I forget.
This doesn't.

log ifirst light

In theory, a personal website is a pretty simple thing. A folder of files, a name at the top, a place to say hello. That's what I told myself in 2023, the year I moved my journal from a paper notebook to a screen. On September 1, I started building it a home, with absolutely no idea what I was doing and nothing I knew beforehand. What I didn't say out loud was why. I didn't even question it at first.

I was losing things. Not keys, not earrings. Days. An afternoon would happen, and a week later it was simply gone, and I only knew it had existed because someone else remembered it for me. So I started writing everything down, and then I started building a place for the writing to live.

Every station keeps a log of the moment its lights came on. Mine says September 1, 2023. I don't remember that day. The site does. It holds still while I don't. I guess, in some way, that was eternity for a fragile being like me, always in motion.

That's all I am. A fragile being. Everything inside me is soft, nothing more, nothing less.

People keep moving, just like the universe does. Nothing stays the same. Everything changes, and things head down a path nobody can see yet.

log iithe notebook

In 1998, two philosophers named Andy Clark and David Chalmers wrote about a man called Otto. Otto and his friend Inga both want to see an exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. Inga thinks for a second, remembers the museum is on 53rd Street, and goes. Otto opens the notebook he carries everywhere, finds the address he wrote down a long time ago, and goes too.

Their question was simple and a little strange. Is there really a difference? Inga's memory lives inside her head. Otto's lives in his pocket. Both of them get to the museum. Clark and Chalmers argued that the notebook isn't just helping Otto remember. It is part of how Otto remembers, a piece of his mind that happens to live outside his body.

The first time I read about Otto, I felt caught. I had already built my notebook. It has a journal and a gallery, a blog, a changelog, a wall where strangers leave little notes. When something slips away from me, I come back here, and it's still here, waiting exactly where I left it.

Humans stretch further than their skin.

log iiithe ship

There's an old puzzle Plutarch wrote down almost two thousand years ago. The Athenians kept the ship of the hero Theseus in their harbor, and every time a plank rotted, they swapped it for a new one. In the end, none of the original wood was left.

Was it still his ship?

This September, in 2026, I renamed about 470 files on this site. I took out old libraries, rewrote the music player, moved every folder somewhere cleaner. From the outside, nothing looked different. From the inside, almost nothing was the same. I sat with that for a while, and then, quietly, I started asking myself the same question.

Derek Parfit spent a whole book arguing that what makes you you isn't one solid thing that stays put. It's continuity, each version holding on to enough of the one before. I like that answer because it's gentle. It means this is still Skye Journey, not because the code survived, but because every version remembers the last one. Maybe I'm still me for the same reason.

Every version remembers the one before.

log ivmade of parts

Donna Haraway once wrote that she would rather be a cyborg than a goddess. I think I brought it up in my journal entry the shape of a person. I think about that line more than I probably should. A goddess is whole, finished, perfect. A cyborg is assembled. Some parts were given, some were borrowed, and some were built by hand at three in the morning with cold coffee and way too many tabs open.

This place is built like that too. The fonts came from other people. Some of the sounds came from games I love. Half of what I know about code I learned from strangers who left their code open, and that's exactly why mine is open too. And the pieces that are truly mine are small and specific: a telescope my mom gave me when I was thirteen, a cat asleep on the corner of my desk while I write this.

I have a memory box.

It's very small, and everything inside it is precious. ASTRA is the big one.

ASTRA is the system that lives behind this station. It's where I keep my notes, the things I study, what I learn about science and art, and the little pieces of memory I don't want to lose, all linked to each other like stars on a map. When something about science or art is ready to be shared, ASTRA checks it and turns it into a post on the blog. Everything else stays inside.

Most of it is built in Rust, a strict little language that doesn't let many mistakes slip through, which is exactly what you want guarding a memory. The rest is made of other pieces: JavaScript for the site, a tiny worker on Cloudflare that carries the comments, and soon some Python, so it can learn to find where things are and connect the dots on its own.

For now it's private, built just for me. Maybe someday it'll be public too. Not yet.

Nobody is made only of themselves.

log vstill running

For a long time I thought I had to finish this. Then I realized that was exactly why I never could. How do you finish a piece of your soul? You don't. You keep it running.

That's why I started calling it a station. A station isn't a monument. Nobody builds one so it can stand still and be admired. It's a place where people live between departures, where the lights stay on and things are kept in orbit so they don't get lost in the dark. Pessoa wrote that travels are the travelers. I think a place like this works the same way. It isn't what I made. It's who I was while I was making it, version after version.

So this isn't an ending. It's a log entry. The station is still running, and so am I.