It's an absolutely packed Ferg’s Focus.

I wrote an essay that’s been bubbling for a while. French playwrights are slandering cowards (I thought it was ironic, too). We’ve got thieves dropping in from rooftops in Buenos Aires like it was the 1001st Arabian night. There exists a game like rugby only played on horses.

No flowery intros this time—let’s get into it.

Much like my routine I describe in this edition (or rather lack thereof), my appetite for writing will disappear for weeks and then resurge in full at a moment’s notice.

I don’t believe in creativity striking. The best writers are the ones capable of sitting down without fail day over day until something slightly better than dribble hits the page.

Likewise, I doubt any of those illustrious writers has ever turned down the rare blessing that is… when inspiration strikes.

Today was one of those lucky days.

When I first started Ferg’s Focus, I redacted parts of some stories that I considered too vulnerable to share publicly. Moreover, as I continue with my life abroad, I find myself less-inclined to post about my experiences. I prefer the privacy, and there is something valuable in keeping memories for myself (a practice modern society is on the brink of losing altogether).

Contrarily, I enjoy writing for and stimulating the thoughts of those who take the time to read my pieces. That internal back-and-forth spurned me to finally put down on paper a thought that I had been previously unable to translate into words. What resulted is one of my rawest essays to date.

This Ferg’s Focus edition inadvertently turned into an ode to Buenos Aires. While I didn’t plan on it, I certainly do not regret it. May it forever merit its praise. Routines don’t seem too common around these parts, but I have found a loose one nonetheless, granting me the structure to write once more.

Winter is setting in down south. My nomad friends are departing for warmer weather. The leaves have turned golden and now catch the autumn sun in colors unseen by me before. The swarms of mosquitos are surviving amid 8° Celsius (46°F) temperatures. Life is good.

Do not be deceived when the guidebooks tell you that the “Buenos Aires experience” is standing underneath its looming obelisk and attending a tango show, for the most authentic thing you can do in Buenos Aires is wait.

I’m finding new thrills in my permanence. Piecing together bus routes on disconnected backroads and haggling for the cheapest street eat have been replaced with piecing together a social life in a city with limitless opportunities and shopping around for a decent-priced cut of beef. Forging stronger foreign language capacity has given way to forging stronger relationships. Perhaps this is the novel experience left unsatisfied by my nomadic chapters. There’s still work to do though.

I’m a recovering vagabond after all.

If we continue to let the tastes of others determine which experiences to try, then we are succumbing to a one-dimensional reality limited by the bias of someone else, akin to allowing the title of artwork to restrict our creative interpretation of it. Continuing to take reviews, recommendations, and titles like these at face value will, at best, achieve a life of experiences that other folks would enjoy more than we would.

Most of us have become well-trained at “saving time” but at the cost of knowing how to spend it.

Someone who spends all their free time building time-saving systems rarely knows what they will do with it once saved. Worse, they don’t even understand why they began trying to save time in the first place.

Time is indifferent to how efficiently we construct our days and is a resource that will diminish at the same rate no matter how much time we vainly amass.

Best not to delay spending it well today.