 wandering around saying:
“What’s this button do?”
But imagine being there for the launch.
Standing somewhere nearby as that enormous Saturn V came to life.
The noise.
The vibration.
The sheer scale of it.
We sometimes forget just how ridiculous the whole thing was.
Human beings looked up at the Moon and decided they were going to go there.
So they built a machine.
A very, very big machine.
And somehow, it worked.
That alone would be worth seeing.
But I don’t think the bit that would affect me most would necessarily be Armstrong stepping onto the surface.
I think it might be looking back at Earth.
That tiny blue planet sitting in the blackness.
Because Apollo 11 wasn’t just about getting to the Moon.
It changed the way we could see ourselves.
From up there, the borders disappear.
You can’t see countries.
You can’t see political arguments.
You can’t see someone’s bank balance.
You can’t see the things we spend so much of our time arguing about.
You just see Earth.
One small blue world.
And on another world, three human beings.
That thought gets me every time.
And perhaps that’s why I’d choose Apollo 11.
It’s not really because I’m fascinated by rockets.
Although I am.
It’s not because I’d want to meet Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins.
Although, obviously, that would be rather brilliant.
And it’s not even because I’d want to take photographs.
Although knowing me, I’d probably spend half the event worrying about whether I’d brought enough film.
I’d want to be there because it was one of those incredibly rare moments when human beings did something that seemed almost impossible.
Simply because someone decided it was worth trying.
And I think that’s the part I like most.
History tends to remember the names at the front.
Armstrong.
Aldrin.
Collins.
And rightly so.
But Apollo 11 wasn’t built by three people.
It was built by thousands.
Engineers.
Scientists.
Technicians.
Mathematicians.
People checking calculations.
People testing equipment.
People finding problems.
People fixing those problems.
People staying late because something wasn’t quite right.
People doing jobs that, at the time, probably felt like ordinary work.
Until you put all those ordinary jobs together.
Then something extraordinary happens.
That’s probably one of the things I find most fascinating about history.
We like to turn it into stories about individuals.
One person had the idea.
One person made the decision.
One person took the risk.
One person changed the world.
But most of the time, that’s not really how it works.
History is usually thousands of people doing their little bit.
Most of them never becoming famous.
Most of their names never appearing in a school textbook.
But without them, the famous moment wouldn’t happen.
And I think there’s something rather lovely about that.
So yes.
If I could go back and witness any moment in history, I’d choose Apollo 11.
I’d find somewhere safe to stand.
I’d stay out of everyone’s way.
I’d probably take far too many photographs.
I’d try very hard not to touch anything.
And when Armstrong finally stepped down onto the Moon, I suspect I’d just stand there completely gobsmacked.
Because sometimes you don’t need to understand a moment.
You don’t need to be important.
You don’t need to be part of the story.
Sometimes it’s enough just to be there.
To watch something happen that nobody had ever done before.
And to realise, even for a few seconds, that you’re watching history being made.
That’s where I’d like to be.
Right there.
On the sidelines.
Probably with a camera.
And almost certainly wondering how the hell I’m going to get back home.
What’s a cultural tradition from your country that you love?
There are certain things from childhood that, for whatever reason, stay with you.
For me, one of those things has to be Bonfire Night.
The Fifth of November.
Cold November air.
The smell of woodsmoke.
Fireworks going off somewhere in the distance.
And, inevitably, some bloke standing far too close to the bonfire while somebody’s mum shouts:
“MOVE BACK!”
Of course, when you’re a kid, you don’t see a giant pile of burning wood as a potential health and safety incident waiting to happen.
You see an adventure.
You see something bloody enormous.
And probably wonder how close you can get before your eyebrows become an optional extra.
Then there was the Guy.
We’d make one from whatever old clothes we could find, stuffing them with newspaper, rags, or basically anything that was vaguely flammable and not currently being used.
It didn’t have to be particularly good.
Actually, thinking back, some of them were probably less “Guy Fawkes” and more “slightly suspicious bloke who’s been found in a hedge.”
But that didn’t matter.
We’d proudly put our creation on top of the bonfire and stand back, waiting for the flames to do their thing.
And then came the fireworks.
Now, modern fireworks are spectacular.
Absolutely bloody enormous.
But there was something magical about those childhood displays.
