Windows open, rain falling; when will I be happy? Outside, the leaves sway in the cool air that brings with it a hint of autumn and they touch the window now and then, like a season begging to enter. It’s been a long time since life felt familiar; a long time since I knew what was next or what had come before. I miss the easy comfort of identity and the contentment that comes with happiness. Everything now is tense and harsh and portends something. Everything now requires attention and sacrifice and stoicism. A bit of lightning. When will I be happy?
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§ As you get older, the ghosts become more real than anything else.
§ Under the leaves, soil. Under the soil, stone. Under the stone, souls.
§ Radically empowering individuals in society may be the worst mistake we ever made.
§ Want to be a radical? Refuse to suffer. Then, wait for the assault.
§ Goodbye 2017, part two. (The real part.)
§ Sometimes you find home where you’ve never been—and you dwell where you aren’t.
§ The self can’t play Atlas for postmodernity because science is now supernatural.
§ Rehab is universal. So is history.
§ Identity, transcendence, and tactics.
§ Untitled. (a.k.a. Pretty faces, new old photos.)