Humans seem to find comfort in defining. We give everything a name. Descriptive literature, for example, is considered more interesting than hard facts. Taxonomy is a science. Regardless of its application, even a diagnosis is relieving.

There’s no denying the desire to understand my origin feels right. I’ve written thousands of journal pages attempting to connect the dots — as if I even have enough data to reach a conclusion. Encapsulating my self would be convenient for its expression, if I chose to commiserate.

But I’m no longer interested in analyzing the source code. The investigation serves no purpose for me now. And even if I could reach them, conclusions about “why” are meaningless.

Detailing the framework of my thinking is a theoretical trail to infinite sources; to describe is at least an interaction. What am I is a more interesting question than who anyway, and it’s one with a more practical answer.

What would I do with the false comfort of discovery besides ignore who I am now? There’s no use in that. Acceptance is the only real antidote to the uncertainty of living, so why not survey my habit while I wait for the cold darkness to return.