The first rocket disappearing into the darkness.
That moment of anticipation.
Then—
BOOM!
A shower of colour exploding across the sky.
Golden sparks.
Red.
Green.
Blue.
And for a few seconds, the whole night seemed to come alive.
Maybe they really were better back then.
Or maybe that’s just what childhood does.
It takes ordinary things and makes them enormous.
Then, of course, there was the food.
And I’m not talking about fancy street food, artisan burgers or anything else that somebody has decided needs to be served on a wooden board.
Give me a jacket potato cooked in the embers of a bonfire.
That was food.
You’d wait.
And wait.
And probably wait considerably longer than you had the patience for.
Eventually you’d pull it out, brush away the ash, unwrap the foil, split it open and add a ridiculous amount of butter.
Simple.
Cheap.
Perfect.
Funny how food seems to taste better when there’s a memory attached to it.
That potato wasn’t just a potato.
It was part of the evening.
Part of standing outside in the cold.
Part of waiting around with family and friends.
Part of being a kid.
And, if you were lucky, somebody had remembered the hot chocolate.
Happy days.
Now what’s my rambling got to do with cultural traditions..?
There’s actually a fascinating bit of history behind all of it
Bonfire Night commemorates 5 November 1605, when Guy Fawkes was discovered guarding barrels of gunpowder beneath the Houses of Parliament as part of what we now call, the Gunpowder Plot.
Although here’s something I didn’t know until relatively recently. The person being burned on the bonfire wasn’t always Guy Fawkes.
Apparently, in the seventeenth century, the Pope was often the unfortunate chap being thrown onto the flames.
Which seems a little harsh.
Eventually, Guy Fawkes became the familiar figure associated with Bonfire Night. Mainly because Parliament met in January 1606 and passed the Thanksgiving Act. This made services and sermons commemorating the plot a regular annual feature each 5 November.
Except at St Peter’s School in York, where they never have never burnt an effigy as Guy Fawkes was a student there.
And I suppose that’s one of the interesting things about traditions.
They change.
They evolve.
They get passed down from one generation to another, with each generation adding its own little bit to the story.
What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?
That’s actually quite a difficult question.
You might expect the answer to be something obvious.
Getting your first proper job.
Paying your first bill.
Buying your first house.
Or perhaps that moment when you realise that nobody is going to come along and tell you what you’re supposed to be doing anymore.
For me, though, it was none of those things.
I think it was when I finally learned to let go.
And, perhaps more importantly, when I realised that I actually knew absolutely nothing.
Now, that might sound like a strange thing to associate with becoming an adult.
Surely adulthood is about knowing things?
Having the answers.
Being responsible.
Knowing what you’re doing.
Apparently not.
Because the older I get, the more I realise that I don’t have all the answers.
I probably never did.
I just got better at pretending I did.
When you’re younger, you tend to think adults have everything figured out. Your parents seem to know everything. Teachers know everything. People at work definitely know everything.
Then, one day, you become one of those adults.
And you suddenly realise we’re all just making it up as we go along.
Some of us are just better at looking confident while doing it.
For a long time, I thought I had to hold on to everything.
Old arguments.
Old mistakes.
People who had hurt me.
Things I’d done that I wished I could undo.
The idea that I could somehow control what other people thought, said or did.
And that’s exhausting.
Eventually, I realised that some things simply aren’t mine to carry.
You can’t change the past.
You can’t control other people.
You can’t make everyone understand you.
And sometimes you can’t even make yourself understand why you’ve done something until years later.
So you let go.
Not because it doesn’t matter.
Not because it didn’t hurt.
But because carrying it around forever isn’t going to change what happened.
That’s when I think I finally started growing up.
Not when I got older.
Not when I had responsibilities.
Not when I became a husband, a father or eventually a grandfather.
It was when I stopped believing that adulthood meant having all the answers.
Because perhaps real adulthood is recognising how little you actually know.
And being comfortable with that.
I’m still learning.
I’ll probably still be learning when I’m an old bloke complaining about the price of a pasty and wondering why everything needs an app.
But that’s okay.
Life isn’t a test where you eventually reach the final question and someone hands you a certificate saying:
If you had a time machine and could send just one message to your past self, what would it say?
If I could send just one message back to the person I was, it would be this:
No matter how dark life becomes, you’re going to get through it.
