Matigo dot See, eh?

A little over a decade ago, I stopped keeping up with the ever-changing tech landscape. Sites like TechCrunch, Ars Technica, Engadget, and The Verge made it clear that people like me were no longer welcome—that the world would be better off if I simply stood aside while more "compassionate" voices shaped the future. The result was a rapid expansion of Usenet- and 4chan-like vitriol, combined with a condescending form of censorship across the English-speaking Internet. I wanted no part of it. Instead, I retreated to my own little playgrounds—10Centuries and various Lesson Management Systems used by schools around the world.

Over the past six months, however, I’ve been trying to re-engage, to understand how the average person uses technology today and whether someone with an entrepreneurial spirit can still carve out a living—without becoming an "influencer" chasing the meme of the day.

Despite hundreds of hours spent reading articles, watching self-proclaimed experts on YouTube, and engaging in online discussions, I still don’t have an answer. Worse, I’m starting to question whether I have anything left to offer the world that a machine can't replicate. The things I enjoy most—software development, photography, writing, even driving—can now be done faster and more efficiently by AI. Sure, machine-generated work lacks the spark of human creativity, but technically speaking, the results are flawless.

Systems like Bolt.new can write software at a junior developer level. Sora and similar models generate hyper-realistic images with a deep understanding of artistic composition. DeepSeek produces some of the best 800-word articles you’ll find. Tesla’s self-driving technology is advancing to the point where people may soon travel from point A to B without ever looking up from their screens. For most people, the output of these tools are already "good enough" to employ full time.

So where does that leave me? Will I need to flip burgers or stock shelves just to pay the bills and enjoy my passions as hobbies? That was fine when I was 17 and working at Burger King, but I’m quite a bit older now. And at the rate AI-powered robotics are improving, even those jobs might soon be automated.

In December, I agreed to terminate my employment contract in mid-March, once a few projects were completed. Since then, I’ve had several job interviews, but none of the companies could offer what I need: at least 80% of my current take-home pay and complete transparency in the workplace. The money wasn’t usually the problem—the real sticking point was transparency. Every employer seemed to expect me to tolerate dishonesty. I refused.

No, thank you. I played that game for far too long, and it cost me everything of value.

For decades, friends have told me I should run my own business, doing what I love, because they see the value in it. I appreciate the sentiment, but turning that vision into reality is incredibly difficult. Fortunately, difficult doesn’t mean impossible.

The Internet has changed dramatically over the past decade. There were things I thought I understood, only to realise I was years out of date. But one pattern keeps emerging, especially among people over 40: artificial burnout. People are tired of fake things. AI-generated images feel frustrating rather than whimsical. Movies that rely too heavily on CGI are losing their appeal. YouTube videos with AI-generated voices and stock footage are dismissed without a second thought.

People are growing tired of constantly asking, "Is this real?" Instead, they just want real things.

That, I believe, is an opportunity—for anyone looking to earn a living, or even just a little extra, from creative pursuits. Transparency. Honesty. Reality. Those who can offer these things may find a highly receptive audience.

And that’s exactly where I plan to focus my energy.

This morning I woke up before the alarm and looked outside. The sun had already made its way over the horizon, banishing shadows and warming the air. With March just around the corner, weather forecasts are offering plenty of reasons to focus more on the weekend than whatever might be in front of us. Today was no different, with an expected high of 15˚C by the early afternoon. I made a mental note and started the morning routine. With any luck, Ayumi and I would have the chance to visit one of her favourite parks in the neighbouring city at lunchtime.

Our morning was incredibly routine. Ayumi enjoyed a little walk around the neighbourhood, and I took a shower shortly after returning home. From there, I signed into work and started documenting some of the projects I’ve worked on, sending emails here and there as the need arose. As lunchtime edged closer, I checked the mercury outside to see whether we would go for a walk around our neighbourhood or make a trek into Kasugai to Ayumi’s favourite park. The temperature reached 15˚ just before one o’clock, sealing the decision. We would drive to Ayumi’s favourite park, and because it was warm enough for her, we’d do it with the top down—the first time in months.

