The Last Chapter
I would rather have questions that can't be answered than answers that can't be questioned.
I’m closing this Substack.
Why I Wrote
Writing is how I process things.
These essays were me synthesising the past. The mistakes. The lessons that cost the most to learn.
Some of you probably noticed: this was also me processing pain in the present. Writing as therapy. Old stories get told, and somehow the pain attached to them fades.
It worked.
What’s Next
Old stories are told. Pain no longer there.
The future isn’t something you write about. The future is something you build.
Stay Connected
To everyone who read these essays—thank you. I have your emails, and I’ll figure out how we stay in touch.
Simplest way for now: twitter.com/_bloomt
If—
One last thing.
This poem stuck with me through everything. Maybe it’ll stick with you too.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!— Ivan