<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">We scroll ourselves into death. With this rosary we repeat the eternal return of information. News and more news, and so little wisdom. Time bends into a blur of this against that, we against them. Here we miss a neighbor suffering. Our fixation translates into so many missed opportunitiesContinue reading “Doomscrolling”
Misunderstood! I blame the Stoics who made it a technical term. As an Ancient Greek verb, it meant “worthy of” rather than our use now as “foundational.” Axiomatic means speaking well rather than speaking the truth. After all, if one claims an axiomatic truth, one can just choose any truth wants without considering the goodContinue reading “Axiomatic”
Only those who fly over the world never missteps, so they never learn. A faux pas breaks something, and this breaking reveals a social concern, a norm, a power structure. It shows the line which one needs to toe. Breaking something is only bad when you don’t learn something from it.
In my esurient selfishness, I forgot you, and so forgot myself. The late-night loneliness became a permanent fixture, the dull background I now hide in this husk. When the vapor clears, what is left is our nakedness. As if in a dream, we are together again in my morning, and thankfulness floods my being here.
The gods unleash their images from afar, and we bow to their views. Everyone an expert with a five-minute satirical jab at another complicated issue. Self-satisfied, we nod our heads in agreement. “They are stupid,” we degree and beat them with our simulacrum into submission. And the tele-gods smile.
Drunk with the power, the staggerer vacillates. Visionless, meaningless, and maniacal actions serve nothing but his own survival no matter what the cost to others. Then again, even vacillation needs a base, a ground. Wile E. Coyote runs off a cliff, looks down, and falls into the abyss this time never to return.
Sister sun bathing us with good things. Your ray sometimes harsh on our skin but nourishing for so much living. Here sprouts a stalk from a crack in the pavement; there a sequoia reaches towards you. Your quiet warmth marks our day while the earth turns its seasons. Thank you.
Clear skies, open seas were the only limit is the ever-receding horizon. The modernist dream was an undiscovered bonanza, and the bonus would be getting there unscathed. As we set sail into the new climate regime, what will our hope be? What happens when the process and end of the bonanza starts falling apart?
In aurora, the horizon obfuscates the sun’s corona. Promise breaks loose one beam at a time. The sky yawns and stretches clouds into the fresh blue. Another obfuscation, each potential exercised, another withheld in reserve. Come be embraced, little ray. Thankfully bathe in the warmth of the possible.
One finds oneself in a mood as its already shifting into the next. Unless one greedily coddles its evanescence and calcify into something might not have been. We contain and retain the fleetingness often to our own peril, mull, and remind ourselves of it: so evanescence turns into addiction.