To be wanted and desired: it seems the healthiest course of development is to be hated and then loved, but no, in truth the way we approach establishing our value in the eyes of the world is very much dictated by the individual and their closely held vanity. And how vain be it to think highly of oneself? It be ascribed by others predicated open how that vanity manifests and interrupts our relationships--to put oneself on a pedestal self-justified by one's internal view, to make comparable the souls of two and vainly to forever find oneself above another--this is selfishness manifest; not by one's being do they exist, but instead through action, and yet any loss of this spectacle is tragic, for a part of humanity is lost in the dead, and lost in the one thinking themself superior. Circumstance is certainly of crucial consideration, and yet in the end is only context for action--decisions, persistence, morality, conscientiousness--none can be entirely trumped by context. ~~~ I have been reflecting on what the greatest evil is, and if there is one seed from which all other evil grows. Perhaps a fruitless or inconsequential venture, but it remains of interest. In my view, and perhaps I have written about this before, the greatest ill is to isolate oneself from their humanity, to reject the essence of life and through it society, and all things a consequence thereof. While we may accept that as the greatest evil, it remains too the greatest tragedy, to let go of the one thing tying us to the web of beings surrounding us. Through a web, the loss of even a single connection, a single thread with all its overlapping paths intersect, we can see how this web loses some bit of stability and holes start to appear. And so what arachnid can re-spin that thread? Others are left to pick up the slack. Society copes with the consequences. Viewing all evil through the anti-logic of a distaste for humanity, things start to make sense. Indifference in the face of suffering is the opposite of compassion, for even hate and hurtful desires have a sense of intimate passion. But to look unflinching at the face crying for peace, a part of oneself is already dead. And to view that pain opportunistically is to simplify the suffering of humanity down to a mere tool. There is something very concerning about watching a master craftsman turn whole beings into machinery, as a means to their own goals. How isolating it must be, in the end, to turn back onto one's tribalistic desires by using whole groups as a springboard off which to launch themselves, even in company of those they love; because love and hate are not exclusive, they often bundle themselves together under the sole guise of love. And through this doublethink we deceive ourselves self-justifiably. Like a half-truth, love bundled with hate is a poison tainting the soul and dismembering our humanity slowly until the necrosis takes over and we find ourselves the root of the evil surrounding us. The final tragedy then, is reaching a state from which this moral suicide is unrecognizable; and so the cycle continues as the rot inspires more rot and the indifference fans the flames of hate, and atop it all a poisoned, ingenuine love for the self and all beings in service of it. ~~~ Apathy is staggering and the future seemingly always bleak. We are left with the question of what true majority remains, and if the swingarm of progress has yet to carry us far off into an undesirable direction. It is a discouraging feeling to realize your isolated status as an ideological minority confronted with problems bearing far-reaching implications. Evermore frightening is to face the truth that the sole judicial power is against you and your fighting to date has been for naught. Indeed this is easy to identify and internalize, but is far from the absolute truth. No greater action of expression exists than that of unwavering belief and dedication to a cause despite the world spitting in your face. Passion comes in many forms, and is entirely necessary for such fights to the death. But why then has this vigor not united us, spread a benevolent message; or rather why has the olive branch been burned time and time again? In my view, the issue lies in a culture of individuality and opposition. These reductive factors have done more to regress our part of society in human history than much else. Surely you could argue that nationalistic fervor is categorically different and has too caused great harm, but it is rooted in opposition to other nations and ethnicities, and seeks to establish self-righteous value of the individual trumping all else, standing entirely in opposition to the "other". In this sense, individuality can be united, given all actors have some personal gain. As I have established before and will restate here: all is fair in moderation, both for individuality and collectivism. Stray too far either way and we fail to accomplish much. But I digress; failure to understand nuance is in the hands of the fool. To connect to a previous point; individualism like evil arises from a fundamental isolation of oneself unilaterally from the masses, and an overindulgence of one's own purposes and interests. How sad this is for the individual, and how catastrophic for masses under the tyrant. An imposition of one's own interests and will over others in dictating their rights, restrictions, abilities, not in service to them is fundamentally opposite to the responsibilities for any position of power. Instead servicing one's own subjective view of the world means they are no proper ruler, but indeed a tyrant. You may say leaders need make tough decision people may not at first see the benefit of, which is certainly true in some cases. But to do so lacking any reason, evidence, and further failing to educate the public on one's own decision, to fail to advocate for the voiceless and unheard, here we see such a basic failing in one's vocation. Alas, we live in our own world and see it through a muddied lens. And how tragic to lack any questioning over one's clarity, to accept circumstance and reject improvement, how immoral to look unflinching in the eyes of the bludgeoned and bloody. I say let the feeling fester, and if no change of heart comes through, then they were already rotten to the core. A frog may not feel the water slowly boiling, but a man certainly the oozing gangrene of an infected wound. If in your arrogance you assure it will disappear, let the sepsis take you. That legacy you accepted one of dubious harm and unnecessary failure and loss. In the context of decolonization, Fanon calls for an upheaval, and claims only through violent means is it possible, or rather such change is violent by its nature. I still find myself at odds with this claim, and yet, I have failed to concretely establish some alternative action. Moreover, I did not grow up marginalized nor fighting for my basic rights, and so for me to claim this violence unnecessary misses the mark. But one can imagine and sympathize with his fight against the oppressive French rule present in colonized nation of Martinique. Where in the early to mid-1900s oppressive colonialist rule was violent and threatened marginalized populations openly, one must wonder if the same call to violent rebellion is the best course of action today in Canada where colonialism is an everyday reality, but the oppression manifests in more subtle, covert forms. One might like to think our government open to discourse, but no system would be so logically willing to disassemble itself, and so we encounter the same issue of a deaf king not willing to uncrown itself for the sake of the people. What option then is left but some show of force? Fanon's assertion speaks to history and human nature both, that is, past uprisings especially against colonial rule have used violence as an effective tool to dismember a system dispassionate to their suffering and relentless in their suppression of their livelihood. Such a limiting system actively chooses to ignore the trampled and do not care for them--again I ask what the sole purpose of a government and its leaders is? To protect the interests of the people--all people--not merely to line the pockets of the fortunate few sat atop saddles of gold mounted on the 99%. A government actively harming its populace, or simply failing to advocate for the entire diversity of interests present in its population is an illegitimate one. In failing to foster any dialogue nor cede to any demands, and a failure to place individual interests (that of keeping the ruling, oppressive colonizer in power) aside leaves naught but a final forceful action to come to front by the hands of the oppressed and colonized. This is passionate and visceral--but this is not the primary reason for violent rebellion--desperation is. And to leave your people to such actions the ruling class has itself to blame. There is no legitimate claim to blame the oppressed, for an acceptance of subhuman treatment has no logical reason to be accepted. A further inability to accept responsibility for reparations only furthers this point, only justifies further pushback. How else then do we advance ourselves forward? Why stand accepting of regression with overwhelming proof justifying our progressive stance, should we remain subjugated, hopeless, powerless? It all follows that people will establish their own power through the only means left to them. There is no better vent for frustration than action. When the decisive moment comes, all is tested. Time dictates all.

