The Walls Are Covered in Writing From Ceiling to Floor
When I first started working at the rage room part-time months ago, two things immediately caught my eye:
1) how my eyes burned from how bright the black lighting was.
2) how much history—from names to social handles to straight-up graffiti—had been scrawled across every wall and ceiling over the four years this place has been open.
As I became an employee, I never questioned why people were more excited to write on the walls than to break plates or spray neon paint.
It took me over five months to realize something quietly profound—somewhere between the crashes of sledgehammers on glass and the clang of crowbars on wood.
I started to wonder:
Why do we write books? Compose songs? Build companies? Contribute to something larger, even in small ways?
And then it hit me.
I was asking the same question I’d been quietly asking about my own blog, The Stratagem’s Archive.
Is my blog really all that different from a rage room wall—an ever-growing collage of words, reflections, and fleeting marks? An attempt to leave something behind, knowing it could just as easily be painted over one day?
The more I thought about it, the more I realized how similar it was. The excitement of writing something meaningful, not knowing who will see it—or if anyone ever will. And yet, we do it anyway.
Maybe, in the end, we’re all just trying to leave some kind of proof that we were here.
People’s Excitement is Palpable Towards Those Bright Neon Pens
Every group that’s come through before and after my time here has one thing in common: they always write something on the walls.
I’ve seen names, birthdays, and declarations of love written in neon pinks and greens. I’ve seen angry messages—“I hate your guts and hope you suffer”—scribbled right next to doodles of anime characters or someone’s best friend’s name with a heart around it.
Once, a couple came in for their anniversary. After their session, they asked if they could write on the walls. I said yes.
When I checked back, I saw their names written in a gorgeous, looping scrawl right across the mural of angel wings—the one spot we ask people not to touch because it’s meant for photos and memories.
My coworker wiped it off minutes later. We both knew it had to go. But as the ink faded, I couldn’t stop wondering if, for that couple, those few neon words were their way of saying, “We were here. We loved. We lived.”
When I brought that up, my 21-year-old coworker told me, “Don’t think too hard about it.”
So, naturally, I thought too hard about it—and wrote this instead.
Would It Be So Wrong to Not Be Remembered?
Let’s ask something uncomfortable:
Would it really be so bad if we weren’t remembered?
We’ve built entire systems to preserve names—colleges, hospitals, parks, cars, snack brands. Hershey. Ford. John Hopkins. Epicurus. Confucius. We build monuments to the idea of being remembered.
But what if the quiet act of living fully was enough?
I don’t advertise my real name anywhere on my blog. I don’t have social media. I’m practically a ghost in the modern world. And honestly? I like it that way.
Sure, The Stratagem’s Archive is public. Anyone can stumble across it, read my reflections, and wander through my archives. But this is my mask. My little corner of anonymity and freedom.
I don’t want to be famous. I just want to leave something honest behind—something that glows quietly for a while before it fades under the next coat of paint.
Because maybe that’s enough.
Maybe we don’t need to be remembered forever—just long enough for our light to touch someone else’s, even for a moment.
Reflection and Call to Action
Thanks for spending a few minutes here in the Archive with me. If this reflection sparked something in you, share it, like it, or subscribe to follow along for more quiet musings, prompts, and experiments.
Or, if you’d rather stay anonymous, you can always send me your thoughts directly at—whatimtryingoutnow@gmail.com—I read every message. Whether you write publicly or quietly, we all leave our marks somewhere.
Here’s to leaving them with intention, even if they someday fade.
