Some questions, when held for a long time without answers, begin to change their shape. At first, they present themselves as clear and directed sentences: why is this so, and what ought to be done? They point somewhere, suggesting a destination and, implicitly, a resolution.

Over time, however, those questions tend to lose that sense of direction. This is not necessarily because answers are unavailable, but because the person holding the questions has shifted position. When one returns to what appears to be the same question after a period of time, it often reveals itself as something slightly different.

Questions that once carried certainty may now contain hesitation. Others soften, moving from anger into a quieter form of attention. Some cease to be questions of choice or decision and become questions of disposition—how one stands in relation to a situation rather than how one might resolve it.

I have never been inclined to resolve questions quickly. I tend to carry them longer than is useful, allowing them to remain unsettled while observing how they change over time. In that sense, I am often less interested in where a question should lead than in how it reshapes the person who continues to hold it.

For this reason, many questions never became writing. They changed more quickly than they could be fixed into sentences. By the time I attempted to set them down, they had already altered, no longer matching the form in which they were first conceived.

The pieces that appear here are not intended as answers. They are better understood as traces of time—records of how certain questions have transformed while being carried, rather than conclusions reached through argument or explanation.

This piece itself is simply a place where one such question pauses. Whether it will return in a subsequent piece, or reappear later in an entirely different form, remains unclear. For now, it is enough to note that I have begun, once again, to walk with questions still in hand.