The thought that things happen for reasons unseen, or not understood, is in my view, incorrectly supposing some reasoning for any one thing occurring--I believe this to be false--no one thing is without meaning, but by the very same right all things are devoid of it. The truth of human experience lies in the connections we foster, ideas we bring to life, the meaning we seek to assign to it. It is not hubris to say we dictate our own--quite the opposite; it recognizes the chaotic disorder innate to our existing and hence the crucial but futile attempt at drawing anything from it. But to live without meaning is not to live without purpose--to hold that, to faithfully play our roles is to fulfill our cog's duty, and to dream, to aspire, to create, to live through further complexity, surely if doubted or unseen before, surely in this can one find meaning, be it entirely dependent upon one's desires. The desire for meaning is indeed human, and indeed shapes purpose in turn. Perhaps this is all too reductive and dismissive of the further complexities in each our lives; for we say, how are coincidences explained? Acts of God? Impossibly beat probabilities? Perhaps they will never be understood in the academic sense, and instead should continue to feed our ideas of meaning, our magical view of things once lost in part to fleeting sense of childhood. Like all facets of life, we ought never to live in absolutes, and so an entirely logical or magical view of the world should absolutely be rejected; to subscribe to either in absolution is to rob oneself of a full human experience. There exists three fools: the logical fool, who in his hubris denies all he cannot understand, the magical fool who makes nonsense of all concrete, and the nonpartisan fool who denies all in the face of overwhelming evidence. For they lack soul, they lack reasoning and they lack justification. Thankfully some fools can learn. So far as I can tell, joy comes from peace above all else--a reasonable sense of acceptance and desire to improve within realistic means. It seems to me life ought to be lived through nuances, middle grounds, in healthy moderation. This poses the great challenge; that of control and accountability within constructive means. And as exhaustively stated by philosophers of old, it all takes knowing oneself and the world around you. ~~~ Joy robs us of sorrow, and sorrow of joy. Acclimation yet the thief of all things. Oscillations the dictator of balance. Disorder and chaos the author, and we the editor. If only we could rewrite whole chapters, we would be bound to overwrite our future. ~~~ At the end of it all, we'll ask not what we did, but only if more could be done and in what way better. And for as fruitful as that endeavor may prove, how empty the feeling, how rejected the hope, and endless the journey, and we convince ourselves the trip was somehow well worth living in spite of the cracks and creases marking our love letter to life, how that adds character and paints naught but a complete picture, perfect by its own right. How unfair the prosecution of a crow for learning flight. How sightless the hunger in a bountiful room. And how hapless we all are to trip over our own feet. Despite all that, how melancholy to stifle laughter at the whole of it all. The trip is absurd, and the fall meant to be, but who is really to say? The only tragedy to come would be cordoning off one's heart, trimming bit by bit until a hollow, broken shell remains. How then can I reasonably take steps toward stabilizing my mood, to feel level, to numb in some sense reality? Balance rules all; to re-establish a proper baseline, to save one's own life, such measures are reasonable, and great clarity for so long as needed, for a time desired. To be humane is to approach things foremost feeling, second-most logical, that above all else with compassion. To challenge ourselves truly is to do well with sacrifice and question the moral framework guiding us always. To succeed is to live within it. To love is to be at peace with it. To hope is to plan with it. To be happy, is to help others with it.

Few things make me bleed like wrought iron. There brings deficiencies surfacing. Here goes the buttress of my heart. Disappointment is not so much a burden as deceit. Words not as heavy as the accord they write. Should my life be a poem, it traces ones and zeros. A swear on a life is meaningless to a mind incapable of conceiving death. The words I close my eyes to say is the grit in my teeth I brushed out the night before. I'd have followed my chains, but they already broke my neck. If I could write an apology, it would be washed away. When I close my eyes I am assaulted by light. Truly I was blind to it; that if you could choose your hill to die on, it would be my burial mound. And tell me how deep a grave to dig, for so shallow a man. And when you weep, it is only salt to the wound. Where is the pressure to go, the light to escape, a fractured chamber forces its pieces together. Before long the sublimation is complete. Before too late the forgotten has been forgiven. Where am I to go, tell me, for I do not know. The same poison kills me, the same barriers we build. So the wrought iron stands, letting the floodwater rise. Only because of the clattering do you turn. Witness the white of my bones, the pink of my flesh, the tender skin, the yellow of my enamel, and so ponder the value of it all, as the echo chamber fades. And so when you feel guilt, remember I put the knife to my skin. And so when you run out of tears, I'll always lend you mine. And so when you're breathless, my oxygen is yours. And so in spite of reconstruction, the first exit in the freeway from my heart will forever bear your name. And so when I think of joy, it is bees and lilacs and your smile. For that I endured a thousand stings, but the last ceased my heart. With the curtains already drawn, I hope it muffled my screams. I wish you never experience the agony, in feeling your love succumb to attrition. So I weep, for the same veil that protects you keeps you blind. That sapling is no longer ours to foster. We witness the rot take hold. And as I sit gazing from a distance, you've walked away. I'll never be so blind as to miss the branch in your palm. We've forests to return to, new seeds to collect, new grazings to gallop, fresh paths to tread, mountains to conquer, streams upon which to take rest, untouched meadows to prosper, pups to foster, threads to weave, candles to light, so that when we both look back, our smiles will be bright. DFWYNLM #187

I pride myself on being a walking contradiction. I embody the antithesis of the values I espouse. My peace lies in complications. I grasp clarity in the murky depths of the sea. When I look for the point, it appears as a perfect sphere. My logic does not follow, it merely unfolds into an patternless mesh. My robots find meaning in poetry. My poets struggle to assign meaning to their words. My masterpiece is a bland imitation. My copycat envisions a work of genius. I was not falsely accused, I misunderstood my own intentions. My happiness is forever. My ignorance knows its own limits. I hold my innocence with guilty intentions. My past has more potential than my future did. Lethargy is the guiding principle of my productivity. My bottomless appetite is satiated. When and only when I mumble am I clearly understood. Despite my lacking effort, I am accomplished. In spite of my carelessness, I am invested in this life. When I speak from the heart, I choke on my words. When my body intersects yours, we are both cold. My cloud nine is six feet under; I fly with a spade. I once thought I could be someone, I still do. My only persistent trait is attrition. Someone once accused me of innocence, and claimed I was convicted. I am lonely in good company. Clairvoyance comes to me in a crowded room. I am the architect of my own demolition. If I could paint a picture, I would do so with graphite. My wounds pressure me. My greatest power lacks all jurisdiction. My limitations know no bounds. My superlatives are penultimate. I relish in my own sorrow. I detest the transience of my own joy. I wish only for peace through non-violent means. My middle-ground is home base. My echo chamber is silent. My advisors gave up long ago; I still trust them. I am homeless in my own bed. My trial's hearing is mute, not deaf. Persecutors let me chase my own tail. It's really too bad I don't trip on flat ground. But I refuse this as the story of my life. DFWYNLM #186

