Between Frequencies

Downtime is a myth. What I call rest is just curiosity wearing a disguise. It sneaks in quietly, pretending to behave, then pulls me into another vortex of sound, syntax, or circuitry. I never resist. Stillness feels like a foreign language, and I’ve never been fluent in anything that doesn’t move.

Music is the first portal. Kraftwerk, always. Howard Jones, often. Sometimes something newer and colder, with synths that sound like machines learning to cry. I let the sound wrap around me until thought dissolves into rhythm. But even then, I dissect it. The layering, the pulse, the restraint that somehow erupts into feeling. I listen like a surgeon. I hear like a writer. Every track is a story about control and chaos trying to coexist without destroying each other.

A computer hums nearby, patient as a friend who never interrupts. I run my life on Linux computers. It’s not a system; it’s a living argument. Every command line feels like defiance. Every kernel update reminds me that technology can still be human. I break things just to see why they broke. I fix them, then document the fix, then improve the documentation. It’s obsessive and ridiculous and deeply satisfying. It’s not work. It’s a quiet belief that freedom and curiosity can live in the same line of code.

Sometimes I drift to LinkedIn. Not so much for networking, but for observation. The rituals of professionalism fascinate me. The confessional tone. The performative gratitude. The AI-written authenticity. I scroll like a biologist examining patterns of ego and engagement. Sometimes I comment, sometimes I write something sharp enough to sting but honest enough to stick. I don’t want applause. I want people to wake up for half a heartbeat and remember that words still matter.

When I return to the physical world, it greets me with weight and texture. Dust. Wood. Heat. There’s a relief in that. I cook with my partner. Real food, real time, nothing optimized. I work on the kitchen, smoothing surfaces, aligning edges, fixing small things until they reflect light just right. The physical world doesn’t trend. It just exists. That’s the beauty of it.

Creation doesn’t stop when I close my laptop. It just changes form. Writing, voice acting, translating, sanding a wall, sealing a floor, and everything I do is an attempt to leave something cleaner or truer than it was before. Curiosity has turned into a pulse I can’t lower, and I’ve made peace with that.

People chase quiet. I chase coherence. The click of things falling into place, however briefly. That click is my silence. That’s where I rest.

I don’t do downtime. I do frequencies. Low ones, high ones, strange ones that don’t belong anywhere. I move between them, tuning and retuning, half in this world and half in another. Somewhere between the glitch and the grace. Somewhere that feels like home.