About the trail

Everyone has probably felt it at some point: I said it, I warned them, no one listened — and then it happened exactly as I'd said.

The so-called "Cassandra syndrome." I've felt it myself, more than once. And after one particularly sharp "I told you so," a thought struck me: are my decisions actually right as often as I think? Could memory be playing a trick on me, quietly hiding the moments I was wrong? That's when I decided to keep a journal of decisions.

At some point I began to sense a pattern in my recorded decisions — a recurring shape. An AI confirmed it. But these were only decisions, and decisions are usually built on observations. So the project grew a second type of entry: simple observations about things that seemed important, interesting, or simply worth noticing.

With more information, the patterns shifted. New things surfaced that had somehow never occurred to me before. That's when I decided to add wishes — and suddenly it became possible to track not just the road already traveled, but the road ahead.

The reminder system for decisions and wishes gave the project its final shape: observe, remember — but never prescribe. The metaphor came literally. On a long walk, my daughter stopped at a rest to build a small stone pyramid. It matched my thoughts about the project so perfectly that no other name was possible. That's how Cairn became Cairn.

As I use Cairn, ideas for improvements keep arriving — born from the experience of actually walking the path. I lay my route, stop sometimes to rest, build another cairn, and keep going. Because I am a wanderer. There is never enough road. The world outside is vast and beautiful. The world inside is rich and full of wonder.

I invite you to walk this path — not shoulder to shoulder, the way friends walk, but as wanderers do: at the distance of an echo. Your letters are that echo, telling me there are others on the trail. And I am grateful for every one of them.

Write to me