I think every author, at some point, becomes obsessed with the idea of “making it.”
Selling copies. Being known. Being read.

But sometimes I wonder if there’s another kind of survival hidden in the act of writing — something quieter and stranger.
Because every time a story is shared, even just between two people, it begins to live its own life.
It mutates, it changes shape, it gets retold, reinterpreted, misunderstood, loved, forgotten, rediscovered.
And in that movement, a small trace of its author remains.

Maybe that’s one of the hidden meanings of The Spiral Book: that we ourselves are patterns trying to continue — through words, through memory, through others.
To exist not as a fixed monument, but as a motion that never fully ends.