Ayumi has not been in the car for weeks. When the temperatures hover around freezing, she’s not at all interested in travelling beyond our little neighbourhood. This is something I’ve often found odd because the inside of the vehicle is heated, and she’s wrapped in blankets when I see she’s cold. However, Ayumi is very consistent with her preferences. If she doesn’t like something, she will choose to do something else or argue the point. Fortunately, the weather was in our favour, as the puppy was more than happy to walk to the car and take her spot in the passenger seat.

The trip to the park was absolutely wonderful. People looked at Ayumi hanging over the passenger-side door as we passed by. The wind pushed her ears back, and her nose worked overtime to take in as much of the warm pre-spring air as she could manage. As we pulled into the parking lot, she started to make excited noises. She knew where she was, and she wanted to go explore!

These past few months have been rather boring for Ayumi. She does enjoy sniffing around the neighbourhood parks, and we do have several different routes to keep things fresh. But she’s been inside more than usual on account of the colder temperatures. The weather in this part of the country is not much different from where we used to live until last year, but the winter air will cut through jackets and sweaters very easily. Ayumi’s fur, while impressive, is far too domesticated to block everything.

As we meandered through the puppy’s favourite park, I thought about the trip to Kyūshū that I had planned for mid-March, coinciding with the end of my employment contract. Could we make the trip without spending too much money? Is it a good idea, or just a passing dream? If I plan on being mostly self-employed, taking a week or two to tour the southern prefectures seems a little risky. That time could be spent building, promoting, and communicating. However, Japan’s springtime temperatures are here for just a few short weeks before the crushing heat and humidity of summer arrives. If we don’t go in March, we may not have another opportunity until late October.

Am I just being selfish? Childish? Unrealistically optimistic? Perhaps.

But when I look at Ayumi’s smile when we’re outside, and when I remember the fun we had for those few days in Kōchi last year, I can’t help but think the time away would do us both some good. It may not be possible to visit every prefecture in Kyūshū, but we could visit one or two.

There will be ten days between the end of my employment and the earliest I can register with the unemployment office. Those ten days coincide with the very start of Cherry Blossom Season in Nagasaki Prefecture, a place with dozens of free camping grounds. If we avoid the toll highways, a weeklong trip could be had for less than $300—half of which would be for gas.

It’s tempting. Very tempting. And as I watched Ayumi soaking in the fresh air today, I couldn’t help but wonder—why not?

Where does the time go? Two years ago today Ayumi and I met at a pet shop in Adachi and became a "pack of two". In the 700+ days that have passed since we've met multitudes of dogs, visited numerous parks, and explored a great many prefectures. What's more, it feels like we’re just getting started.

Reflecting on these past two years, I’m amazed at how much Ayumi has taught me—not just about dogs, but about myself and the simple joys in life. Her curious spirit encourages me to see the world through fresh eyes, whether it’s the joy of discovering a new path in a park or simply enjoying the sound of the wind through the trees. Ayumi has a way of grounding me, reminding me to slow down and savour the little moments.

Together, we’ve covered countless kilometres on the road, chasing new horizons. From sunlit mountain trails to quiet beaches, Ayumi’s excitement is always contagious. It doesn’t matter how far we drive or where we end up; her wagging tail and eager steps remind me that every journey is worthwhile, as long as we’re together.

Life with Ayumi hasn’t been without its challenges—adjusting to her quirks, navigating through moments of stubbornness, and ensuring she’s happy and healthy are ongoing responsibilities I gladly embrace. Every effort is rewarded tenfold when she looks up at me with that unmistakable sparkle in her eyes. She may not understand how much she means to me, but I’m determined to show her every single day.

As we celebrate this milestone, I can’t help but feel immense gratitude. Ayumi has brought light and companionship into my life in ways I never imagined. Here's to the adventures we’ve shared, the lessons we’ve learned, and the many more waiting on the horizon. We’re just getting started, and I couldn’t be more excited for the road ahead.

