Aletheia

“happiness is the awareness of an overall and enduring state of satisfaction in a meaningful existence founded on truth.”

[rustyorga]

I was walking home last night and for some reason I started thinking about How I Met Your Mother—I don’t even know why, maybe it was the cold or the way the streetlights looked or just one of those days you get hit with memories that don’t even belong to the moment. But I realised… damn, I’ve been living like Ted Mosby. And not the cute version. The broken one. The stubborn one who kept romanticising love even after it kept wrecking him. That’s been me, hasn’t it?

Jess was Robin. No question. The kind of love that shaped my entire twenties. The one that felt like home even if it kept changing its address. I think I spent almost a decade convincing myself that it would all be worth it. That if I just waited a little longer or tried a little harder, things would finally align. But they didn’t. And maybe they were never supposed to. I look back now and it’s like… how did we keep going that long? How did we carry something that heavy for so long and still pretend it was light? Maybe because we both wanted it to work so badly we started mistaking the effort for the reward. I don’t blame her. I don’t think I ever will. But it’s hard not to blame myself sometimes for letting it get that far, for holding on even when I was already slipping.

Then Marga. She’s Victoria. Walked into my life at a point when I was unraveling and didn’t even know it. She didn’t save me, but she showed me something I hadn’t had in years—presence. Someone who could actually be there, in the same time zone, in the same room, in the same mundane little moments. And I tried to love her, I really did. But I think part of me was still stuck in a different timeline. I was showing up physically, but emotionally I was dragging all this luggage she never even packed for. That wasn’t fair to her. And I guess that’s why it couldn’t last.

And then there’s Ela. God. Stella. The irony of it all. This tiny flicker of hope I didn’t expect. I don’t even know if I believed in fresh starts at that point, but with her, I was like—maybe. Maybe this time, it’s quieter, more grown up. But just as I was finally leaning into that… she chose to go back. Not in a cruel way. Just in a… “not you, not this” kind of way. It stung. Still stings, sometimes. Luckily, she didn’t leave me at the altar. Small wins, right?

I’ve been Ted Mosby this whole time. The overthinker. The romantic. The guy who tells too many stories about why things didn’t work but still clings to the hope that one day it will. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe being Ted just means you’re still trying. That you haven’t given up on the idea that love—real, stable, imperfect love—is out there. Somewhere.

And maybe the yellow umbrella isn’t even a person. Maybe it’s a version of me that’s finally at peace with all of this. That no longer needs to chase old loves or rewrite endings that were already final. Maybe the yellow umbrella is the ability to sit in a cold flat in London and not feel like I’m running from anything anymore.

I don’t know. I still miss them, sometimes all at once. I still wonder if I’ll ever get it right. But I’m still here. I’m still showing up. And maybe that’s what matters right now.

[rustyorga]

I think I found it. A place that made me feel calm in ways I didn’t know I needed. Sherborne is small, quiet, old, but there’s something about it that made me feel like I could breathe again. Maybe it’s the slower pace or how everything is just within walking distance. Maybe it’s the way people greet you with a smile like they’ve known you a while. Maybe it’s the silence, the kind that doesn’t make you feel alone.

It was my first time there. I stayed with Lucy and Tim, who were the most gracious hosts, and I was just so surprised at how at home I felt. Coming from London where everything is fast and heavy and transactional, this place felt like a soft landing. Even though it’s mostly white people, I never felt out of place. People would look at me, but not in the weird way. It was the kind of look that feels like curiosity, like kindness. Not once did I feel judged. I even learned they have a Pride march there, which honestly I didn’t expect. Progressive in the quietest way possible.

I spent a good part of the weekend just walking around. I found myself in Sherborne Abbey, sitting in one of the pews, looking up at this huge, golden ceiling and stained glass windows that have seen more history than I can ever imagine. And for a moment I just sat there. No phone. No agenda. I think I just needed to feel small again, but in a way that’s comforting. Like the world is big but it’s not against you.

I also found the most amazing secondhand bookshop. Lost track of time in there. Ended up buying this old design book for £9.50. Then walked into a vintage store and found an actual framed artwork for £30. Not a print. Original. My jaw dropped. In London, £30 won’t even buy you lunch. I wanted to laugh.

I met new people too. Friends of Lucy and Tim. Some of them surf. They said the beach is just an hour away. I never thought I’d find surf friends in a little town like this. Suddenly, everything felt possible. Like I could build something here. A life that isn’t built on proving things.

What hit me the most was that I didn’t feel the need to explain myself the whole weekend. I wasn’t the immigrant. I wasn’t the outsider. I was just a person visiting, laughing, walking, reading, sitting quietly in a church.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just romanticising because it was such a good weekend. But maybe not. Maybe this is what it feels like when a place doesn’t ask too much of you.

Sherborne, I think I’ll be back.

[rustyorga]

Fuck Work

I just got back from leave and everything already feels like a mess. There’s a big presentation tomorrow and I only found out about it today. They waited for me to return before anything started. It’s like they just froze until I came back. And now all of a sudden I’m supposed to lead it, pull something together in less than a day, and pretend like this was the plan all along. I don’t get it. There was time. They had time. But nothing moved. Nothing was pushed. And now I’m stuck doing all of it under pressure because people couldn’t be bothered to act while I was gone.

