No limits but death.

I don’t know how many of you know this. I don’t post a lot about politics on this blog (I suppose I haven’t posted here a lot lately, regardless). See, I consider myself a fairly-leftward leaning political thinker.

Okay, some people have called me a communist.

I got introduced to the left by Youtube channels like TYT and the Majority Report. The latter of those I still watch regularly, after starting six or seven years ago.

Yesterday, one of the hosts of the Majority Report, Michael Brooks, passed on. He was only 34 years old, not a lot older than I am.

I didn’t know the man except through his podcasts and social media presence. I liked the persona I saw of him on the internet, but with parasocial relationships like the ones we all form with media figures, none of it feels real. Probably because it isn’t like a normal relationship or friendship.

I tried to reason my way through some of the feelings that hit me last night.

But logic isn’t an answer for suffering. Logic can defeat unreasoning sensations in oneself, sometimes, but I’m not that kind of thinker. Lately, I’m thinking I’m not much of a thinker (Or a writer) in spite of myself.

Sure, depression.

Sure, parasocial grief and loss.

That’s my current set of conditions.

I’ll be honest as I can. I wish things were different, on both those counts. I wish many other things would simply not be the case, but what does that matter. Wishes go up to genies and gods, and genies and gods don’t answer us mere mortals.

What kind of world is this one?

Abrupt.

Painful.

At times, monotononous.

I think it’s easy to forget that, given how many of float on endless tides of media entertainment.

I sank a ritual stake into a bowl of earth at 5:30 in the morning yesterday. It’s a rite I devised for myself, based on one from Hindu and Buddhist tradition. In this case, I wanted to tie myself to the real world.

That metal knife in the dirt represents a tie to the real world.

Real.

What is that?

So many layers of artifice and illusion pervade our lives that becomes easy to forget where the pain of existence originates. Pressure points of suffering and pleasure in each our of personal worlds impel each of us to avoid, or approach them.

But always, in the modern age, it seems even the pain is mediated by distance, by craft, by bullshit arranged to please or shock us.

I tried to use that knife and that bowl of dirt to remind me what is real.

An iron stake in potting soil may look esoteric, may seem bizarre, but it kept me grounded during my work yesterday.

Now?

I feel adrift, as I wonder what its like to die.

I have imagined death many times, many ways. I’ve peered at the implacable and advancing end of my life from what I hope is a great distance.

Reality?

You can’t know how far away that end is from you, or what it really means to die.

I can imagine. I scarcely know how to do anything else at this point.

I can work to survive as long as possible. I intend to do that.

I don’t know.

Anyone who tells you they know is lying.

Until next time, I hope you all remain safe. I’m trying like hell to get to work today. Heaven knows I’ll try again tomorrow.

But what are those things? Are they places we’re going to spend eternity dwelling?

I don’t know.

Thanks for reading.