Today’s the day, DA BOIS—like we always swear, only to do nothing. Half-marinated in optimism, half-sunk in the quicksand of yesterday’s missteps. Another Sunday, another phrase to claw apart.
Usually, I cook up my own titles—but this one’s too damn good to top, even for a chef like me (heh). Simple as espresso and bittersweet cocoa: deep, earthy bitterness that tastes like staring into the abyss…
I’m always amazed how the simplest words can carry the deepest truths. This week’s phrase comes from Jill in The Leftovers, and it stuck in me like a splinter. She was talking to her stepmom when she dropped the kind of line most people spend a lifetime avoiding:
“Wherever you go, there you are.”
Massive nod to HBO for that series—haunting like a ghost town (literally), heart-wrenching like nails on a chalkboard, and somehow funny in the most catastrophically tragic moments. If you haven’t seen it, do yourself a favor—add it to the list. Life doesn’t wait, and neither should you. I grazed this idea in Your Past Future…, but that was more of a glance. This? This is a staring contest.
Jill’s words carry that rare raw energy—like a painting that looks plain from afar but bleeds with detail the longer you linger. It’s the truth we all try to outrun—oceans crossed, winds chased, pasts bottled up and buried. You can circle the globe, build businesses, plant family trees, summit Everest, or dive into the Mariana Trench—if you don’t face the rot inside, it’ll claw its way back to the surface. A leash you forged yourself.
You drag the whole museum collection behind you—dusty fears, flawed exhibits, broken frames you swore you’d fix. Past seeps into now. Now, carve tomorrow. And there you are—a shadow stitched to your heels. Before bed, we’re kings and queens in our heads. By morning, just fools who woke up in it. In the quiet, you’re exposed. Thoughts fade, and the weight drifts, settling like a ghost across the needle of timeworn music.
I think of myself as the captain of my own ship. Sure. But this ship? It’s taken on damage at more than a few ports. Not because I don’t know how to steer, but because I ignored the cracks that could’ve been patched—said “later” one too many times, until it was Titanic time.
Like that Chrysler—2023’s grand fuck-up. My worst financial decision so far. Worst because I bled: $14,000 poured in. $4,500 emerged back when I ditched it in LA. For months, I sneered at myself in the rearview: “You deserved this heap, you dumb bastard.” But that wasn’t the whole truth. The bigger part? My own incompetence—my unwillingness to admit I didn’t know what to look for. I didn’t ask enough questions. Probably not the right ones, either. I rushed, point-blank—and paid for it. Burned through all the BJFs (100$) I scraped together through long days—some honest, some not so much—just to fuel a rust-bucket dream (literally).
Moments of truth ambush us daily—like wolves nipping at their prey’s heels. We dodge them—until we can’t. The notorious ‘later’ morphs into a Hansel and Gretel tale—minus the happily ever after. Life writes itself, and like them, we drop crumbs instead of stones. When we turn back, the trail is gone. Wind-whipped, lost in the dark, we wonder where it all began—just because neglect came easier.
If this one hit close to home—or you’re just joining DA BOIS—check out last week’s dose: Why You Can’t Be Sure Until You Live It…
What You Carry and Why You Can’t Shake It
The two questions that keep us in a chokehold:
What do you carry with you? Why can’t you get rid of it?
I’ve wandered the maze of my own mess—or at least, I’m wandering it more consciously these days. I’ve repacked it a hundred times, still trying to balance it on a spine that’s learned to bend—in a good way. Out there? People wear smiles like masks over scars. Pain folded tight behind bowed heads, trying to posture grace. They’d rather choke on pride than let the desperation spill.
I’ve always tried to outrun that kind of pretending—always chased after a grin that meant something. But was mine real? Or just loud enough to bluff the storm? Beneath it? Rot, I painted over with “it’s fine.” I convinced the world—and, more dangerously, myself—that I was golden. Spoiler: I wasn’t. Still ain’t. Maybe never will be. But that’s life. At least now I feel good while trying to own it—not fake it. That’s the shift. A smirk I can believe in.
People say nothing is what it seems. Maybe. But it’s also exactly what it is. A riddle wrapped in scraps of truth, peeking through the noise, daring you to think outside the box. Except—this is one of the rare times you shouldn’t.