There will be times when you genuinely believe the pain will never end. You’ll carry anger, fear, grief and questions you don’t yet have answers for. You’ll have moments when giving up seems easier than taking another step.
But keep going.
You don’t know it yet, but the hardest chapters of your life aren’t the end of your story. They’re the chapters that will teach you just how strong you are, and eventually, how to let go of the things that were never yours to carry forever.
You will find peace.
Not because life suddenly becomes perfect—it doesn’t. But because you’ll learn that peace isn’t about changing the past or controlling everything around you. It’s about accepting what you cannot change, letting go of what weighs you down, and choosing to keep moving forward.
So breathe.
Stay.
Keep going.
There is a life waiting for you that you cannot imagine from where you’re standing now.
There’s a thought that’s been rattling around my head lately.
Dangerous thing, really.
Because once certain thoughts get in there, they don’t politely sit in the corner and wait their turn. They pace. They whisper. They pull up a chair at three in the morning while you’re trying to sleep and say:
“Go on then… explain this.”
And this one goes something like:
What if, when you die, you simply move a fraction of a second forward in time?
Not heaven. Not hell. Not ghosts floating around old pubs knocking glasses over for dramatic effect.
Just…
A tiny shift.
A cosmic blink.
A quantum sidestep.
And somehow—you’re still here.
Now before the scientists start throwing textbooks at me and the spiritualists start sharpening crystals into weapons, I’m not saying this is true.
I’m saying it’s interesting.
And sometimes interesting is enough.
Because the more you read about quantum physics, the stranger reality starts to feel anyway. Particles existing in multiple states. Matter behaving differently when observed. Entire theories suggesting reality itself is far less solid than we like pretending it is.
Which raises an uncomfortable possibility:
What if death isn’t the full stop we think it is?
What if consciousness—whatever that truly is—isn’t as fixed to this version of reality as we assume?
There’s a theory called quantum immortality. The basic idea being that from your own perspective, you never actually experience death. Reality simply continues along whatever thread allows consciousness to persist.
Mad idea, isn’t it?
But then again, so is the fact we’re tiny self-aware monkeys standing on a spinning rock, hurtling through infinite darkness while arguing online about pineapple on pizza.
Reality lost the right to demand seriousness a long time ago.
Still…
The idea lingers.
Because haven’t we all had moments that felt strange?
Those near misses.
That split second where things should have gone differently.
The car that almost hit you. The illness you somehow survived. The accident that by all logic should’ve ended badly.
And afterward there’s that odd feeling.
Not gratitude exactly.
More like disorientation.
As if some hidden part of you quietly whispers:
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Maybe that’s just psychology.
Maybe the brain struggles to process proximity to death.
Or maybe—and here’s where it gets wonderfully weird—some version of you did die.
Just not this one.
Perhaps consciousness simply slid sideways into the nearest available moment where the story continued.
Not because you’re special. Not because the universe has a grand plan.
But because existence itself might be stranger than language can hold.
And honestly?
I find that oddly comforting.
Not immortality itself. That sounds exhausting.
Can you imagine eternity?
Eventually even your favourite songs would start feeling like hold music.
No, what comforts me is the possibility that reality isn’t as cold and mechanical as we sometimes fear. That there may still be mysteries beyond our measuring tools. That science, for all its brilliance, may only be scratching at the wallpaper of something far larger.
Because for all our cleverness, we still don’t truly understand consciousness.
We can describe neurons firing. Chemical reactions. Electrical impulses.
But the actual experience of being you?
That inner world?
That strange flicker behind the eyes?
We’re still fumbling around in the dark there.
And perhaps that’s where philosophy and physics awkwardly shake hands.
Both standing at the edge of existence saying:
“Well… this is getting a bit bloody strange.”
The older I get, the less certain I become about anything.
Ironically, that feels healthier than certainty ever did.
Maybe death is the end.
Maybe it’s a doorway.
Maybe it’s just silence.
Or maybe, just maybe…
You move a fraction of a second forward in time.
Enough to keep existing.
Enough to keep wondering.
Enough to still be here reading ridiculous blog posts like this one while the kettle boils in the background.
And if that’s true—
if consciousness does somehow continue—
I hope future-me eventually figures out where I left my glasses.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 