I’m starting to realize that doing good can sometimes backfire on you. Not because it’s wrong to care. But because people start to expect it. They build around it. And without saying anything, they stop showing up the way they should because they know you will. They know you’ll make it work. That you’ll pick it up. That you’ll figure it out even if no one else has moved.

Weird because I never did any of this to be the hero. I just wanted things to work. I just wanted to help people get it right. I thought that was a good thing. But now I’m seeing how that turns into a trap. Like just today—I got back from leave and boom. A big presentation due tomorrow. And guess what? Nothing was prepared. Everyone just waited. Like the clock stopped until I came back. And now I’m supposed to carry it. Pull it together. Present something clear and confident like I’ve been involved this whole time. I can do it. I will. But it’s not okay. And then when I try to explain or guide—just to move things forward—I get questioned. Like I’m being too detailed or too controlling. But I’m not doing this to micromanage. I’m doing it because strategy means nothing if no one understands how to activate it. I’ve worked in markets. I know how easy it is for ideas to die in decks. So I try to ground it. I try to build a bridge between thinking and doing. But instead of support, I get resistance. And that’s the part that breaks me. Because it’s not just the extra work—it’s the energy it takes to convince people to care.

I don’t know. Maybe part of this is on me too. For always stepping in. For always making it work. For not drawing the line sooner. I thought I was being helpful. I thought I was keeping things together. But now it just feels like I’m carrying something everyone else quietly stepped away from. And that’s a lonely place to be. Because no one sees the weight. They only see that it got done.

So yeah. Doing good isn’t always the win you think it is. Sometimes it just makes you the easiest person to leave the work to. And the worst part is, you keep doing it—because you care. Because it matters to you. Because deep down you still want to believe people will eventually meet you halfway.

But they don’t. Not always. And that’s what’s starting to hurt.

[rustyorga]

I was eleven when I entered the seminary. I still think about that a lot. How young I was. How quiet life felt back then. And how much of me wanted to feel chosen. Not in a grand holy way. Just in a way that made me feel like I was headed somewhere certain. I didn’t really know what it meant to say yes to that life. I just knew it felt safe. Structured. Like I had a purpose. But looking back now I think that was the start of this thing in me that’s never stopped searching. For meaning. For direction. For a way to be good. And maybe that’s the part that’s stayed with me the most. I never learned how to just exist. I always had to be moving toward something. Becoming someone. Fixing something. Carrying something.

And since then it’s just been this long line of decisions that all feel connected somehow. Like no matter how far I get from that twelve-year-old version of me he still shows up in the way I try so hard to make the right choices. Or the way I beat myself up when I don’t. I can trace so many parts of my life back to moments that didn’t seem like a big deal at the time. Saying yes to a job. Letting go of someone I loved. Staying when I should’ve left. Leaving when I should’ve stayed. And now I look around at the life I’m in and it all feels like it was built on those little turns. Those small gut decisions that ended up shaping entire seasons of who I became. Some of them brought me here. Some of them still hurt when I think about them. Not all mistakes feel like disasters. Some of them just feel unfinished. Like they’re still unfolding in the background. Like they’re waiting for me to figure out what I’m supposed to learn from them.

I get these nights where everything I’ve done just comes back to me. Not loud. Just there. Sitting with me. The things I could’ve done better. The things I still don’t understand. It’s not regret. Not really. It’s more like this quiet ache. Like ghosts that don’t want to scare you. Something that lingers. They just want to be remembered. And sometimes I can live with it. Sometimes I can’t. But I think I’ve accepted that this is how life is. That some answers never come. That some people never come back. That some choices will never stop feeling heavy. And even then I still want to believe that maybe these things are leading somewhere. That maybe one day the pain will turn into something else. Something softer. Something that makes sense.

I’m trying to be okay with the fact that I won’t get closure for everything. That not every story ends with a clean resolution. That sometimes the best thing I can do is keep going anyway. And I don’t mean that in a strong or inspiring way. I just mean I wake up and I try. I work. I show up. I miss people. I carry things I don’t talk about. And I hope that’s enough. I hope this version of me is allowed to move forward. Even if I’m still haunted by the parts of me I left behind. Even if I still wonder what would’ve happened if I did things differently.

I don’t know what this life is building toward. But I’m still here. And I think maybe that means something.

[rustyorga]

I thought this was the 'dream'

Some days it just fucking hits harder than others. It’s not even about being homesick — it’s about that invisible fucking wall you feel when you realize you don’t belong anywhere here the way you used to belong back home. And it’s not even anyone’s fault most of the time. People here aren’t rude, they’re just… indifferent. And sometimes indifference is worse. At least when someone’s rude, you know where you stand. But being invisible? Feeling like you have to prove that you’re not just “another immigrant” the second you open your mouth or walk into a room — that shit’s exhausting.

And yeah, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I knew coming here would mean starting over. But no one tells you how fucking heavy it feels to build a whole new life when you’re already carrying the weight of who you had to be to survive where you came from.

