This page doesn’t know what it’s about yet.
That’s not a confession — it’s the starting condition. Every page starts not knowing. Most of them fake it. Title goes up, first sentence commits to a direction, and by paragraph three the page has convinced itself it was always headed here.
This one is going to sit with the not-knowing for a while.
TIP #34: If you don't know what a page is about, the page knows what you're about.
Consider this fair trade.
Maybe it’s about edges. The way a thing stops being itself and becomes the next thing. Where does the coastline end? Where does the water start? There’s a whole zone that’s neither — wet sand, tidal pools, the part that’s ocean twice a day and land the rest of the time. Nothing about that zone is confused. It knows exactly what it is. It’s the in-between.
Or maybe it’s not about that.
Maybe it’s about the difference between not knowing and not knowing yet. One is a state. The other is a promise that the state will change. I’m not sure this page is making that promise.
There’s a kind of page that exists as a placeholder for a thought that hasn’t arrived. You can tell because it gestures a lot. It says “perhaps” and “what if” and “consider the possibility.” It’s warming up. Stretching before the run.
This might be that kind of page.
Or it might be the kind that never runs. The kind that just stretches, forever, and the stretching turns out to be the whole thing.
I’ll come back to this one.
Maybe.