A friend recently reminded me that he doesn’t enjoy driving. It wasn’t a complaint, just a statement of fact. For him, driving is a means to an end—a process of getting from A to B. He described it as frustrating, filled with too many red lights, too many inattentive drivers, and too little reward. He feels drained by the experience and probably arrives at his destination wishing he had taken another mode of transport.

It's remarkable how many people have the same opinion, wishing that cars were all self-driving or that the transporters seen in Star Trek were options today. This is a completely different perspective from mine, as moving from one place to another is not just about reaching a destination, but the journey itself. The act of driving—especially without a fixed itinerary—can be a meditative, liberating experience. While my friend prefers to avoid the road altogether, I find myself longing for the next stretch of asphalt winding through mountains, the sun dipping low in the sky, and the possibility of discovering something new around the next bend.

Out of curiosity, I suggested we take a drive together. Not the kind he’s accustomed to, through the stop-and-go streets of a busy city, but a meandering journey into the mountains, where red lights are few and the drivers fewer. “You might enjoy it,” I said, trying to pique his interest.

But he politely declined. And that’s fine. Everyone is different. Not every passion is meant to be shared. Still, I couldn’t help but reflect on what it is about driving that brings me so much joy and how those moments on the road have shaped some of the most memorable experiences of my life.

There’s something special about setting off with no particular destination in mind. The road ahead feels infinite, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with whatever sights and experiences the day might bring. While I wouldn’t call myself a thrill-seeker, there’s an undeniable sense of adventure in not knowing what’s around the corner.

Many of the best photographs I’ve taken with Ayumi, my loyal companion, were the result of this serendipity. Perhaps we spotted a shimmering lake glinting in the afternoon sun, or a tiny, unmarked path leading to a picturesque waterfall tucked into the forest. These were not places I had planned to visit. They were discovered because we chose to wander.

One particular evening stands out in my memory. Ayumi and I had been driving through the countryside, the sky painted in hues of orange and gold as the sun began to set. As we crested a hill, we caught sight of a small farm nestled in a valley below, its fields glowing under the last light of the day. I pulled over, and we sat there together, simply watching the light fade into twilight. It wasn’t a landmark or a tourist destination—just an ordinary place rendered extraordinary by the moment.

This is the kind of magic that keeps me coming back to the road. It’s not about where I’m going, but about being present, observing the world in its quiet, unassuming beauty. Even a trip to the grocery store can reveal something new and unexpected.

Driving offers a sense of freedom that’s hard to replicate. It’s a chance to disconnect from the pressures of daily life and reconnect with the world around you. Unlike a train or a bus, which follows a predetermined route, a car allows you to follow your instincts. See an interesting road sign? Turn off and see where it leads. Notice a forest trail? Park and take a walk. The possibilities are endless.

This freedom is what makes driving such an integral part of my life. I’ve stumbled upon hidden gems that I never would have found otherwise: a tiny café in the mountains that serves the best coffee I’ve ever tasted, a quiet beach where Ayumi could run freely, or a scenic overlook that felt like it was reserved just for us. These discoveries weren’t planned—they were gifts from the road.

Driving isn’t just a way to explore the world; it’s also a way to learn about yourself. Patience, for example, is a virtue that every driver must cultivate. Whether you’re stuck behind a slow-moving truck or navigating a detour, the road has a way of reminding you that not everything is within your control. It’s a humbling experience but also an opportunity to grow.

Then there’s the art of observation. When you’re driving, you’re constantly scanning your surroundings: the road ahead, the behaviour of other drivers, the changing landscape. This heightened awareness extends beyond the car, teaching you to notice the little things in life—the curve of a river, the play of light on the leaves, the subtle shifts in the weather.

In many ways, driving mirrors life itself. It’s not always smooth. There are bumps, detours, and moments of frustration. But there are also stretches of pure joy, where everything aligns, and you feel completely at peace. The key is to embrace the journey, wherever it takes you.

As much as I love driving, I know it’s not for everyone. My friend’s perspective is a reminder that we all experience the world differently. What brings me joy might feel like a chore to someone else, and that’s perfectly fine. The important thing is to find what moves you, what makes you feel alive.

