Five years post-Jurassic World: Dominion (2022), an expedition braves isolated equatorial regions to extract DNA from three massive prehistoric creatures for a groundbreaking medical breakthrough.
It works as a one-off film in the franchise. D-Rex was a disappointment. The easter eggs were a good touch.
When Max and I were discussing this movie, I asked if there would be a sequel. He said maybe the dinosaurs adapt to colder climes and start migrating all over the world and that could be the premise. 😮
I read Naval Ravikant's post Be Incompressible - Naval's Archive, and I found myself thinking about personal mythology. Not the grand, heroic kind, but that quiet narrative shaping how we understand ourselves and the world around us.
Taste, I've come to see, is more than surface preference. It's the visible signature of who we are in the music that stirs us, the books that linger in thought, the ideas we return to. But taste doesn't exist in a vacuum. This signature is shaped by personal mythology, the inner story quietly guiding our choices.
Becoming "incompressible" feels less like a fixed state and more like ongoing practice. A continual aligning of outward expression with inner truth, refining both taste and story toward authenticity. Maybe this practice is our best defense against being replaced by algorithms that can replicate tasks but not the deeper narrative that makes us who we are.
The question becomes: How do I deepen this alignment so that what I create reflects the story I truly want to live?
Last night as we finished our pre-bed ritual of Wordle, Max said, 'Appa, did you know that you would be called a Xenial? You belong to a generation that grew up without the internet but became its first users. And then there is another group between Millennials and Gen Z called Zillenials.'
"No, I didn't know that," I replied.
As he decided to read a chapter or two on his Kindle before he fell asleep, I made my way to the bed and looked it up. He was right! I can be termed a Xennial (with a double n).
That led me down a path of reminiscence.
The best moments of my childhood coincided with the twilight of a world before the internet; I remember clearly that such a time existed, and it had its own unique benefits.
I thought... Of friends who drifted away from me and ones I drifted away from. Of faded memories of playing football and cricket on streets, dried lakebeds, and unoccupied plots of land. Of places, now changed beyond recognition, once familiar, now strange. The past is indeed a foreign land and its customs bizarre1.
Later, after I've tucked Max in and the house has settled into quiet, I return to Joseph Jebelli's The Brain at Rest. Reading about boredom as a neurological necessity, about how the unstimulated brain actually works harder, creates new connections, solves problems we didn't know we had—I think about those long afternoons of my childhood. The ones that felt endless, oppressive even. Hours spent staring at ceilings, wandering empty lots, waiting for something, anything, to happen. What seemed like emptiness was actually my brain at work. I wonder what Max's brain does in those moments between stimulation, if such moments even exist for him anymore. He hates being bored.
🎶 Background music whilst writing: Music to write Faster & Better (YouTube)
The opening line of L. P. Hartley’s novel, The Go-Between ↩
Today would have been her seventy-third birthday. Twelve years now since cancer claimed her—twelve years of birthdays marked by absence rather than presence.
I sit outside the church, the priest’s sermon about vigilance carrying through the open doors—about being ready for the master who may come at any time—and I find myself wondering about the mathematics of grief. How we measure loss not just in what was taken, but in what was never given the chance to be.
She never held any of her grandchildren—never saw their first steps or heard their laughter echo through rooms she would never enter. I sometimes think about how she would have delighted in each of them, told them stories about when we were young, spoiled them with that particular tenderness grandmothers possess. It’s all enshrined in a life that never unfolded, a life I wander through only in my mind.
The distance grows in both directions: we drift from those we’ve lost just as surely as they fade from us.
In those first raw years, I dreamed of her often, as she was before the illness took hold—moving through familiar spaces, speaking in that voice I was desperate not to forget. But the dreams come less frequently now. The details erode: I have to work harder to recall the way she laughed, or the precise inflection she used when saying my name in exasperation.
Maybe this is the cruelest mathematics of time—how it heals by slowly erasing, how it grants us the grace of moving forward by making the past ever more muted. We don’t mean to let them fade. We simply cannot bear the full weight of their absence with the same intensity forever and still manage to live.