Ultimately the world keeps turning. Despite the bloodshed, crime, injustice, bombing, hate, disaster, hypocrisy, brainwashing, misinformation, it all comes to a front at odds with overwhelming joy, justice, balance--there is always balance--we ought to remind ourselves at all times why a fight is worth continuing, even after devastating loss, and moreover ever important is it to frame our struggle in purview of the world's. The further right we sway, the stronger the resolve of the left. We ought always to seek balance, but that struck from some literal dichotomy is no true balance, it is a division, a split, a world at odds with itself as much as it seeks survival. Where is the common ground to be found when there's been so much bloodshed? Where is the common ground when we are fighting over autonomy, self expression, over such basic rights ripe for repeal at the hands of an opposition? What steps do we take, what path do we trot, when every fibre of the system we inhabit seems to be working against us? What then when the circumstances lay bare that we are indeed the minority, that we are indeed outnumbered, not by a unified majority, but by an equally scared, polarized, and outspoken bunch, a mosaic of citizens fighting for their own rights, values, and beliefs, in a system as fair to them as to us? Surely we may unify in our vision for a peaceful future, but even that view differs insofar as we envision peace in our own distinct, but certainly overlapping ways. Surely a world without war is one preferable indeed, but one in which individuals assigned female at birth (AFAB) have no autonomy over their body, and indeed are persecuted by the state for pursuing a right to healthcare is a future which peace cannot operate. When we grant special privileges to few, make decisions for others while superseding their voices, this is no democracy nor a world where peace can truly be established nor flourish. So long as we chose to villainize our opposition and seed further divide, we choose to reap the less than civil civil war certain to ensue. And so faced with ever increasing conflict over values, rights, and freedoms, we are faced with the question of how to move forward, not against an opposition, but with our people in a unified voice. Certainly disagreement yields discourse yields better, more refined views and laws, but this has limits, and requires insightful individuals open to discussion on both sides of the argument. All this is fine and a truism. But what then, when the outcome of such discourse can cause severe harm for individuals or whole nations? When this isn't fiscal policy anymore, but deals instead directly with someone's bodily autonomy? Regardless, both topics do affect someone's quality of life and sometimes their entire livelihood, but certainly we can agree that throughout the course of history ever increasing rights have been granted to the people, and this has been unquestionably good. No longer do the majority live in straw houses serving generational elites housed in their castles on their respective hills--now the majority live in unknowing servitude, in their housing projects, while the generational elite recline in their penthouses. To a degree, in spite of the brainwashing and misinformation that is widespread, information is accessible and class movement is far more fluid in the recent hundred-odd years compared to the last two thousand. But indeed we live in vastly different technological age now, and so the comparison is somewhat moot. What is certain is that we have less outward racial conflict and sex-based discrimination. These points do certainly persist, which is a movement to commit oneself to. And it is laid bare in the ever ongoing topic of abortion, the separation of church and state, and the pillaging of AFABs bodies for all their rights and autonomy is worth. That topic could consist of an entire other post, and I probably will make it at some point, but I will briefly make my position well known below. The topic of pro-life vs. pro-choice, as I see it, has little to do with biology and far more to do with the intersection of religion, in particular the prevailing western religions that had a stranglehold on North America's government practically since before the establishment of our nations, when the church was busy spreading a close-minded version of the holy text far too focused on guilt and punishment, when they sought to use said book to reinforce the rights and freedoms of men, forever posing them as a superior, powerful sex, subjugating women to a place of an object and not a noun. Even if examining the choice through the lens of biology, there are some common arguments brought up by the pro-life bunch. The most common of which being the potential of a fertilized egg to form a fetus given proper time to develop. And hence, because this fertilized egg can become a human, it is identified as such, from inception onwards. This is incredibly flawed for many reasons, as to use a current state to predict a future and justify continuation based on that uncertainty does not justify its continuation. We have few ways of actually predicting the course of a pregnancy, and even then we only rely on statistical models for cases that are very much individual, and this all considered not having even mentioned the autonomy, very present being, years of life already established, person already developed, who so happens to hold said ball of cells comprising the fetus, or pre-fetal structure. Surely new life is magical, or as some may call it sacred, but how can this non-tangible point supersede the very tangible human life experiencing the pregnancy? Can we seriously justify overriding someone's right to choose whether to bring life into this world, someone fully developed already with their own set of connections and life experiences, rich in its complications, to say "well, what about the potential of the being living in there, who, in fact, relies entirely on her biological support? This growth of this being, having not experienced anything but a fleshy inner womb, bearing no connections to the outer world?" And if we continue appealing to biology, someone with a womb has the power to bring life into this world countless times over, at whatever point they should chose in their life. Without their participation, such a feat is impossible, and as such their consent is tantamount. The question of choice is additionally a continual questioning of how or if a woman has a right to their own body and can make their own choices. Back when the church and state were so intimately connected, women could not even vote--and this slowly with time became an outdated law that no longer was so closely connected to the church, but instead a fossil of that age baked into law, rotted with time. While I'd like to say abortion is somewhat similar, in that it has been secularized, the common arguments for the sanctity of life and the miracle of birth is very much steeped in religious value. As we hold autonomy over our right to choose our religious identification, it follows we should hold that same autonomy over our body, and not ascribe limited rights to those which ultimately does not concern our own choice. I write this as a man, someone who does not have a womb, and hence I cannot conceive with the same strength the continual struggle to establish rights governing my own choice for my own body. But alas, religion holds its place, and that place should not be as a justification for law ruling a far more diverse class(s) of individuals, and far lesser should it be used to dictate what is right or wrong, or permissible in a country that has established its own moral and judicial system separate from religion, nor used as a judgmental tool for condemning and determining how others should act, but instead applied only to those who practice its values and chose to