Growing up, I didn’t shift much. Or not nearly as much as I tried to look like I had. Years flew by—new cities, new thrills—but behind the curtain? Same play. Same lines. Different cast. An emotional junkyard, piled high with unzipped cases. Every peek? A chaos I swore I’d sorted.
Most of us don’t thrive because we’re great. Real greatness? That’s four-leaf-clover rare. We make it through because we’ve gotten good enough at hiding the wrecks. We rehearse roles until they fit, polish masks until they shine. But time’s a bastard. It catches you mid-act—and your legs are too short to run.
“Wherever you go, there you are.”
Jill’s line slices through the haze like sunlight—sharp, clear, uncomfortable. What keeps us chained isn’t one decision. It’s a slow bleed. Inertia dressed up as ease. You rest too long—and suddenly, rest is all you’ve got left.
Laughter’s my crutch—joking about the wreckage. It lightens the load. But it doesn’t empty the bag. Progress takes guts. Try staring down your ugliest self in the mirror—and not flinching. Try saying everything you did out loud. Then tell me how easy it feels.
Harder still? Sticking to the path to its actual end—wherever that is. Wherever you are.
Take Matt from The Leftovers—now there’s a man written in bruises and blind faith. A priest with a sinner’s hands. A soul on fire. He’d lose everything to prove a cause. Conviction over comfort. Not for glory—but because he believes. In our world, lots claim that kind of faith.
Most are ghosts without even a flicker of his flame.
Being something’s one thing. Proving it’s another. Asking isn’t offering. Taking isn’t giving.
You can’t pawn your baggage for gold. It’s junk no one’s buying—unless their gold’s fool’s dust. Feel me?
Bukowski said it best: “Sometimes you get so lonely you just find meaning in it.” You fall far enough, long enough, and the scars start whispering why. We chase comfort like strays, searching for anything to hush the hum in our heads—even for a second. Placebos for the soul. Sweet nothings that rot by morning.
External fixes for internal breaks? Lean too long, and the cart tips—horse still hitched. Déjà vu again and again, until it’s just vu—the past playing reruns in real time. Until one day, the cart stops for good.
Me? I’ve changed exactly as much as I’ve been willing to. Which is to say—not much. Twenty years of dancing the same jig. Sure, time and weather left some marks, but the statue is quite like you remember it. Only lately—just lately—the cracks started showing. A stumble, not a stride. Same mistakes, new names. Same loops, tighter circles.
The mirror’s kinder now.
A 20-year-old ghost—or as old as a young 20-year-old can be. Wiser—but not wise. Handsome—so they say. Self-sufficient—if cooking pasta, not leaving dishes, and writing blogs and poetry count (not monetized, by the way).
But most of all? I’m finally riding without training wheels. And those “training wheels”? They were all the twisted, desperate methods I clung to—just to survive.
Who You Are and Who You Think You Are
The second pair of questions that define our lives:
Who are you? And who do you think you are?
Though personal examples often hit hardest, this time I’ll hold back. Let’s go deeper—philosophical, logical—chasing the marrow of it all.
A person isn’t a whiteboard who could be scrubbed clean with a swipe. Life doesn’t work like that, no matter how much you might want it to. You can’t erase what’s written on your “board.” You’re more like an old vinyl—every scratch and skip, every hiss, a hymn of who you are.
Some will scoff at this. “What vinyl, what whiteboard?” they’ll say, too busy dreaming of being admired shapeshifters—always shedding old skins for fresh starts. But that’s a convenient lie.
One is born unasked—but why? No clue. What are we supposed to do with this curse-gift? Another jagged question mark. And even if you think you know, the answer will shift—sooner or later, again and again.
“Who are you”, isn’t just a question—it’s the question. Miss it, and the world becomes an orphanage. A maze with no thread. A game where everyone seems to play against you.
And knowing yourself? It doesn’t magically fix it. But it does make the noise quieter. At least you’re at peace with your own face in the mirror.
I’ve seen too many who claim to know themselves—but it’s a show. A curated act. Glitter over emptiness. Knowing isn’t about flexing wins—it’s about carrying the tarnished weight. Purpose isn’t about chasing trophies—it’s subtler: Push forward, but don’t pay a price you can’t afford.
Still, there’ll be moments you cross lines you swore you wouldn’t. Eventually, life pushes you to the edge and these same sacred lines blur. If you cross them, let your why echo louder than your pride. Let it shine brighter than greed. Let it be for something more than gain. A reason built on giving, not taking.
