I have a lot of stable systems. Habits. Routines. Preferences. Things I know work well for me. Things I’ve tested, shaped, and come to trust.
But every now and then, I get the itch to try something new. Not because what I’m doing is bad. Not because I’m chasing something shinier. But because I’m curious.
What makes this other thing good? Why do other people like it? What’s it like to stand in their shoes — or sit at their desk?
Trying something new lets me test more than just the thing — it helps me test myself. My system. My setup. My assumptions.
Not to chase greener grass. But to understand the grass I’m already standing on — whether I stay planted or move on.
Exploration
I’ve done this kind of exploration with almost everything.
Pens. Stationery. Clothing. Morning routines. Note-taking systems. Organization methods.
I try it. I live with it. I let it prove itself.
If it holds up — not just once, but over time — it earns a place in my system. From there, it becomes just another thing that will face future trials. Because everything gets tested. Again and again.
That’s the rhythm.
Paradox
There’s a paradox here. I build systems to support how I live — and then I try to break them. Constantly.
Not out of self-sabotage. But because I need to know what will still stand when I don’t. When I’m tired. When I’m distracted. When I’m rushed. When I’m scattered. When there’s too much on my plate.
That’s the real test.
Not “Does this system work?” but “Does it still work — when I don’t?”
Architects
Most of us are doing this already — building systems, making choices, shaping routines. We just don’t always realize that we’re the architects of the structures that hold us up.
We imagine the “perfect system” like a perfectly designed city. Neat grids. Clean lines. Identical buildings. Everything in its place.
But in reality? Under the hood? It’s probably closer to Kowloon Walled City. Messy. Tangled. Improvised. Something that grew over time — without permission — out of necessity. And somehow, it worked.
My systems look like that. Because life looks like that (for me anyway). It’s not gridded or symmetrical. It’s unpredictable. Emotional. In motion.
So our systems — the ones that really work — usually look more like that. Not beautiful because they were planned. But because they held — through all the chaos. Not built to control life, but to move with it.
Personal
I’m not looking for what works best for most people. I’m looking for what works best for me, under stress.
That’s how I measure things. Not by how they look. Not by how they sound in theory. But by whether they still stand in the mess. Not pretty by design, but proven by trial.
A system doesn’t need to be perfect. It needs to be personal. Not something you adopt. Something you build. Something you break. Something you rebuild — until it fits.
The best systems I’ve found aren’t the cleanest or the most complete. They’re the ones that quietly survive chaos. The ones that still hold up — after I fall apart and come back.
They don’t need to be formal. Or fancy. They can be as simple as a $1 pen that somehow carries a signature of everything you value.
That’s how you know what works.
Because it still works — even when you don’t.