For some, it might be hiking through the mountains or cycling along a coastal road. For others, it could be curling up with a good book or spending hours in the kitchen perfecting a recipe. Whatever it is, it’s worth pursuing. Life is too short to ignore the things that bring you joy.

If you’ve never thought of driving as anything more than a means to an end, I encourage you to try looking at it differently. Take a drive without a destination. Pick a road you’ve never traveled before and see where it leads. Bring a friend, a pet, or just your thoughts for company. Stop when something catches your eye. Let the journey surprise you.

Who knows? You might discover a hidden gem, a moment of quiet reflection, or simply a renewed appreciation for the world around you. And if you don’t? That’s okay, too. At least you’ll have given it a chance.

For me, the road is more than a path to somewhere else. It’s a space to think, to dream, and to connect with the world in ways that few other experiences allow. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

In just over five weeks, I’ll be unemployed for the first time in 14 years. To mark this major life transition, I’m planning a road trip to the southern prefectures of Japan. It’s the perfect time to get away—just as the temperatures begin to warm, but before the heat becomes too intense for Ayumi to enjoy the journey. Last April, we attempted a tour of the beautiful Shikoku region, but the midday sun proved too much for her little paws. That trip was cut short by a day. This year, by starting a few weeks earlier, we might trade some chilly nights for daytime conditions that are just right.

This road trip isn’t just about seeing new places or enjoying time with Ayumi; it’s a chance to reset my mind and shift my focus. After 14 years of working in corporate environments, I’ve decided to dedicate the next 10 months to exploring self-employment. It’s both exciting and intimidating to step away from the predictable structure of office life, but I want to create things that are genuinely useful—not just profitable or exploitative.

I know it won’t be easy, but this feels like the right time to try. With roughly 10 months of savings, I have a window to experiment with ideas, build something meaningful, and see if I can create a sustainable path forward. My goal is to avoid returning to an office setting, where creativity is often stifled by endless meetings, artificial hierarchies, and the pressure to prioritise profit over people.

This trip will hopefully serve as a mental reset—a chance to clear my head, recharge, and start thinking differently about what’s possible.

Of course, this trip comes with a few constraints. Since it’s happening after my current job ends and before I secure new income, sticking to a strict budget will be essential. According to Google Maps, the total driving distance for this adventure is around 3,000 km. My car can travel a little over 600 km on a 30-litre tank of gas, and with fuel currently priced at about 170 Yen per litre, I’ll round that up to 200 Yen to account for higher prices in remote areas. This means I’ll need roughly 150 litres of fuel, bringing the total cost for gas to around 30,000 Yen (just under $200 USD as of February 2024).

To keep costs down, Ayumi and I will camp at 13 different locations along the way. Twelve of these sites are free, and one—with the added benefit of a power outlet—will cost 4,500 Yen (about $30 USD). We’ll bring some food with us but will need to restock every few days since this is a two-week journey. To simplify things and avoid restaurants (where Ayumi isn’t allowed), we’ll stick to basic meals from grocery stores. A rough estimate of 1,000 Yen per day puts our food budget at around 15,000 Yen.

Adding it all up, the trip’s core costs (gas, campsites, and food) come to about 50,000 Yen. There will also be smaller expenses like tolls: crossing the strait to Kita-Kyūshū costs 310 Yen each way, and I may need to stop occasionally to charge batteries if my car’s 60W solar panel and USB port can’t keep up.

Fortunately, most of what we’ll need is already on hand. Our camping gear is ready, along with blankets, extra layers, thermoses, and cooling bags. I’ll bring a spare leash for Ayumi, just in case hers breaks, and pack my old pair of glasses along with my prescription sunglasses. These little precautions should help avoid unnecessary expenses on the road.

Am I forgetting anything? Probably. But I like to think that part of the adventure is learning to adapt.

