Spinning Through the Dark
My Take on Where, When, and Who We Are
“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” —Carl Sagan
It’s 2 a.m., and I’m staring at my watch like it’s about to confess something. I’m sitting at my desk—the third cup of tea in hand—wondering why time feels like it’s playing a prank on me. I’m no physicist (my high school science teacher would back me up on that), but I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to feel this… stretchy. One minute, I’m scrolling X, laughing at some meme about cats and capitalism, and the next, I’m spiraling into a full-on crisis about whether I’ve wasted the last few hours. Can you relate?
I don’t think it’s just me. You’ve been there too, haven’t you? Those moments where the hours slip through your fingers like sand, and you’re left blinking at the mess of it all, asking, “Wait, what’s holding this together?” Not the clock, that’s for sure—it’s too busy smirking at my existential meltdown. But maybe that’s the hook: you, me, the whole spinning mess of it—ever wonder what’s stitching us into this space and time and who we are? Because I do. A lot.
Last week, I got lost in my neighborhood. I’m talking three blocks from my home, where I should know every crack in the sidewalk—and yet, there I was, spinning in circles because Google Maps decided to glitch out on me. (Thanks, technology—you’re a real pal.) I stood there, squinting at street signs like some confused tourist, and it hit me: space is a total trickster. We act like it’s this solid thing—streets, buildings, the coffee shop I’m late to meet you at—but it’s not. It’s more like… I don’t know, a funhouse mirror, bending and twisting depending on where you’re standing.
I started wondering if space is even out there. Sure, there’s the galaxy, the stars, and all that Carl Sagan poetry—but what about the space inside me? (Cue the eye-rolls—I’m aware I sound like a yoga instructor after one too many green smoothies.) But seriously, think about it: scrolling Instagram the other day, I got lost in this endless grid of lives—perfect latte art, beach vacations, someone’s dog in a hat—and it felt infinite, disorienting, and weirdly mine. Space isn’t just coordinates on a map—it’s this personal, messy thing we carry around.
Sometimes, I feel floating in it. Not in a terrific, astronaut way—more like I’m untethered, drifting between my office, my inbox, and the person I’m supposed to be by now. Ever get that? Where are you unsure if you’re moving through space or it’s moving through you? Space isn’t a place we land. It’s the gap between who I am and who I am still figuring out.
So, I tried to remember what I did last Tuesday, and—big shock—it’s a total haze. I’ve got this blurry montage of Zoom calls bleeding into me, racing around like a caffeinated tornado, shuttling my twins to soccer practice and karate while yelling, “Shoes on, we’re late!”. Then it’s back home, staring at my laptop like it’s got the meaning of life. “Wasn’t I supposed to have this figured out by now?” I mutter, half-hoping the clock will chime in with some sympathy. But nope—it just ticks on, smug as ever.
Time doesn’t play fair. We’re taught it’s this neat little line, marching forward like a good soldier: past, present, future, repeat. But lately? It feels more like a glitchy playlist on shuffle—one minute, I’m 12, losing my mind over a Tamagotchi, and the next, I’m 40-something, wondering if I’m bad at adulting. (I'm sure Einstein’s probably smirking in his grave—something about relativity) Even TikTok knows it—those trends from last year feel ancient now as if we’ve lived three decades in twelve months.
Why do I keep chasing time if it’s such a trickster? I set alarms, plan, and tell myself, “Tomorrow’s the day,” but it slips away, laughing at me. Maybe time isn’t a straight line or a circle—perhaps it’s just the stories I tell myself to feel less lost. You know, thoughts like, “I’ll get there,” or “I’m not late; I’m just… taking my time.” Have you ever found yourself doing that? Creating narratives to manage the chaos? I do it all the time—and I’m starting to think time isn’t the villain. It’s just a mirror I’m too stubborn to face.
The other day, I caught my reflection in a window and didn’t recognize myself. There I was, juggling with my portfolio and a phone call—probably about whether the twins need a dentist appointment—looking like some exhausted stranger with my hair doing that frizzy thing it does. And for a split second, I thought, “Who is that?” Not in a dramatic, movie-montage way—more like, “Oh, crap, when did I turn into this person?” It’s funny. How can you live with yourself every day and still feel like a guest in your story?
I started poking at it because that’s what I do—overthink everything. Am I my professional career? My X bio, which I haven’t updated since 2020. Who are you when the Wi-Fi’s down and the mirror’s too honest? Because I’m piecing it together, it feels like identity’s this collage—scraps of memory, half-finished goals, a dash of chaos—all taped up with hope and a double espresso.
I don’t think it’s supposed to be neat. We’re all just riffing, aren’t we? Trying on versions of ourselves like outfits, hoping one stick. I mean, I’m still the kid who cried when his Tamagotchi died, but also the dad who can´t do parallel parking—both are me, somehow. And you’re out there, juggling your own weird, tremendous mess of selves. Maybe identity’s not a destination we pull up to, all smug and sorted. Perhaps it’s the road itself—bumpy, winding, and ours to stumble down, laughing as we go.
So, back to that 2 a.m. watch—sitting at my desk, tea gone cold, staring at those smug little hands as they owe me answers. The twins are asleep, and I’m left with this buzzing hum of questions—space, time, identity, the whole circus. And here’s what I’m landing on: maybe it’s not about cracking the code. Perhaps it’s about sitting here, in the thick of it—letting the questions breathe instead of wrestling them into submission. Ever feel that pull, too? That itch to unravel it all, even when you know the threads keep going?
I’ve got this hunch. Space, time, and identity—they’re not puzzles to solve. They’re mirrors, cracked and smudged and gorgeous, reflecting bits of us we didn’t even know were there. I bet you’ve seen those glimpses of yourself in the chaos, the late nights, the what-ifs. So here we are—you, me, and the universe—spinning through the dark, laughing at its wild, messy beauty.
Book Recommendation: The Order of Time by Carlo Rovelli
If you’re still spinning from my late-night ramblings about clocks and chaos, grab The Order of Time by Carlo Rovelli. This guy’s a physicist who writes like he’s your buddy breaking down the universe over a drink—no stuffy jargon, just mind-bending ideas about how time’s not the rigid taskmaster we think it is. It’s short, poetic, and digs into how our sense of “now” is more fluid than we realize. I love how it makes big concepts feel human.