What can i say? I like to write:)
Mostly about society and culture and random things that I try to canvass against some philosophical meaning.
Thought Journal, Mandatory Entry: 6th April 2176 Submit for Review: 7th April 2176 I’m beginning to suspect that Dylan Lockwood, my friend, is losing his fealty to the II State. Today was the third time he looked and sounded uninvested, even apathetic, while reciting the midday Pledge of Devotion to the Eternal President. While everyone else in class droned with conviction, their eyes fixed, piously, upon the portrait of our perennial ruler that hung from the main wall, Dylan seemed withdrawn. Even though he was standing right beside me, I could barely hear him say the closing the words: “My fate is forever at the will of the II State”. I will make a formal report of him should he fail to show proper respect again. That would be my third formal report to the Department of Aberration; the third student my class will have lost to the Wanton City Correctional Camp.
Two Guys Walk Into a Bar...
Looking around, it was more or less what I had imagined – a cozy, dimly lit, undeniably chic, underground affair that owed much of its appeal to its incidental borrowing of 1920s speakeasy aesthetics. Though its ethos was founded on anything but the historical marshes of American culture. The Lobo was prided on a pedigree; passionately and purposefully Cuban.
Table for Three
We gathered ourselves just beyond the single-doored entrance of the restaurant, ushered in under the harsh confluence of the dark and the cold that titled that ordinary winter evening. Or, perhaps, not so ordinary when considered in light of the occasion that brought us there that night. Ms. Sabel, our close friend of two decades, had just turned twenty-seven, and Sira and I, harbouring a semblance of appreciation and respect for social ceremony, had insisted on our taking her to dinner to celebrate.
A Day in the Life of a Clinical Trial Patient
This is a brief but honest glimpse into my time as a clinical trials participant – an ordeal of sorts, but one that I wouldn’t rule out doing again, surprisingly.
In Anticipation of Trump's Obituary
There’s a reflexive moral convulsion that comes from the prospect of speaking ill of the recently deceased. The memory of the dead is something of a sacrosanctity, that, if impinged upon, affords the transgressor with a degree of social disdain. Hunter S. Thompson did not care for this consequence, however, when he penned his scathing obituary of Richard Nixon in 1994. The late, great American journalist even doubled down in an interview three years later when he exclaimed, “…speak no evil of the dead. Well, why not? What the fuck?”
A (Green) revolution isn't built on action
No revolution, let alone a green revolution, ever started with one person’s actions. If it’s change we’re talking about – of the protracted, civilisational sort – then action is never the first cause, and never sufficient in and of itself to achieve the goal at hand. As commendable as our actions may be in mitigating our impact on the Earth, they aren’t nearly as important as the values that engender them. Values, you see, and the ideologies they lend themselves to, that is what it takes for us – for me – to change. That is the prescription for improving everyday life for the wellbeing of the planet.
What’s a little torture if I’m getting paid for it?
Let there be no confusion – as I write this, I am in physical pain, but, hell, I’m getting paid for it. I’m lying in a hospital bed, one of those king single-sized affairs all clad in pristine white with a panel of plugs, buttons and dials on the wall behind me. My t-shirt shows bulges here and there from the half a dozen monitoring electrodes that leech onto my chest and the wires that snake down the left of me and meet at the portable ECG machine by my wrist. I wouldn’t dare lift my arm from the bed – exactly why I’m typing this with just my right hand. The slightest movement only enhances the pain, and as it is, I’m in agony.
The Golden Age of Emo
“And though you’re dead and gone, believe me, your memory will carry on.” --Welcome to the Black Parade by My Chemical Romance