participate in its community. Your religion is and should be an island held close to your heart, and should not be used as a sublime justification for telling others how to live and act. Really this boils down to the very human need desire for power, as religion often has virality coded into its values: spread the truth to the unknowing people, for that is noble and favourful in the eyes of your God. Oh, this also happens to bring us more untaxed income, helpful in building more of our institutions and hiding more of our injustices (of course I know this isn't black and white, and hopefully I've drawn clear delineations there, in that religion has it's benefits and drawbacks--this discussion is far from exhaustive). Certainly we need not rely on religion to dictate moral action when we can and indeed have developed our own equally valid system of ethics and morals. I digress, but hopefully that point has been made clear despite its brevity. To return to my point: Where is the common ground to be found when there's been so much bloodshed? The common goals, values, all diluted in vicious crimson flowed from wounds in spite, out of a tribalistic belief of superiority, and we are left to question the purpose of the fight in the first place. A desperate people will go to great lengths to justify their morals and defend their convictions--so how far will a war of millions go? Left in the wake of such a conflict, will we truly be able to reflect and justify our actions, even in spite of loss? I stand by the fact that a nation divided, engaged in conflict is not bad per se, as it is not stagnant, but I do wonder the point at which stagnation outweighs regression in law and beliefs and the harm inherent to those consequences. Progress at the expense of others is not truly pure progress--which can only be achieved through unified effort, something current leaders show no interest in--and that is our death sentence. Perhaps that idea is a pipe dream, but it stands that we ought not need to step on toes to get to the front of the line. And so now the question remains of how we may actively reduce harm and prevent a self-destructive autophagy. Now more than ever we need unity, patience, empathy, and progress. I nonetheless fear for the souls yet to be harmed by the powers that be. It is important that we too do not forget scope, and placement of ourselves with the world at large; thousands die still daily, in Gaza, central Africa, Ukraine, and countless other countries engaged in conflict. And yet the world turns. I find it highly unlikely for a violent physical war to be fought at large in a place so globally and nationally connected as the USA, which is instead far more likely to be cursed with a war of information and the opposite. The challenge will be distinguishing truth from otherwise, taking the pulse of the true, unpolarized situation both from within and outside America. In so being blessed with connectivity we are cursed with the consequences. The future is muddy, but it too will come to pass, and we can only hope to improve upon what has been lost and unwritten. Now more than ever we ought to focus on establishing a common understanding, arming ourselves with truth and the discourse necessary to constructively build connections and dismiss the lack thereof. We are all ultimately subject to our own echo chamber, as little as we would like to admit it.

1413 TUESDAY Oct. 15th, 2024 An excerpt: Throughout my writings I have tried to remain somewhat independent of my life's events, but time and time again I fail to do so and I am reminded of just how crucial a mind's connection is to its surroundings. A conscience is reliant throughout its life on its experiences and the ebbing flow of judgements, growth, and reflections further molding its shape. We are inextricably linked to our world, but by no means find ourselves shackled like slaves. I, as of recent, have reflected much on the resilience of mind, the perturbations provided by chance, and how random and unpredictable this development seems. To be pure of mind and heart--whatever that truly means, perhaps instead to simply be a kind being aspiring to moral sainthood, is no doubt due in part to circumstantial privilege. In a sense, to be capable of kindness is a privilege or resulting from a set of privileges. Indeed, it comes with differential challenge given one's circumstances. Certainly there is effort to be expressed, but moreover the cards we hold impart a pressure on our future. Hence, I have given much thought to how much we can pass judgement acutely without context of someone's life. A lifetime is the backdrop against which we ask of moral actions, consequences, and study the nature of a fellow human. One would rightfully envision the murder afront Macbeth's castle as they would place it categorically out of order afront a relaxing Spanish villa. The consequence of the crime unchanged, the context sets our initial reaction, expectation, and subsequent judgement. But all else equal, would or should the punishment be equal? Be it unfair to say, a murderer grown up surrounded by war and suffering, accustomed to the utility of death, does not suffer the same moral chasm as the murderer raised in a loving, caring and peaceful country borne to a family that fosters kindness and empathy? Which is acting more in line with their environment, and does that sufficiently change consequence or dictate some greater form of sympathy and forgiveness? Perhaps I am caught at a crossroads between subjective morality and pure understanding, or sympathy of some sort. We may understand better committing murder after a lifetime of learning its usefulness, but this does not unteach us that murder is, by and large, immoral. And yet, by insatiable curiosity, we desire to understand. But by what measure do we learn? I have a habit of asking questions with no clear follow through answer. On this I reflect with patience as my mind tends to rush in search of fast satisfaction. Rumination helps. I feel it reasonable to clarify that this contextual investigation is not in reference to justification, as one may have for self-defense, no; this reaches another point. I am questioning the relevance of the pretext for an action and rectifying this with the resulting effect; a measure of how much the backdrop affects our perception of a play, which too often in life, remains unlit upon first inspection. We see the actors in front of us, and get, only if we stand up and proclaim, "I don't understand your harshness, explain! This blindness is unfair, it's making for a poor show!" some looks of cruel judgement from the crowd, and one of appreciation from the cast. Only here does the light flicker, and as though empowered by the antagonist's or tragic hero's monologue, the stage is illuminated and actions given a full picture, satiating what hunger had been beckoned by the past void. And yet, the act is unchanged. No set piece moved, no script rewritten, or actions undone by this outburst. And yet all is changed in relation to the first perpetration. I see much hate in this world around me, but to say this is indefinite or the norm is ingenuine and untrue. It is by our nature to be kind, and seemingly by the same nature to be cruel. The two come to a certain degree, hand in hand, but one is not nearly a consequence of the other. This is perhaps the nature of tribalism and what evolutionary psychologists would call just that, "within our nature" and yet humanity proves itself over and over in opposition to our biology. It is as our claim to intellect to refuse our biology and overcome misplaced instinct. We seek to fast, heal the sick, and work tirelessly at menial non-life sustaining tasks. We deny at many chances biological urges, but do not misunderstand; it is not mere abstinence or denial of worldly pleasures or some denial of subjective sin that makes us human, no. It is the critical appraisal of our actions, foresight, selflessness, and love for our fellow humans that defines us. To act against this is to rob oneself of your rightfully ascribed humanity. And the troublesome question remains--how are we to judge anyone devoid of a life's whole context? Even a