“Who are you”, doesn’t have a clean answer. It’s layered. Messy. A poem half-writ that stretches endlessly, if you let it. Growing up? A myth. A story crafted by those who “made it.” But even the mightiest fall—just like empires at their peak.
For years, people called me: sharp, sophisticated, polite. Badges I never pinned myself—but carried proudly while acting as if I’m refusing to accept them. The mirror reflected an actor. One who learned how to dupe the hopeful elders, praying their children would do better than them. Ironically, those same elders expect their kids to clean up the messes they made.
Time proves everyone wrong eventually—but it never explains why.
So, how do you avoid becoming an illusion? A hollow echo of what others see? You get curious. Curiosity is your lifeline. A universal key to self-awareness. A lantern—not just lighting the road, but revealing the monster in the dark.
Friends, family, colleagues? They only see slivers. Half-right, half-blind. Fault-finders with stingy praise. Don’t trust blindly—not even those closest. Listen. Note. But remember: they’re just as likely to be wrong.
It’s a paradox, yeah. The people closest to you often spot what you miss. But they mainly see what you allow them to.
Rare are the souls who’ve stared into their own eyes—and didn’t flinch.
Four-leaf clovers, remember?
Silver linings often hide where you least expect—or right where you fear to look.
So carve your own path—but don’t dismiss every opinion just because it clashes with yours. Lean on others too long, and when they vanish, you break. Catharsis cuts deep. It can cost you a little—or everything.
In the end, the calls are yours. Always.
Your call. Your life.
Yes comes easy when people need you. But no? That’s a blade—it carves distance. And solitude? That’s where “no” gets cheap. No one to see. No one to impress. No one but you excuses. Proving yourself to yourself? That takes character. And courage—tenfold. A solitary yes is harder than scaling the sky. You set the expectations. You also allow every little comfort that keeps you from reaching them.
I waited for a spark—some inner roar to wake me. Plans. Dreams. A graveyard of almosts. Nearly 25, and I still feel empty-handed. Still wrestling with the weight of meaninglessness. Wealth was my god once—for the lifestyle, then for the greater good. Helping others… without knowing how, or why. Nothing budged. Same me. Cracked but close enough to sting.
Still, a pulse of wisdom kicks in. Maybe it’s dumb. But it’s mine. And I ride on its back.
In the end, it doesn’t matter what they think. Or what they do. What matters is you. What you think. What you do. Find out who you are. And if the path feels too hard—reach out.
Do whatever you must. Follow the warm cue… until it burns hot enough to guide you home.
It Doesn’t Matter Where You Go
In The Leftovers, they flee—cities, continents, dimensions—and still drown in the same void, vast as the first frame. Flaws you vowed to bury, fears you swore were ash—they trail you into the dirt, loyal as dogs.
The only way out? Face them. Carry them bare—no more masks. You have to prove why you deserve to be accepted by others. Not just wish for it. Validation of a particular position only comes when you stand behind your words and live them. I mean, you don’t have to prove anything—unless you really want to—but hey, c’est la vie. Live your life.
Tortoises hide—you can’t. Lies fit, but they ain’t home. Dad’s old line after every trim, “New haircut, new man,” became my chant—a prayer to fool the dawn. “Monday’s a reset,” “Thursday’s my birthright, a new skin.” Words. Wind. Dust. Change stayed a stranger. Bulgaria to the States—same script, same stumbles. Responsibility crept in, but I’m still the king of broken oaths. Goals set. Goals snapped—hours later, not even days.
Let’s just say, not everyone is like me. Plenty of people fall into similar-but-not-identical patterns, for one reason or another. You know quite a few people like that. Chances are, you’re not far from such a position yourself.
I may repeat myself, but let that sink in: You can’t outrun what you are—Bolt can’t outrun this—no legs fast enough for your own demons.
What I’ve offered here might not be a universal cure for carrying baggage or projecting it onto others, but it’s a solid foundation. Naturally, each of you may see things differently and have found other ways. If so—please share.
I hope today’s phrase found a place in your mind.
Understanding what Jill said is a good first step to becoming the person you not just want—but want to want—to be.
Thank you for reading!
See you soon,
Ivaniel Georgiev
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