I wonder what she would think of who I’ve become. Would she recognize the adult I am now, shaped by a dozen years of decisions she never witnessed? Would she approve of the choices I’ve made?
Sometimes I wish I could slip sideways into that other life—the one where early detection meant everything, where treatments worked, where seventy-three candles illuminate a room filled with her voice and laughter. Where grandchildren climb into her lap.
But wishes are just another form of mathematics, and the numbers never add up the way we want them to.
Instead, I stay here with these memories, the sermon’s words carrying out to where I sit. I think again about the mathematics of grief—how the equation is never solved, only reckoned with over and over.
Love doesn’t require presence to endure. Only the willingness to keep adding to it, year after impossible year.
For Noah Vines, death isn't the end. It's a weapon. After standing around in the afterlife for thousands of years, Noah is all out of patience. When the opportunity to steal a second chance at living arises, he doesn’t hesitate. Reincarnated into the body of a dying magic school professor, Noah finds that he took more than just a second chance. He got infinite. Every time he dies, his body reforms. Lives are a currency, and Noah Vines is rich. With countless variations of runic magic to discover and with death serving as only a painful soul-wound rather than a final end, Noah finally has a chance to wander the lands of the living once more. This time around, he plans to get strong enough to make sure that he never has to wait around in the afterlife again.⭐⭐⭐
I felt the book went quite slow with the worldbuilding. The level-up montage was dragged out a bit.
Yesterday, I was looking for a topic I knew I’d written about before. But I wasn’t sure if I’d ever published it. So I went searching — through my vault of old drafts, partial posts, abandoned ideas, and half-finished pieces. Organizing that vault has been on my "someday” list for a while now. I keep putting it off.
And then I started reading some of the old drafts. It felt like walking back into a room I used to live in, one I hadn't entered in years. A room that I could navigate with the lights off.
And there it was—the piece I'd been looking for, sitting among all the others I'd abandoned. Which made me wonder: why had I left so many of these unfinished, unpublished?
I’d tell myself I was too busy. That the ideas had gone stale. That I’d moved on. But really, it was a quieter resistance. The kind that doesn’t announce itself but just lingers.
Writing, when it happens in the moment, feels fluid. Like catching a thought before it takes a more concrete shape. Rewriting, though — that’s different. It’s not just editing words. It’s stepping back into the mindset that made them.
That’s when I understood: rewriting isn’t polishing. It’s time travel with consequences.
Reading old writing isn’t just revisiting the words. It’s meeting the person who wrote them. The turns of phrase I thought were clever. The tone I thought struck the right balance. The ideas I believed were solid, maybe even worth sharing.
Sometimes I nod along; sometimes I wince. I catch myself wondering, not “What was I thinking?” — but “Who was I trying to be?”
Rewriting asks for more than a better sentence. It asks what’s changed, not just in how I write, but in what I believe.
Some pieces I revisit and think, “Yeah, I still mean this.” Others… I hesitate. The words are fine, but the person behind them feels distant. And that’s the hard part.
Editing, when it’s honest, isn’t just improving. It’s letting go.
I still don’t love going back. Some drafts feel like fossils. Others feel too close, like they’re still breathing. But I’m learning to treat them with care.
Revisiting those moments isn't just about cleaning them up. It's about listening to who I was, so I can respond with who I am now.
Each one holds a version of me — what I noticed, what I believed, what I thought was worth capturing.
So yes, rewriting is time travel with consequences. And one of them is meeting yourself again...
Banner image is Saint Jerome in His Study by Albrecht Dürer.
This marks her first collection of brand-new material—outside of her beloved Christmas albums—in six years. Featuring a stunning mix of original compositions and reimagined traditional songs, the album showcases Kate’s signature warmth, storytelling, and unmistakable voice, which remains as breathtakingly beautiful as ever, even after 30-plus years in the industry.
It's been a long while since I listened to an album without doing something else at the same time. Just sitting, doing nothing but listening.
