Somewhere Between Here and There

"Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving,"

Albert Einstein

There's something oddly satisfying about drawing on an iPad while sitting in a moving car. The world outside is in constant motion—trees streak past, light shifts, roads hum beneath you—yet inside, you're focused, steady, creating.

It made me think about speed, and how differently we experience it.

In a car moving at 120 to 160 km/h, you feel everything—the subtle sways, the acceleration, the slight resistance of the road. On a train travelling at 120 to 140 km/h, the motion smooths out. It becomes rhythmic, almost calming, like you're gliding rather than rushing. And then there's the plane, soaring at 800 to 900 km/h, where speed reaches its peak—yet paradoxically, you feel it the least. With minimal friction and no visual reference to the ground, it's as if you're suspended rather than moving.

It's strange how speed isn't always something we perceive directly. Sometimes, it's something we're simply carried through.

For me, movement has become a constant. I spend so much time in transit—cars, trains, the occasional flight—that I've had to learn how to exist within it, rather than around it. What used to be dead time has slowly transformed into something usable, even meaningful.

Somewhere along the way, I adapted.

I learned to be productive in motion. To write between stops. To sketch between turns. To create in the in-between spaces. It wasn't intentional at first—just small adjustments here and there—but over time, it became a skill. A quiet one, but a necessary one.

There's a certain beauty in that adaptation. In not waiting for stillness to begin, but instead carrying your focus with you, regardless of where you are or how fast you're moving.

So you learn how to move with it.