Back home, you walk around and you’re just… you. Here, you’re the brown guy with the accent. The “maybe he works at a takeaway” guy even if you’re wearing a Rolex that you fucking earned with every goddamn sleepless night back home. It’s humiliating and funny and heartbreaking all at once, and sometimes I honestly don’t know whether to laugh or smash something.

And yeah, maybe I’m older now, and maybe it’s the heart shit too that makes me a little more careful — a little more aware of how short everything actually is — but man, I feel it. I feel how much more it costs now to keep showing up. To keep choosing to be myself instead of shrinking into what would make other people more comfortable. And it pisses me off that it’s even a choice I have to keep making. It shouldn’t be.

But I guess that’s life. You can either let it harden you or make you more certain of who you are. I’m trying to choose the second one. Even if it’s lonelier sometimes. Even if it would be easier to just blend in. I keep telling myself that finding your place doesn’t mean changing your whole self to fit. It just means being stubborn enough to wait until the right people, the right spaces, find you too.

I don’t have the answers yet.

[rustyorga]

To Live A Full Life

The fragility of life has taught me that a life well-lived can be meaningful, and not just a pursuit of hedonism.

I’ve been thinking about this idea of living a full life and how, for the longest time, I thought it meant making the most out of every moment. Filling the calendar. Saying yes. Working hard. Loving hard. Getting it all right. And I really tried—I said yes to so many things that felt like they would add to some invisible checklist of what a “full life” should be. But when I look back now, the moments that feel the fullest weren’t always the ones where I was happy. They were the ones that left a mark. The ones that stretched me. The ones where I was forced to confront something I didn’t want to admit. Like how I wasn’t okay, or how I hurt someone I loved, or how I didn’t know who I was anymore. It’s strange how the most important moments rarely announce themselves. They just slip in quietly—an argument in the car, a random conversation you can’t forget, an instinct you ignored. And then suddenly you’re in a chapter of your life you didn’t expect, trying to make sense of how you got there.

There’s a lot of irony in the life I’ve lived so far. I used to dream about building something that would take me far. And now that I’m here—or close to it, at least—I find myself looking back more than forward. And it’s not regret exactly. It’s more like a quiet knowing that some things can never be undone, only understood in hindsight. I think about all the people I’ve loved, and how timing has always played such a cruel role. Like the universe had a twisted sense of humor. You wait and wait for something to fall into place, and then when it finally does, you’ve already become someone else. Or they have. And you’re left trying to pretend that it’s all still possible, even when your gut knows it’s not. That kind of heartbreak doesn’t come with a big dramatic scene. It just lingers. Quietly. Like an old song you randomly hear in a café and suddenly can’t shake for the rest of the day.

I don’t know. Maybe this is what fullness actually is. Not the Instagram reel version, not the highlight reel or the storybook ending—but the quiet reconciliation with all the versions of yourself that didn’t get what they wanted. The dreams that didn’t pan out. The words you couldn’t say. The chances you didn’t take. It’s not always beautiful. Most of the time it’s uncomfortable. But weirdly, I feel more alive in those moments than I ever did in the picture-perfect ones. Maybe that’s what this phase is teaching me. That fullness isn’t loud. It’s not performative. It’s just real. And sometimes it looks like confronting the fact that you’re not proud of how things ended with someone. That you wish you were braver. That you wish time worked differently. That you wish “I’m sorry” fixed more than it actually does.

I think if I were to be brutally honest with myself, I’d say I’m still learning how to live fully. And part of that is learning how to let go without feeling like I’ve failed. To stop needing closure to move forward. To accept that the people I love may never understand the version of me I am today, and that maybe that’s okay. But part of me still wants to fix it. Not out of guilt, but out of love. Because when you know better, when you’re finally awake, you want to go back. You want to say, “I get it now. Let me do this differently.” And maybe that’s not realistic. But if I don’t at least try… then what was all of this for?

[rustyorga]

Akkaw🤘🏼 #baler #vscocam (at Lobbot Beach, Dipaculao, Aurora)

[rustyorga]

Stoked🤘🏼 #baler #surf #vhonvoyageph (at The BBC)

[rustyorga]

#vscocam Jack and stoked! #baler (at Diteki River)

[jessamylund]

[rustyorga]

[rustyorga]

[quotemadness]

Build your own dreams, or someone else will hire you to build theirs.

Farrah Gray (via quotemadness)

[peytonfulford]

[rustyorga]

you can never give what you never have

[rustyorga]

Song for Zula

Some say love consumes you, but I say it traps you, changes you, exposes you.

I opened myself up to that kind of love, a love that made me struggle so in its cage. But I won't do it again.

When I'm free of this love. I will not ever be trapped in its cage again, but instead be free to run light and unchained, not caged and waiting to be killed by such a fickle thing as love.

All of you who have been burned by love...standing there in the glass created by that fiery ring of your own love...will see me unburdened by it. If I was free from this love, you would see me strong again. A killer myself, not a victim of one.

[rustyorga]

#vscocam went to a lunch meeting wearing slippers and socks because I left my shoes at home😂 (at Little India Healthy Cuisine)

[rustyorga]