After driving for eight hours, I was tired. I didn't want to take a nap. So I lay down on the bed, drew the blinds, switched off the lights, and wanted to simply relax.
While browsing Spotify, I realised I hadn’t listened to Kate Rusby’s latest album, When They All Looked Up, since it came out. I hit play and closed my eyes, letting the Barnsley Nightingale sing me into stillness.
Today Again reminded me why I started listening to her. I got the same goosebumps as when I first heard her sing. That song felt especially personal—a balm for my tired, restless soul. And when Let Your Light Shine played, I felt strangely at peace with everything.
I realised that while music has always been a constant background in my life, it’s been years since I simply sat down to listen—really listen—to an album.
As I trundled through my memories trying to think of any recent times that I listened to music for the sake of listening, I was bereft of any such memories. The only instance I could think of was listening to James Blunt whenever I have a headache; it seems to alleviate the pain though I'm not sure why.
When did I become too busy to spend an hour doing nothing but listen?
The third installment of a story of triumph against all odds—in a world where everything is odd. When Matt was first sent to Gaia—a lifeless garden planet that had been consumed by system meddling—his only goal was to stay alive. Through a combination of grit, ingenuity, and a lot of help from his guardian, Lucy, he’s managed to not only survive the worst but also thrive in a way that’s revived the original Gaians. Now, others need Matt’s help as well. He once had a choice between Gaia and Ra’Zor, also known as the “Realm of One Thousand Bleedings.” He picked Gaia, but these days Ra’Zor is calling to him. Teleporting to the new planet, he finds himself at rock bottom in terms of both power and knowledge. The challenges don’t stop there. Ra’Zor is replete with hosts of demons who kill humans without mercy, led by a demon lord who’s nigh invincible. For the humans’ part, the masterminding Church seems to have an agenda of its own . . . one that doesn’t exactly sit right with Matt. On the other hand, the system running the planet seems to really, really like him. And that’s what scares him the most.⭐⭐⭐⭐
As the final book of the trilogy, I felt that this tied up the storyline well. Though there is an option to build the story into a never ending series like other litrpg books, I felt this was a good enough point for the story to end,
When Matt Perison first came to Gaia, everything was wrong and dangerous. He was promised redemption and repayment for dying of cancer, but that turned out to be a lie. He was promised a nice place in which to exist, but instead he got death. He was promised, in all ways, good. But what he has, in all ways, is bad. He’s made the best of it though. Aided by his system guardian, Lucy, and the dungeon system itself, Barry, Matt began to build a life for himself. He’s getting pretty good at surviving in a place where nothing else is alive. But surviving isn’t all there is. So Matt’s finding the time to make improvements to his new home. And he’s beginning to have hope that tomorrow will be a better day. There’s only one snag. The system instance on Gaia is out for revenge, and a nightmare from Gaia’s distant past is returning to wreak havoc once again. Now, Matt has to learn that life is about learning how to thrive—and finding a way to do so when even survival is in doubt . . .⭐⭐⭐
The further adventures of Matt Perison continue on Gaia..
In this isekai from the author of How to Survive at the End of the World, a man is sent to save a dead planet . . . a couple thousand years too late. Matt’s in the prime of his life. So when his doctor tells him he only has months to live, he figures it’s just really bad luck. But it’s about to get a whole lot worse. When Matt’s Earthly form finally expires, a truck-avatar system gives him the opportunity to become a hero on the paradise world of Gaia, a supposedly verdant, rich land teeming with plants and potential. What he finds instead is a place completely bereft of life. A literal dead planet. Thanks a lot, truck. Now, Matt’s going to have to figure out not only how to survive in a completely barren realm but also how to not go completely mad with a full load of stats, skills, and levels that might mean absolutely nothing. Unless there’s actually something out there after all . . .⭐⭐⭐
I loved this premise of an isekai gone wrong. I picked this up to fight off a post-prandial stupor. Though I failed to prevent myself from sleeping, I managed to finish this before midnight.
