Why I Started Writing Blogs

It started like most things: with too many tabs open.

At first I just wanted to write things down so I wouldn’t forget them. Then I wanted to make sense of them. Then I wanted them to make sense of me.

Now I’m several blogs deep and I don’t know what’s real anymore.

I could’ve journaled in a notebook like a normal person. But no — I had to commit my emotional spirals to version-controlled markdown.

I write blogs because the act of hitting cmd+s feels like proof that I still exist.

I write because the thoughts are too weird for Twitter but too structured for therapy.

I write because yelling into a void is easier when the void renders HTML.

It wasn’t supposed to be this serious.

One day I was writing about KV caches and LangChain. The next I was comparing my brain to a corrupted Git repo and asking if God logs to /dev/null.

I don’t know when my blog stopped being about projects and started being about whatever is left of me after the projects end.

Now I write like I’m narrating my own postmortem.

ChatGPT can summarize, synthesize, even mimic tone. But it can’t unravel a human the way a blog post can.

My blogs are messy. Self-indulgent. Looped in recursion and contradiction. You don’t skim them, you survive them.

They are the software equivalent of yelling into a cloud API and getting back a hug.

But I will keep writing.

Not because I want to teach or perform or optimize. But because somewhere in the middle of all the paragraphs, there’s a moment that feels like me.

And in a world where everything else is tokenized, queued, and inference-tuned — that’s worth something.

Even if no one reads it. Even if it breaks the build.

Even if I have to render it myself.