How labels shrink things that don’t need to be small
There’s always an urge to sort things.
To name them, classify them, shelve them in the right place. Maybe it makes the world feel safer, less random. Maybe it feels efficient—like if you can label something, you don’t have to think about it anymore.
I’ve noticed how quickly labels turn into limits.
They start as shorthand—something easy to explain to other people. But eventually, the label becomes the whole story. A way to keep everything tidy, even when the truth is sprawling and contradictory.
Some things don’t fit inside one word.
I’ve tried to describe experiences that felt too wide for a single definition. Moments when I belonged to more than one place or no place at all. Times when identity was a moving target—changing shape depending on where I stood, what I believed, who was watching.
It’s strange how uncomfortable it can be to leave something unnamed. How strong the impulse is to pin it down. But there’s a kind of freedom in resisting that impulse—letting something stay loose, unclaimed, unresolved.
Sometimes it’s enough to be unnamed and unfinished.
Sometimes that’s where the real meaning lives.
Longitudes Unclaimed 