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We live in a rented space we call our own. We believe that ownership is our right. We stand firm on a ground soiled with lies needing to be right to own a rented space. The delusion carries on.

• C’est la vie.
• Business as usual.
• Habibe, allah ykhalile albak/ablbik.*

*Lebanese slang for: my loved one, may god protect and preserve your heart

— Rented. #recognize

It had to be waited out. No break. Nothing.

For most of us, space and time seem to be the only story that carries the day. The one common denominator that shapes our identity, struggles, and pretty much our life in its entirety.

We monetize time. We own space. And neither couldn’t be any more fictional than the other. Thin air becomes borders. Solid dirt ground becomes ours. And on it, we build what we call homes.

The ultimate space that is ours where time is meant to be for our freedom. Such is the irony clothed in a prison made by a feeble mind.

And no worries, I’m not judging. I bought my home smack right in the middle of COVID. Got a great deal on interest rate, and yet, since I’ve barely lived there.

You see, for a while now, my relationship with time and space has been drifting into something else.

For example, my favorite place for disconnecting, instead of being a location I visited, changed to become a space within me. I carry it everywhere, and somehow, the visit still matters, but not in the same way.

My “me” time, whether focusing on things I love or working, no longer needed a home. It found itself wherever I was.

And I’ve been to many places, believe me. So many that it will make you jealous, and that’s ok. I used to think that’s a bad thing, but now I know that being on the move isn’t a romantic fantasy fit for Instagram but something else entirely.

Last minute booking, no consistency, and no space to call your own. All rented, and somehow that’s more unnerving than I expected yet liberating, too.

Because the cost is high but not the way you think.

The promise of owning and belonging is the cost. Because as space and time start to blur out of existence, you realize it is Connection all that we seek underneath.

Delusioned by a phone booth as a medium of connecting, we drift not knowing a home while passionately reminiscing on the idea of one. The past is treacherous.

Connection through fictional mediums is abound. It is so easy to conflate Connection with the medium rather than the source.

The pretense of this world attempting to hold a connection never ends. That is what’s at stake.

— As a service. #understand

For all its flaws, which, by the way, are not its but ours, technology serves as a connection. It brought about new mediums to no longer be bound by time and space.

If it wasn’t for them, I couldn’t be on the move continuously and thrive. I’d lose my job, my loved ones, and more than anything myself.

In monthly meetings with friends, I kept connections over Zoom. In almost daily check-ins on WhatsApp, I stayed abreast of the well-being of loved ones.

And well, with this newsletter, I stayed in touch with you.

— White noise. #accept

There was a time when I recognized connection by contraction rather than expansion. Where I loved being invisible, a student, and a witness, a LinkedIn post a few days ago reminded me of that.

Thus, in the ultimate contraction, expansion is inevitable. And what that means for now is that you are reading the last issue of the Presence Pulse. I loved writing it, and I hope it gave you a slither of connection that you felt was lost in the noise of this world.

You can still reach me on this email directly. If you have a favorite issue, I would love to hear which one.

It has been great connecting with you here, and a big thank you from all my heart 🤗 What’s next? I don’t know, but I promise there will be a next, so for the last time…

Until next time,
Carlo