day, or an hour, can be illuminating, but it sort of sidesteps my point. The core of it: certainly we have some right to judgement, but what contribution is one to eight billion or more? Or less? Still undoubtfully valid, but with this reasoning it carries a certain humility and awareness of one's nuanced contribution to the whole. We are each one part of an all too large, too abstracted puzzle. What reason have we to seek exclusion of another part? To by one's own selfish action, deny the image its whole? Even if by some miraculous reason all parts vote out a fraction, they have denied themselves the knowledge of the whole. They have depraved themselves of a part of humanity, regardless of how problematic, how seemingly superficial or easily disproven by logic. In a rather objective sense, like a preacher would have us think of God and His gifts and curses alike, the realities are neither, all simply exists as He wills it. Perhaps as we look around then we too can shape ourselves to fit the puzzle, but the goal is indeed to fit, not to exclude and expand into that space for our own benefit. Indeed, perhaps the focus is shifted too far toward understanding and has abstracted the real objective: learning. Such a moral framework does not preclude the right to opinion and disagreement, but instead provides a goal by which we are guided and aspire to reach. Such an impossible picture, by virtue of the world's chaos, is surely beyond our individual beings, but is nonetheless a reasonable goal to set aflame in our hearts. This acknowledgment does elicit some necessary form of doublethink, or some personal permutation of ideals to a more digestible one, since some find it illogical to aspire to an impossible (or at least supposedly extremely difficult, in the face of our current societal structure) goal. Such is the nature of working for the generation three lines on--we probably won't see the change, but slowly shadows lose shape, and the normalcy our children's children's children see will be the ideas once thought counterculture and revolutionary during our time. And in spite of the larger picture, we certainly have agency over our own microcosm of communities. Like a virus, ideas and attitudes spread from endemia to pandemia, and we all have ourselves a fan with which to direct the winds. And with this framework you might say, "Ah yes, so we must hate hate! We must reject ignorance with a strong arm and righteous brow!" I say no, or not quite. The human condition is rarely equivocal with mathematics; and so two negatives here do not make a positive as the cliché goes, and neither does indifference to the negative. I ask of you this: consider what must be understood, and accepted. How else could one expect a truthful dialogue? If we magnetize ourselves with the same radical attitude, the two ends will never meet, and so both pieces of the puzzle remain depraved of their greater shape. The goal then remains of change without hate. Opinion without a forceful or violent resolution. Open doors without exclusionary signs. As much as we can ourselves control, remain open, allow ourselves to feel and believe and connect and foster connections in the great eight billion (and growing) piece puzzle of humanity. DFWYNLM #177 All this to say, I think when faced with a disagreeable situation, gather your thoughts, deliver a measured, empathetic and reasonable response. We in our everyday splendor still retain the capacity for understanding, the benefit of the doubt so to speak, albeit this itself is a privilege of the clear of mind and safe of being. There are levels to this; not every acute issue can be resolved in the same acute manner, and some situations may be impossible to resolve in a given moment. But as is always true, we have the capacity to align our mind and actions with what may provide the greatest chance at growth for all parties involved.

When I am anxious, and when I am calm, I pick away bits of skin from my thumbs, fingers, any spot ripe for folding and scraping and ripping and tearing. Any accessible bit of dermis should lie sliced by my nails, at my command. Bit after bit, until the superficial parts are stripped to lay pink flesh bare, meeting nail upon tooth upon nail, parts of myself come free. I seldom reflect on the nature of it--such is a habit. Yet surely, whether conscious or not, I rip until the sweet crimson underneath is loosed and flows from the comfort zones out to embarrass me once more. And so leaving it be for a few days, another site is chosen and the ritual began again. What is not torn remains pink, shiny, and soft, newly aerated flesh. It is raw, with few undulations, not yet having met the rough realities yet laid in front of it. I subject them to cruelty. For what I know is that cruelty builds supple, thick flesh and hard skin. It is calloused and resistant to external forces. It knows its purpose for it does not question nor has the capacity to alter its trajectory. Only the mind knows. And yet, this skin too will shed, rip, tear, and be peeled back to reveal reddish nectar. None are resistant to change. The process is by its nature menial and absurd and ineffectual. But the process itself somehow offers a mental haven away from the steaming gears of the mind. A small grounding pain either validates the perceived external threats or is a mere small, sidelining distraction that is more concretely controlled. The task is surely meaningless in its ending but meaningful through its process. When I see others under the same mental spell, for them I weep, but I also feel kinship, as someone else too is locked into a menial, temporally stunted form of self-assurance and calm. I would never wish it on another, but like two caged animals, I understand. And with that, there are countless things in this life I do not understand. Outside exists an abundance of experiences, unique, nuanced, or shared, and lived 100-times over, and I will never live nor exist to see even a minute fraction of it. This is a base truth that we all face. Yet, this is all valid and as should be. Despite it all, we grasp for a semblance of shared experiences, fawn over the diverse experiences of our companions, and somehow try to navigate through life, collecting lessons and wisdom as we grow. In each other a lifetime of emotion, experience, teachings, ambitions, blessings and curses, love and hate, privilege and otherwise--truly, how could one ever think her own life superior to one another, or deserving of more than another, or insular and non-overlapping with her community. How could one ever believe herself to be above the bulk of humanity around her? To cast away that connection? To ignite that ego, let it run free, allow it some unbridled justification for its own gluttony? There are few stories more sad, than one of disconnect from her family, her community, her humanity at large. I will never tire of listening to those experiences of others, nor providing aid when and where I can. No greater joy, in my mind, can be achieved above spreading joy, healing, and fostering kinship. And with my ripped flesh, blood seeping into my hands, I wonder if it would be better some other way. What I subject myself too--is there some other way? Should I allow the skin to callous over, thicken and become resistant to all elements? I could chose to relent. In an odd sense, restraining myself from destroying is somehow a larger wall to scale than continuing the act. Inaction is supposedly an easier pit to fall into--clearly not always. The alternative though, is to continue the cycle of tearing, letting, closing, ad nauseam . For some reason I continually chose the latter. It seems a more natural state to exist in as self destructive as it may be. What started as a calming notion became a pointless impulse, and is now a comfortable norm. When I open new wounds, I never doubt they will close, they always have, they always will. It was never questioned. What I now know, is that even with all the distractions in the world, wounds close but do not leave. Scarring over the same spot, time after time, surely hides the scar but makes bare the wound yet again. Allowing it to heal reveals the scar. And so here we are. I am comfortable with my scars, to an extent. So then, am I really okay with any of it? What I have come to accept, is being bare, exposed, raw. I don't mind what that entails, and I certainly rather be malleable than unchanging. If growing pains come with it, if tearing ensues, I will survive it as I have before. A mind trapped in its own cycle of destruction and reconstruction knows the floorplan by heart, but evidently not enough to boot the guy with the sledgehammer. I just wish my contractor had found some peaceful way to go about it, but then again, it remains uncertain what is in flux, what is inscribed, and what is entirely beyond all comprehension. What I can do now is only come to accept and grow from my circumstances, and decorate the walls of my mind. I'm sure the sores do not suit aesthetics, but at present they comprise part of me, and that's not something I'm so eager to hate, nor in a rush to change. Growth happens at one's own pace, not any other normal or societally prescribed pace. I don't know where the road leads, but I do control the legs that take me there. A recent note scribbled on rice paper: " I'm living I'm learning I will live I will learn. That is enough. "

