Personal

Changing Careers

Every Sunday, my entire day is consumed with dread.

The dread of knowing that I am about to go back to work as a data engineer - serving nothing of any value.

I make data timely, craft intricate data quality platforms, and design systems. The work is clean, the outcome is empty.

It is existentially and spiritually hollow.

At the micro level, I can treat my work with a radical direction towards justice. Putting in extreme care for quality, long-term judgement, and maintainability.

Do You Want To Be Alive?

Can I ask you a question?

Do you want to be alive?

What?

Crush.

Walk outside and feel the sun glowing against your skin, the air grazing your neck, the cool soil crumbling beneath your feet.

And then witness innocent children being beat, traumatized, and existentially enslaved.

Do you want to be alive?

Feel the embrace of your girlfriend who loves you, her soft skin reminding you that you are undoubtedly alive.

Burning Fuel

My mind, my world.

My world, my illusion.

My illusion, my curation.

My curation, my fuel.

Cyclical bullshit.

I wish for explosion. Let the bones of my mind rattle until they shatter.

All shall be well in the day, all shall not be well in the night.

My soul, my fuel: the mirror's edge.

Dreaming In Whispers

I grew up in a home where stars fell like ash, where breath itself suffocated my young body. A place where gravity intensified and the sun scorched all it could see.

It is here that I learned to dream in whispers.

Day after day, I collected these small, fragile dreams like catching rain in a barrel. Like a ration of water in a dying summer.

Night after night, I curled into my bed next to the softest embrace of the void.

Life and Simplicity

My skin crumbles, tears, and falls away on touch.

The dance between the mind and the soul. The former understood, the latter translated.

My dear nothing, I beg you to torch my skin and leave me only with my unfiltered, untempered soul. I want to witness my own physical cage dissipate into nothing.

I wish for connection to my own humanity.

At the core of my "I" is a simple thing that wishes for community, safety, and love.

My Weary Child

Come to me, my weary child, and let your soul scream.

Look into the sky, peer past the boundary of this earth, and shatter.

And so you discover that, buried in anguish, what appeared broken never was.

And so you discover that, buried in yearning, you are achingly, horribly human.

You stain the world behind you with your own blood, yet you refuse acknowledge your essence.

Life.

Come to me, my weary child, and collapse into my lap.

July 21st

Truthfully, I don't know if I belong anywhere in this world.

Even in my recent freedom of looking beyond exile, all I find is something shallow.

Even in the moments of what should nourish me, providing soil for my roots to grow, everything feels indifferent.

I exist. I live. I breathe.

But for what?

I feel too lucid to find home in political and religious communities.

I feel too intense for the vast majority of relationships, both platonically and romantically.

Yearning for Surrender

All I wish in this life is for me to surrender to something greater. Life in clarity without some god, some higher force, devastates my fragile soul.

Oh, how simple it would be if I had some higher figure to surrender myself to. As I've written in Among Strangers, who would be more capable of holding infinite pressure than an infinite being?

Yet I peer past the trees above me, and I recognize I operate at a small scale of existence. In fidelity to truth, I can't belong to any religion, any following, any devotion to something higher beyond my scale.