FIELD NOTE // FN-014 | LOCATION: Haight ST, SF | DATE: 2025-12-17
In chrome, I am the stable anchor. In chrome, life outside of my shallow orbit is distorted. My vision. My reality. It conforms and it confirms.
But step outside of that shallow orbit and into the rest of reality, and it looks different. Life is cumulative. Many streams can lead to the same river, but the paths look different.
I'm a month away from turning 37.
The chrome bends the street, the cars, even my own face. But it can’t bend the math.
37 > < 73
The numbers don’t lie. They snap you out of the distortion. If 73 is still the expected age of an American male, there is no need to wait for 40. I am technically already over the hill. The downward plot has begun.
But gravity isn't a villain here. A leaf doesn't "fail" when it falls; it returns. It changes color, it lets go, and it heads back to the essence—the earth it came from. That descent isn't a crash, it's a completion.
Timelines make way for deadlines. Even eternity is finite.