Digging back into the past. 1811 MONDAY May 20th, 2019 Suffering invites knowledge to the helm. In excess, it capsizes the boat. When humans are left to their lonesome, company is found within the mind. While one soul may inhabit a vessel at a time, several minds may coalesce to form a character; one perceived by a collection of others. We are but a collection of thoughts and emotions alien to our own, and on the assumption they remain malleable, we endlessly seek to reform them to our vision. Rational life, to follow the evolutionary lens of biology, is to project our genes across the pool of humanity. Working with and against the same people evermore, in the belief that we are good--and do equally as much good. But truthfully, how much meaning does it all hold? In a constant rat race to further ourselves, we unconsciously stomp on our own tails, blaming those intertwined with ours alike. Humans endlessly contradict their own nature, seeking philanthropic achievement for the wills of others, but for no cost nor risk to their own hide? Yet we waste lives in wars and die for those to whom we feel a strong attraction. But who am I truly to question such hurricane winds. Humans, as far as I have come to believe, are inherently good, yet all rules hold exceptions, but for those set on a foundation of liquid, nothing is ever static. Perhaps our behavior is far too complex to ration en masse--or it originates in irrationality. Defining "rational" originates from a general consensus on the upmost logical solution to a dilemma. But in the end, rationality is the death match between the subjective opinions of humans. The hardest truth to face is the lack of any set truth in the first place. Everything is what we define it as, for a sake of convenience and universal agreement. For that reason, we may glide one bit more smoothly through the choppy waves of the angry sea around us. But because to each our own objective picture is drawn, the subjective connection remains untouched. No objective lens binds the two--albeit sure, many share these connections, and in rarer cases they are isolated and unique. And in those cases, so oft we are sated with the answer "oh, he's lost it". This has nonetheless allowed for high cooperation on the species level (wars and other pettier crimes be damned), and fuels the engine of automata driving our discovery forward. And yet, it's all imagined. Life itself holds no defined meaning--or not that we've discovered. Instead, its nature is unveiled everyday in unique individuals, unique experiences, in each one life lived each waking micro-billionth of a nanosecond. It holds collective yet distinct meaning amongst us, and may be the hardest subject to un-subjectify in part due to the lack of presented social agreeance. Everyone loves to project their values on others, stopping themselves from accepting anything but their own truth. Exceptions exist even here, but the base convictions we hold are reinforced by years of affirmation. To try to mold others into yourself is unfruitful, but rather to open the opportunity for others to question themselves, and you your own, has potential to give rise to a more definite truth. Sadly enough, no matter how philanthropic one may be, they fall victim to their own selfishness. To live is to project one's own soul into the space their occupy, through whatever socio-economic means necessary. Our unconscious biological mechanisms drive us forward, providing reason, motivation, and on occasion, reward, for an existence. Stealing back these reins proves near impossible, notwithstanding complete separation of the mind from the physical, craving, feasting, covetous mass of flesh. And that probably means death. Ultimately, life means whatever we will it to. We shape our own lives as much as it returns the favour. Everyone seemingly exists for themselves, and to survive, they must be inherently selfish to some degree. This isn't all bad, and perhaps is necessary, and perhaps allows more good to be done in the end. But there is no shaking the core reason from ourselves. This is life. This is living. Lest I would kill myself for the sake of giving my share to another. But few people think this way, even fewer tragically act upon it. If this wasn't true, civilization would surely cease, and so it persists; and equally as much the reason why millions suffer, day after day, under bombings, gassings, fire, lynching, all ungodly sorts of torment that seemingly only an all-knowing being could muster up from nothing. Living for yourself is fine, everyone does to some degree, but this does not imply selfishness at all, it implies one's own will to persist. Live intuitively by your own moral compass, and make adjustments as seen fit. Always keep an ear posted, eyes open. And respect that of others for they too inhabit their own shows, their own path, their own inconceivably complicated life full of beauty and horror alike. So be a decent human, and uplift others alongside you. Be good. DFWYNLM #57 Looking back, much of this seems like mere common sense, and yet evermore it presents itself as seldom practiced. It is a fascinating practice to watch the news, grope through cyberspace for some semblance of a consensus amongst opposing parties, only to be met with polarization, separation, and at last, exhaustion. But to return outwards, to sit down at my favourite local pub and chat up the person beside me knowing nothing of them, feeling the connection of society returning; to peruse a used book and video store, and shoot-the-shit with the owner for a fraction of time, this is bliss, this is the ground truth. And what a privilege it is to escape a forced dichotomy. Even political punnett squares are only a vastly oversimplified projection of our true ideas and thoughts--how easily, how convenient can we force ourselves to be, before pixelating our nature? Our true disposition? It is a privilege nonetheless to even receive a relatively free flow of information, to never stress over bomb sirens, to sit comfortably with our take-out and iced lattes. It is a privilege to exist in a space. Perhaps we weren't meant to be exposed to this level of globalization in our day-to-day, but without it, how many more atrocities could over government support? How many more genocides could proceed across the world without our attempts to undermine them? It is human nature that our nose should stick itself where it doesn't belong, and so conflictingly, it ends up resting exactly where it was meant to be. By and large, it seems this olfactory system has a strong sense of justice on the individual level. And yet, how that builds governments that turn a blind eye or even support horrendous acts of terror, how that Big Brother tends toward subjugation and conflict--I am no anthropologist, nor political scientist, but that cleft certainly remains morbidly interesting. Do what you can to support Palestine. To oppose Russia. To fight against policies that further oppression and ignore genocide.

