To Whatever

If I write to nothing, but I do indeed publish this, then what, or who, am I writing to? It feels somewhat inbetween. And so I will write to whatever.

I think a miracle of this world is the way that even the most passionate become tired, worn-down, and depleted.

The miracle of exhaustion is that it makes no exceptions. Even those at the edge of human possibility collapse. And in that collapse we glimpse the truth of justice: it is carried not by gods, but by breakable flesh.

I think the common cultural idea is that those saints, activists, and warriors resting is proof of their illegitimacy. But this is not to say that this expectation is uniform across all; it remains the dominant, despite the growing compassion in our society. But the most politically motivated revel in the idea of catching a climate activist in her state of depletion, using disposable plastics. This is taken as contradiction.

Yet isn't this depletion beautiful? It is, in itself, an act of defiance against the world they rally against. Battered, aching, and troubled humans that strive so much to improve the world that their weakest (read: human) moments are taken as gospel. If someone revels in your defeat, this is a sign that you are far more effective than you believe. To be in this scenario simply means you orientated your life towards clarity.

Exhaustion in the name of clarity is the most human proof of devotion.