A week ago, talking with a colleague, the question came up: so, what’s next? It made me feel uneasy because I didn’t have a clear answer. I wish I could’ve said “Well, I don’t know” but instead I said, without thinking: what’s next is… nothing. Nothing else.
That day I was tired, I’d gone out over the weekend (after a long time of not doing that) and I wasn’t in the best mood. Still, the answer surprised me, because it felt like I wasn’t really deciding anything: what’s next is nothing.
When I got back to the hotel, I asked myself again: so, what’s next? And honestly, part of me wants there to be nothing else, no matter the context or the tiredness of that day. If, after all these years, I wanted there to be nothing else, what would be the reason? I made a list, and one of the reasons was “sadness”, not the sadness of someone crying in front of a mirror, tbh, but of someone looking around, enjoying what’s there, even feeling joy… until that feeling slowly fades and is replaced by a deep wish to return to silence and anonymity.
Right now, anonymity isn’t possible, I’m writing, you’re reading, and I’m still sharing my projects. But do I really want to keep making things? Am I tired? Am I bored? I still have another book to release this year, and it feels strange to feel this way… because 2025 was supposed to be a year to make things happen, to finally hold my work in my hands. And now that I have it… why don’t I feel anything? Why do I feel so empty, yet so fascinated by being alive and by the idea of still creating, even in uncertainty?