An old, brief reflection: Germline gene editing currently poses considerable harms to social justice and equity. For justified use, our society needs to shift away from value-based judgements of disease. This issue is foremost to other considerations. Many other objections predicate arguments on hypothetical deleterious outcomes. These objections fail to consider the robust testing and data validation framework already in place, notwithstanding the rare instance of a bad actor. These are weaker arguments in part because they emphasize uncertainty and worst-case scenarios failing to conduct a thorough risk-benefit analysis. Conversely, the healthcare system and wider society currently face social inequity, inaccessibility of healthcare, and the sociocultural relationship between illness and disease. These issues raise concern over the use of germline gene editing technology for health and neuroenhancement. These goals are not inherently bad, but the costs of germline gene editing are not affordable for those who may need it most, considering the high rates of genetically-linked morbidities present in families of lower socioeconomic status (SES). Ignoring this fundamental issue perpetuates worse generational outcomes for low SES families. It posits that gene editing promotes genetic normativism since non-disease variant genes would be implicitly more desirable than mutated genes. These points are compelling, but not entirely persuasive. The core of this issue is the perception of illness begetting stigma surrounding a disease. Christopher Boorse calls for a distinction between illness (socially evaluative view of a disorder) and disease (the biological malfunctioning of some system). It is unclear that germline gene editing fundamentally promotes genetic normativity, wherein it does not attempt to make a “more normal” person. As Boorse states, the normal is the objective proper functioning of a thing in accordance with its design, and therefore disease interferes with this, and medicine ought to fix it. However, in the view of illness, gene editing assigns higher value to some gene variants and devalues the experiences of those living with disease. Clearly this is a social issue rooted in evaluative judgements of one’s quality of life. Germline gene editing could have considerable benefits. Take for instance single gene disorders like cystic fibrosis (CF), wherein changing a single letter in the genetic code could void dependence on healthcare, and provide mutation-carrying parents the ability to have a child free of CF. This change would save families and the healthcare system thousands on life-saving interventions for CF. Funds saved could be directed toward aiding those of lower SES who cannot afford often necessary treatments, especially in the private healthcare sector. For as long as society views disease through the lens of illness, the social injustice argument is persuasive. Benefits to germline gene editing do not clearly outweigh inequity, discrimination, and harassment against persons with genetic diseases that may result from a society where curing these diseases is an expensive choice. Such technology would need to be universally accessible regardless of the costs associated. Until societal views shift away from illness toward a non-judgemental/nonevaluative approach to disease, germline gene editing cannot successfully accomplish its premises without inciting considerable social harm.

An excerpt from a WIP:             How long as she been walking? How long does one ever walk, in the vast expanse of a space beyond reason and doubt, shaped of an imagined form only given to by the mind’s flow. It remains suspended in both a visual and lingual part of the mind both lending from lived experience and borrowing creative realism from the deepest reaches of our mind. This place is not yours nor mine, but a suspension of the echoes bound between the material and metaphysical. In a sense, it is not here, nor there, but indeed everywhere.             Her shoes kick up grains of dust with each dragging step across a web of irregular shapes between split ground. It is without texture, cracked in countless hexagons, rhombuses, and other earthy shapes, yet lacking an identifiable material. The chipped particulate vanishes as quickly as it appears, coating, but never increasing, it’s coverage of her neat, expensive shoes.  In the recesses of her mind, she recalls the great salt flats, those relatively featureless but expansive swaths of barren land. They always seemed so serenely isolated from the communal world bound by deadlines, expectations, obsessive productivity, and never-ending workloads assigned for the sake of being occupied. She often thought of how freeing that world would be, how it could provide an endless escape while keeping her grounded by the surrounding nature. In a world strife with the chaotic smashing of supermassive, tectonic plates across inhuman timescales, that we can view an immobile snapshot of a land is a gift. And yet, even those had distinguishing, material features, especially contrast to the current environment.             The landscape appears in her visual field as if she could reach out and feel it all, smell the saline air, hear the gentle sweeping breeze, feel the dull warmth of a blinding sun, however, these enriching sensations feel distant, as if extending from the recesses of her mind. This view remains his surest sign of existence, and yet it is only perceivable as far as his directing mind can conjure it. The landscape is formless with each ebb and flow of the mind, only returning to its conceivable form once consciously noted. Merely existing suggests great mental effort.             Despite her assumed effort, any fatigue is easily addressed by scaling back mental faculties. If sound becomes deafening, effort is refocused to sight. If deaf, slightly more exertion is given. The impermanence of the whole hints at the need for more practice, but to strive this far is no passable feat. Some aspects are still very crudely defined: her strides underly a featureless sky, one not blue, not white, not black, but blank. Of an intangible quality, as if looking upon it only draws confusion, like an idea of the mind, only sustained by directed creativity does it materialize, ever flowing, ever shapeless as the fluidity of our mind oscillates between thoughts.             Time is relative. she cannot recall definitively how long it took to develop a tangible sense of being, only that now, to remain occupied, she walks, land forming alongside her and disappearing all the same. It is both a burden of stress and relinquishment of pain. The indescribable space that ceded to her current domain was leagues worse, and only fueled her desire to maintain something. Anything. Everything. What was and what will be didn’t seem to matter back then, but now… now, walking provides an anchor to the current world, and reminds her of one distantly passed. She senses it is one never to be returned to, only dreamed of in feverish and flawed recollections of a melancholic soul. Those emotions don’t feel biochemically fueled anymore, almost as if their essence only remains, a psychosocial definition devoid of a direct connection to the body. It isn’t a feeling. It is a being.             