This trip isn’t just about escaping and resetting mentally; it’s also an opportunity to document the journey and share it with others. I plan to upload updates here on the blog and on YouTube. Since I won’t have unlimited storage space, I’ll need to manage photo and video files along the way. As long as I have decent cell reception, I hope to upload videos semi-regularly. That said, exploring new places with a puppy, setting up camp, and managing gear will probably leave me pretty exhausted most days. If uploads are sporadic, you’ll know why!

The plan is to complete this adventure for under 80,000 Yen. It’ll likely be the only long-distance trip Ayumi and I take this year, and certainly the last before the summer heat arrives. Here’s hoping for good weather, smooth roads, and plenty of memorable moments.

As I drive through the countryside, I’ll be thinking about how to make the most of the months ahead—exploring ideas that could lead to a more meaningful way of working and living. If you’ve got any tips for long-distance road trips, especially with a dog, let me know in the comments. Otherwise, stay tuned for updates from the road!

Back in the mid-90s, when the Internet was still called the World Wide Web, and when people used to say they were up all night "surfing the net," there were two primary search engines: Yahoo! and Altavista. The latter was remarkably superior to the former, showing the most accurate matches in the least amount of time. However, as people learned how to game Altavista's sorting mechanisms, the search engine quickly became unusable. Every search would result in the first few pages being "adult-oriented" sites promising more content than a dial-up modem—or a Gen Z teen—could possibly handle. Fortunately, in 1998, geeks started talking about an alternative to Altavista that was remarkably fast, remarkably accurate, and remarkably devoid of spam: Google Search.

Magazine articles fawned over this new entry into the market. They loved the responsiveness. They loved the fact the company was started by a couple of students. They loved the concept of PageRank. They loved that it was called a Beta—something that encouraged lower expectations despite the system's remarkable capabilities.

In the quarter-century since, not much has changed. The company has grown to process most of the world's email, serve most of the world's video, sell most of the world's advertisements, and power half of the world's phones. Some of their ambitious projects have failed, but many have completely transformed the way people accomplish their goals. Despite the positives, there have been some questionable decisions over the years. While some will complain about Google's quiet departure from its "Don't be evil" motto or the elimination of Google Reader, which effectively killed RSS reading, I look at the cumulative changes to their original project as the most disappointing.

For over two decades, Google Search's main process looked like this:

1. Access the Google website
2. Type what you want in the sole input field
3. Get a list of results
4. Click the links to be redirected to those websites

It was a simple, easy-to-understand way to find information and discover websites that we might want to visit frequently going forward. What made Google Search better than other platforms like Facebook was this seemingly selfless action from Google to direct traffic to any website, regardless of whether it was run by a large company or a single individual. Everybody had an equal opportunity to entertain, educate, or expatiate. How incredibly utopian!

But all good things must come to an end. Google Search is no different. A few years ago, there were complaints about the search engine showing news articles on the results page rather than just links. Then there were complaints about ads appearing at the top of the results list without clearly looking like ads. Later, there were complaints about YouTube videos being prioritised over the written word. Now it's an AI-generated answer that has taken the top spot on the results page.

A well-structured argument can certainly be made for using an AI-generated answer at the top of the page. Off the top of my head, I could see Google using a person's profile history to have the generated answer written with the reader's preferences in mind. This could also be used to seamlessly translate results from one language into another, which would be ideal for immigrants or visitors to a country who may struggle with the local tongue. Then there's an argument that can be made for the ability to combine information from numerous websites, distilling the gist into an easily understood paragraph. This could save so much time!

However … I have concerns.

One of the greatest joys of the early internet was the serendipity of discovery. Clicking through links, stumbling upon personal blogs, niche forums, or independent news sites that offered fresh perspectives. With AI-generated summaries taking precedence, we're funnelled into a homogenised stream of information, curated not by a diversity of thought but by algorithms designed to optimise engagement. The richness of the web gets flattened, and the voices of small, independent creators are drowned out.

While personalised results might seem convenient, they also reinforce echo chambers. By tailoring content to individual preferences, Google risks narrowing our worldview. The search engine that once expanded our horizons now subtly confines them, confirming biases rather than allowing them to be challenged. This isn't just an issue of informational myopia—it's a societal concern, shaping how we understand the world around us.

