The gift of confusion.
A straight wire carries a current of 5 A in a magnetic field of strength 0.2 T. The length of the wire in the magnetic field is 0.3 m, and it is placed at right angles (90°) to the magnetic field.
What is the force acting on the wire?
A straight wire. A current. A magnetic field.5 A, 0.2 T, 0.3 m. Perpendicular.
Plug it into F = BIL, and the force is, just is — 0.3 Newtons.
A clear answer. Measurable. No emotion. No hesitation. There’s comfort in that, in the predictability of numbers, in the obedience of variables. I remember spending time memorizing formulas during physics class.
E = mc². F = ma.
Every problem had a way out, as though life were an equation, and if you knew the right letters to plug in, you could solve for x — x being happiness, or identity, or the boy in the second row whose laugh made you feel like summer. I used to wish there was a formula for choosing the right career.
For knowing how to be.
For becoming.
A clear, precise string of logic for finding purpose. For unlearning shame. For letting go when love no longer serves. A formula for heartbreak. A theorem for healing. An equation that could tell you, definitively, this is what you were born for. But maybe we’re not supposed to know. Maybe we are the experiment, wild, complex, and inconclusive.
And still, in this world of filtered truths and curated timelines, we reach. We build mood boards like sacred texts, pixelated prayers for the lives we want. We mistake aesthetics for intention. We chase formulas made of reels and quotes, comparing the chaos within us to someone else’s choreography. Maybe that’s the contradiction. That we long for freedom but crave certainty.
That we’re both the scientist and the storm.
Some days, I’m grateful we haven’t cracked the code. That There is no single map for how to live. That I can sit here, writing poetry, pondering the softness of my own existence, scrolling, coding, loving — like I do.
Maybe if there is a formula, it’s one no algorithm can compute.
A poet who loves like an engineer.
A chef who loves like a singer.
An artist who loves like a scientist.
A girl who loves like the whole universe is inside her, untamed, unfinished, untranslatable. And maybe that’s enough, that you can be many things and nothing at once.
You can decide if this is a tragedy or if it is freedom.
Maybe the purpose is not something you solve, but something you live into, word by word, choice by choice, wound by wound.
Maybe some lives are not meant to be defined but to be felt, and to be remembered not by how closely they resembled a formula, but by how wildly they refused to. So if you ever feel lost, if you ever wish for neat answers, remember: even the stars don’t know they’re stars.
They just burn.
But if you need a formula. Do it this way.
Know that you are loved
Sigur Rós Loves You 🕊️