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To the little things that make life special. I came across a line somewhere—perhaps in a movie, perhaps in a book—and it mentioned something about finding the best moments in something, perhaps in a movie, perhaps in a book. And I’ve been doing that ever since. The great thing about this is that the best moments are different for everyone. A single moment, a single scene, a single line—it can strike one person deeply, yet pass unnoticed by another. And that, I think, is the beauty of it. The subjectivity. The personal connection. The mystery of why that moment, of all moments, lingers. For me, it could be something small. A line in a Vietnamese song. The way she sings it, the way her voice breaks just slightly—it hits me. Deep. I could hear the same line sung by another artist, but it wouldn’t be the same. Wouldn’t have that feeling. Wouldn’t pull me in like this. Or it could be a line from a book. Of course, now that I’m trying to think of one, I can’t recall a single one. Typical. But I’ll remind myself to update this page when I do. Because words—when strung together in just the right way—can hit like lightning, like a punch to the gut, like a whisper that lingers long after the book is closed. And my hope—when someone reads my words—is that their best moment isn’t just The End. Recently, I’ve expanded this whole idea beyond books, beyond music. Now I think about my favorite moments in everything. My favorite part of a meal—the crisp crunch of a potato chip. My favorite part of someone—their eyes, their hands, the way they tilt their head when they’re deep in thought. My favorite part of a painting—the brush strokes, the tiny imperfection in the corner that makes it feel human. And what I love most? Asking someone—what’s your favorite part? And then—why? It’s a hard question, one that most people don’t really think about. I don’t know, I just do—a common response. But sometimes, rarely, beautifully, they do know. They can explain. And in those moments, I get to peek through a window, glimpse the gears shifting inside their mind, see a tiny piece of what makes them them. And that, to me— is fascinating.

I decided to start a blog about my journey to be a true faggot. The faggot I was born and raised to be. I'll follow-up with more details and my journey as I go along.

To the moments that pass us by. I am at work, speaking to Paul, one of our new operators here at Michelin. He is an exceptionally good worker—perhaps the best thing that has happened to the factory since I started here, seven years ago. He asks me, why am I still here, in this factory, one that pays below the Australian average income, with the degree and background that I possess? He asks if I ever felt that I wasted my degree in Food Technology, the one I acquired over a decade ago. Work-life balance, was my answer to the first. No, to the second. I tell him that even though I am not working in the food industry as my degree would have allowed, I never once felt that the degree was wasted. Knowledge is never wasted. Everything I have learned—my degree in Food Technology, my certificates in personal training, now massage—are stepping stones to something greater. Something still unknown. Something waiting for me in the future, even if I don’t see the path just yet. He seems pleased with this response. As for staying? I tell him that I plan to leave in the next six months. He admits he isn’t planning to stay for long either. A pang of sadness. His work ethic made everyone’s lives easier. Mine included. Later, I think about our conversation. I look around me, at the workers I have called family for years. Some I like. Some I don’t. I look at the machines, the tires, the walls, and the conveyor belts that have become my home. One day, I will be gone. Someone else will stand here, doing what I do. And life, as it always does, will move on. I think about the transient nature of life, how we are always moving from one place to another, how every moment—every person—every job—is fleeting. Susie Salmon from The Lovely Bones said it beautifully: “I was here for a moment, and then I was gone.” There were moments in this job when everything was going perfectly, and I let myself believe that I would be here forever. That things would stay just the way they were. But nothing stays. And maybe, in a way, it’s comforting to believe that it does—even if that thought, too, is fleeting. I have learned to ground myself in the present, to enjoy everything I have now. As I write this, I hear my mum singing in the garden. Her voice, soft, distant, warm. I close my eyes. Breathe it in. One day, it won’t be like this anymore. And that is the way life works. So I smile, take everything in. The present. Because that is where happiness is found.