AI-generated content introduces a new layer of opacity. We no longer see the direct sources of information; instead, we're presented with distilled answers without clear attribution. This makes it difficult to verify facts, assess credibility, or understand context. Trust in search results, once grounded in visible links to reputable sources, becomes more fragile when the 'How?' and 'Why?' behind an answer are obscured.

Let's not forget: Google is an advertising company. The prioritisation of AI summaries could conveniently steer users away from organic links and towards content that aligns with Google's business interests. The blurred line between genuine information and subtle marketing becomes even murkier, challenging our ability to discern objective facts from commercially motivated narratives.

Google Search has undeniably evolved, but not all change is progress. The shift from being a gateway to the internet to a gatekeeper of information raises critical questions about discovery, diversity, and digital autonomy. Perhaps it's time we reconsider not just how we search, but where we search.

In November of last year, I decided to create an account on X in an attempt to connect with photographers and write for a larger audience. While there were a few small communities that weren't inundated with AI-generated imagery passed off as self-taken photos, the vast majority of what appeared in my timelines seemed to revolve around topics I have absolutely zero interest in. Fistfights, acts of violence, destructive driving, and an endless stream of intentionally skewed presentations of world events consistently interrupted the photo-focused accounts I followed. These interruptions frustrated me not only because of the asininity of the content but also because the accounts that thrived on violence and vitriol tended to attract audiences dozens to hundreds of times larger than the talented photographers I admired.

If great photographers receive just a few hundred impressions for well-considered, perfectly framed images, how could someone like me ever gain any traction?

Worse, my experimental use of the Articles feature proved to be little more than an expensive bust. Despite paying the Premium+ subscription fees for two months, the articles were largely ignored. While this could be due to the fact that X doesn't seem to be a place for personal writing—or any long-form content—the core issue seems rooted in the platform's incentives driven by the promise of monetisation. Despite all the marketing hype, people are actively encouraged to employ the same tactics used by traditional media to attract eyeballs and interactions. Mr. Musk has famously exclaimed, "You are the media now!" and that's true; the big accounts behave just like the newspaper websites many claim to have abandoned. Every post is a lede. Every image is designed to trigger a response.

No thank you.

Over the past few months, I have struggled with the question of what to do next with my life. I know what I do not want to do. But this begs the very important question: how will the bills be paid if I'm unwilling to participate in the corporate world going forward?

Will I write my own software to create services that others can use? Will I create videos for YouTube? Will I make video games? Will I write long-form articles on Substack? Or will I do something else entirely? It seems that every week or two, discouragement creeps in, sowing seeds of despair and sending me in search of yet another possible future. However, with just six weeks until my current employment contract comes to an end, time is running very thin.

Yet, perhaps this looming deadline isn't just a ticking clock—maybe it's a catalyst. A chance to finally choose not based on fear of failure or financial insecurity, but on the conviction of what matters most to me. Maybe the question isn't "What will I do?" but "What will I build that reflects who I am, even if no one notices?" Because in the end, the work itself—the process, the creation—might be the reward I've been seeking all along.

This past weekend, after years of resilience and quiet strength, my father passed away. Though I was half a world away when it happened, my thoughts were with him as I shared a memory of his first car, a yellow 1977 Honda Civic, with a neighbour. It was one of countless stories that captured his spirit—a blend of practicality, adventure, and humour that defined so much of who he was. My sister, who was by his side in his final moments, sent me a message almost immediately, a poignant reminder of how connected we all were to him, no matter the distance.

Yet it's this connectedness with my sister that stands in start contrast to how often my father and I had conversations. For so much of my life, he has been a quiet man. His creative writing would often span dozens or hundreds of pages but his spoken sentences were short, containing just enough words to convey an idea. Phone calls would often consist of long periods of one-sided discussion, where he would take in what others were saying while responding every so often with an "Oh yeah?" or "Uh huh". It wasn't that he was disinterested, but that he wasn't particularly conversational. So when he did speak at length, people would often listen. These were rare times to get a glimpse into the inner thoughts of the man.