For someone who spends their life focusing on destinations, achievements, and the like, wandering an aimless journey is a curse. Old sayings claimed the journey was the purpose, but she believed a purposeless journey leads to desultory and unhelpful terminus. And that, in her eyes, was the greatest injustice one could obsess over. She did after all spend the better part of her life in the confines of a classroom promising a great future. That future as she learned was predicated on abjuring all her life’s energy to a great cause beyond her current meaning. After all, society thrives on having aims, prioritizing goals, making sacrifices in the process, finding a scapegoat. In times of peace and war, two dualistic state of humanity, there exists nonetheless a struggle for meaning and purpose. In war, it may consist of a valiant win over an opponent, or a visionary future of prosperity, or a subjection of some “other”—no differently in times of peace civilization finds groups to subjugate for an entrenched “greater good”. Anything to further the peace, is popularized, ironically often requiring great conflict. In the end it’s all fervour of some sort. And by God is it exhausting. Each step feels heavy. Breathing used to require great effort, but it starting to become second nature, like she was beginning to reform her cerebellum by pure thought. So too she will walk with ease, run in great stride, and perhaps jump great lengths. Flying has always sounded interesting. Sound—what did her voice sound like? In the far reaches of her mind, she can sense a once great appreciation for sound—especially that of great choirs intertwined with instruments of wind and string. Melody provided comfort and purpose in times of excruciating silence. Even a distant humdrum outside her apartment window helped distract unwanted thoughts and create new, gentle curiosities about the world surrounding her. It wasn’t always that she wanted to escape from certain thoughts, just that there was constantly something new to explore, so why linger on unpleasant feelings, uncomfortable topics? Life is about living, not reflecting, she thought, reflecting on her life, and while seeing a lone door, several yards in the distance. The now suddenly materialized door flutters transparent as the sense of shock washes over her. Controlling her initial confusion, the object slowly becomes stably opaque. Why, here of all places, would someone put a door ? She continues toward it, step after step still feeling labored, slowly noticing more details on her approach. It is about eight feet tall, has hinges on the right side and a rounded doorhandle on the left. It is white with two parallel rectangular indentations running horizontally down either side of the broad face, ending before the handle, and continuing thereafter down to the bottom of the door. At the level of the handle where there would normally be a latch, nothing protrudes from the frame. Why the handle then? What’s stopping it from blowing in the wind like a weathervane? Now only feet from the door, she glances quizzically. Where normally invoking a door would require great effort, this seems to now concretely remain the center of her focus. She takes a few steps to the side of the door, observing the same appearance on the opposite side. There appears no latch connected to either handle. What’s the point then? In her previous life, perhaps she ought not open the door and avoid the fraught nature of taking any action. This same fear lead her down a passive life’s journey, drifting from one obvious opportunity to the next, not really taking strides toward anything permanent. In many ways she was “successful”, enjoyed a good life with good people, but at all times it left distant. She was locked in a house of her own creation, peering through a muddled window at the wind flowing outside. All she ever had to do, and never could, was walk through the door and feel the breeze. Fingers already gently pressed on the knob, she slowly retracted her hand. She believed she was a woman of cautious fortitude, one who could withstand much of life’s unexpected circumstances. In her castle of comfortable isolation, she was independent. But in this same castle, she could never move, never travel, never see much of life’s wonder. This hadn’t bothered her though, or so she thought, ever since she was a child. Her room was her respite from the world, filled from floor to ceiling with books, toys, painting supplies and products of her burgeoning creativity, stacked on sagging wood-grain shelves. It served as a display of spiritual immortality, and more realistically, sound dampening for the reality lurking beyond her door. Her retreat was as much peaceful as it could be protective. Whether substances or the subject of the government’s many imposed regulations and tax laws, or simply forgetting to pick up milk, a fight was always to be had. So she sat in her castle, hearing but not daring to glean at the no-man’s land lying amidst the halls outside the bounds of her walls. And yet, back then, so too came a time for her to decide. Unfortunately, indecision is an omnipresent option. And it cast itself like a plague over her sensibilities. She could have left her house. She could have contacted authorities. She could have lived with friends, sought professional council, traveled, or stayed, interfering, risking herself and her father’s wellbeing… and this vast array of possible futures weighed her down to the point of fatigue. So, she remained immobile. Never opening doors. Hell, why not. Just this once. Her hand returned to the knob, fingers outstretched. With a grasp, turn, and push, a silent latch clink echoed in her mind as the door hinged open, surrendering to her resolve. As she stepped forth, a kind wind nipped her heels as if to equalize the pressure on two sides separated by an endless, missing barrier in space. Her mind cleared. And through it she fell into the expanse. More to come.

0052 MONDAY August 26th, 2024 Excerpt: Existing is easy, living is hard. Harder yet is choosing to exit. For all the joys we experience, equal if not greater torment. So few equalities in this world, it just is. I cannot crack this shell, I want the interior to seep. I want what I've earned, and nothing's what I'm owed. I find peace only in sleep, made invisible among sheep. How cruel for a stomach to crave what the brain cannot fathom what hands cannot grasp what the heard cannot muster and moreover having not tried to draw lines a foot higher. Everyday feels more laborious soon to be each minute and seconds, only a second. Soon pleasure outweighs work, and yet it all feels like labor. What will become a regret next? There seems nothing unquestioned. No certainties for me, no joy to be. Does any guarantee exist? Should I wipe expectations? No, all pointless drivel. The point is to find balance, to be comfortable with the opposite. The point is not to spiral. The point is overcoming weakness. The point is being free from crutches. The point is to grow the fuck up. Stop digging that little pity hole. I cannot find that arbitrary balance of self hate and love. Even in admitting I cannot, I recognize the false pretenses. Its all bullshit. Everyone has advice, no answers. There are no answers. There are no ends but the final curtain pull. Everything is but a means. We're all racing to the tip of the spear, but we'll near never reach the point. Am I cursed to repeat the same life until I learn some lesson? It's not that I don't understand. It's just that I don't like the answers. DFWYNLM #175

I feel the crushing weight of responsibility, the dread of consistent failure, and the overall ineptitude to turn it all around, to pivot, to find anything. I don't know if this emptiness is new, or merely an exacerbated symptom of circumstance. Few cheap joys are taken in the process of living, and such abundant hope in the prospect of release. Aside from the passing thoughts of being a husk of my former self's dreams and ambitions, I find a recurring thought in my absurd search for a purpose in this desert, the question: am I simply the role of the tragedy to develop the stories of those around me? The thought invades and roots itself in my mind, that I have no true agency or further construction in this world, but rather a simple final defining act will simultaneously establish and conclude my role in this 24 year long fight has produced? This is prima facie ridiculous, but in this absurdity where searches for meaning are numerous and answers ever so nonexistent, who is to call such life accusations nonsense? It contrasts so vivid and wildly with my biologically burned and psychologically trained (?) desire to live into a respectable age, to tire endlessly building a life I may reflect on fondly--to love and to have lost, to be a father and bring the joys of the future into being, to be free, to be impactful, to convince myself it all isn't simply in vain--how do you re-engineer a machine set on self-destruction? How do you rip apart computer code without a blue screen? How do you sanitize your hands while leaving behind and alive all the good bugs? Perhaps I've spent so much time peering outwards I've neglected my core. I can say few things with certainty, and so that I say all the more doubtful. I fear for only emulating thought, only erecting a facade of reflection. I once feared the depths of the dark. But now I know my fear is in never again feeling passion or joy in anything. To be gifted with a bountiful life truly is unsettling, because at the center of it all, my mind turns: why? Fear is no mind killer. Fear holds the hand and stays the feet. Despair, dread, regret--only this invigoration of the deadly past can drag anyone under. There are no answers, no right and wrong, only grey. The world is grey. DFWYNLM # 173