My sisters are absolutely distraught. We have known for years that our father would be passing away at a young age, but none of us would have suspected he would be gone at 67. He spent much of his final years gasping for each breath. His lungs contained so much internal scarring that they were no longer able to properly extract oxygen from the atmosphere to feed his blood. The last conversation that he and I had over the phone took place half a year ago. He could say short sentences, pausing to catch his breath each time. On occasion he would get into a coughing fit for minutes at a time after talking about one of his passions, be it the Toronto Maple Leafs or his '57 Chevy Bel Air. Since then we have stuck primarily to very long text messages, but even these were few and far between. Messages that I would write would be unread for weeks, and then a response might be several days later.

There were many things that my father was very adept at, but communication was never one of them.

Since his death on Saturday, I've found myself thinking a lot about the conversations we've had over the years, the sacrifices he made for his family, and the things he often left unsaid for decades. But it's the intangible gifts that stand out the most. Many of my mannerisms and even my sense of humour clearly come from him. My sisters remind me of this every time we're on the phone. They, too, incorporate parts of him that shine through when we're joking around as siblings do. So, while our father may be physically gone, he will continue to live on in each of us for decades to come.

While the sadness of losing my father fills the air, there’s a quiet comfort in knowing that his pain has finally come to an end. For years, he endured a struggle that would have broken many, each breath harder than the last. Now, he no longer has to fight for air, no longer feels the weight of his illness. Though I will always miss him, I am grateful that he is at peace. And as I hold onto the memories, the lessons, and the laughter he shared, I find solace in knowing that his legacy lives on in the lives he touched, including mine.

A few days ago, I started planning a fun little road trip for Ayumi and me to embark on. The original idea was to get in the car around noon on December 31st and drive to the observation deck at 久須夜ヶ岳 (Kusuyagadake), a small mountain standing 618m over the western shore of Japan. From there, we would watch the sun set on 2024, recording the moment with multiple cameras. After dusk, we’d drive to 御前崎 (Omaezaki), a cape on the eastern shore of Japan, to watch the sun rise and signal the start of 2025—also capturing this moment with multiple cameras. Later, the footage would be edited together with an appropriate music track and shared on YouTube and Twitter for others to enjoy.

But then that ever-present voice in my head asked: “Sounds great. A 24-hour trip requiring a tank and a half of gas, plus $140 in highway tolls, to make a video that will receive a dozen or so views and zero feedback.”

Indeed.

In the end, I decided to skip the sunset and focus on just the sunrise. Omaezaki is about a two-hour drive after midnight, and this schedule would be much easier on Ayumi. For reasons I’ve yet to uncover, my trusty canine companion is less keen on travel lately. Perhaps it’s the cold. Perhaps it’s because she dislikes all the bumps in the road. Perhaps it’s something else. Sometimes I wish she could talk.

At one o’clock, we left the house. The roads were much busier than usual, as many people were still heading home after New Year’s celebrations with friends or family. Oddly enough, I didn’t spot a single police cruiser. Regardless, as we pulled onto the Tomei Expressway, the traffic thinned out further. The highway was nearly empty for much of our trip to the eastern shores of Shizuoka.

Our plan was to stop at the Shiei Shiosainozoka parking lot, a place familiar to both Ayumi and me. This is where I like to come for expansive photos of the night sky, given the minimal light pollution, and this first day of the year did not disappoint. Not a single cloud was in sight, revealing an endless vista of stars stretching millions of light years away. A handful of other visitors sat in their cars, awaiting sunrise, passing the time by napping or looking at glowing screens. Every so often, an engine would start for a few minutes to warm the passengers before going silent again.

I took the opportunity to climb the nearby mountain path leading to the first observation deck. A strong, cold wind was blowing in from the ocean, draining every last bit of heat from my hands as I fumbled with the camera and tripod. Still, the discomfort was worth it: I captured some of my clearest images of the night sky.

Ayumi waited in the safety and warmth of the car, and I quickly returned. Late-night New Year’s photography is clearly something best enjoyed where it’s warm!

For the next two hours, Ayumi and I napped, waking whenever another car pulled into the lot. Dawn began showing itself a little before six o’clock, prompting more activity on the road and in the parking lot as people gathered their cameras and blankets to find the perfect spot to record the first light of 2025. Judging by the license plates, some people had come from as far as Nara Prefecture for this once-a-year event.

As we made our way up the mountain, several people asked to pet Ayumi. Her ever-present smile and youthful energy act like a magnet, drawing kind words and friendly hands. About twenty minutes before the sun was expected to appear, we found a spot next to the iconic lighthouse. Families and couples milled about with cameras at the ready, and a few had brought dogs of their own for Ayumi to greet.

A band of clouds on the horizon tried to delay the 6:55 a.m. sunrise and, for a few minutes, succeeded. At 6:57, happy voices cheered as the first sliver of our star broke through, signalling the natural start of the new year. For many of us, 2025 was now official.

As the sun continued its skyward journey, the spectators began to move again. The cold wind had calmed considerably since the wee hours, but 2°C is still chilly when you’re standing still. Families trekked across the lighthouse park toward their cars or hotels. Couples snapped selfies with the sun behind them. Photographers jogged with their gear to spots offering dramatic contrasts between approaching light and receding shadows.

This is the second time Ayumi and I have traveled to the ocean to witness the first sunrise of the year. Both trips have been marked by bitter-cold winds from nature and warm smiles from onlookers hoping for good fortunes. I’m glad we abandoned the idea of rushing from place to place with cameras in search of the “perfect” vantage points and colour palettes. Far too often, I overthink things and forget that the point of going somewhere is to actually be there. Documenting events is fine, but when I’m constantly looking through a camera screen and worrying about composition, I’m not fully present. That’s something I need to keep in mind for 2025.

Writer's block. Two words that carry an outsized weight for anyone who has ever tried to string sentences together with purpose. It’s not just a creative hiccup; it can feel like an existential question: Am I still a writer if I can no longer write?

Lately, I've found myself staring at an empty page for far too long, feeling as though any meaningful writing topic slips away the moment I try to put pen to paper. It's easy to label this as distraction—the noise of life, the ceaseless hum of digital obligations, or just plain fatigue. But deep down, I wonder if it goes beyond that.

Writing has been a thread running through my life, from elementary school essays to blog posts and longer explorations of thought. It's one of the few things that has remained consistent. Yet now, I feel like I'm wading through creative mud, and every sentence feels like a battle.

I know I'm not alone in this. Every writer hits these walls. But knowing it's common doesn't make it less frustrating.

I've started asking myself some hard questions: Am I too distracted? Have I lost my passion for this craft? Or has writing simply become another task on a to-do list, stripped of its joy and spontaneity?

The truth, I think, is more nuanced. Writing isn't just about skill or productivity; it's about alignment. When we're out of alignment—with our purpose, our curiosity, or even our inner voice—the words don't flow. And perhaps the remedy isn't found in forcing the process, but in reconnecting with why we write in the first place.

For me, writing has always been about making sense of the world and, at times, making sense of myself. It's about peeling back the layers of thought until something raw and true emerges.

Maybe the words aren't coming because I'm not giving myself the space to listen. Maybe I need more time in silence, away from screens, with nothing but pen and paper. Or maybe I need to lower the bar I've set for myself and remember that not every piece needs to have a clear beginning, middle, and end.

Lately, I've also been experimenting with writing articles on X in an effort to expand my readership. These posts are not nearly as varied in topics as the things I write on my personal site. As I prepare to transition away from the stability of a regular 9-to-6 job to something far less consistent, sharing my thoughts and building connections through writing feels both necessary and grounding. It's a reminder that writing isn't just about crafting polished sentences; it's about showing up authentically.

Writer's block, frustrating as it is, might just be the mind's way of saying: Pause. Breathe. Pay attention.

So, I will write. I will write when the words come easily, and I will write when they resist me. I will write through the uncertainty, the distractions, and the self-doubt. Because writing isn't about perfection; it's about presence. And presence—returning to the page, again and again—is what truly matters.