Article contains topics of suicide and death.
Ah, hello.
How much pressure can a person retain while living within a bubble of satisfaction? A satisfaction heightened by discernment—one that allows the prospect of gratification to take hold. To wake one day and find yourself in the midst of perception, aware not only of it but of your ability to discern it, is as terrifying as having no perception at all. But is it, really—to lack the ability to exist?
Now, to withstand this pressure is impossible. To find no satisfaction in the act of perception is nearly impossible as well. To judge another is to rewrite what it means to see oneself in the entirety of wakeful perception, and to calibrate both right and wrong is, for some, nearly impossible too.
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“Same Plane Terrain & In Ran Cram: The Beginning”
A note on discernment.
Each chapter, subtle in its variety yet pungent in its voice, Eric Morris gifts a ruler for measuring, underwhelmingly highlighting the common roles we see ourselves in under imperialism: a system of negligence that inspires its citizens to follow one another with a sense of caution, living life as if a lack of agency were normalized to a degree of recuperation, forever battling the woes of tiredness, frustration, resentment, and a systemic idea that “confronts” it all —the idea of so-called “resilience.”
As a friend of mine says, “empathy” has gone the way of the dodo in a world of interconnection, due to its overuse online. As with acting, we have come to assume it as a pursuit of knowledge, connection, and fellowship—one heavily inspired by a fascination with being seen and recognized (a very human trait). Rather than “empathy,” my friend has uncovered a word that desperately needs to find a home in this interconnectivity: “compassion.” Empathy breeds resentment, while compassion allows the other person to be seen without any hooks attached.
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“An Act on Reality: The Belief We Are Meant To Create.”
A quick personal statement on Eric Morris.
“Caution: Pedestrians Walking.”
A short story.
I walked down the stairs and was met with writing plastered on the doorway:
"Caution: pedestrians walking along sidewalks."
I stopped and contemplated whether or not I should attempt to open the door, ultimately choosing not to. That familiar feeling dawned through the curtains of what I wanted to leave behind, and the salt beneath my feet burned from standing there as long as I had. It came back to me—this continuation of what I wanted to leave behind—the pattern becoming never-ending, unwinding as I stared off, searching for an ending that never seemed to come. It repeated twofold, and the blankets of my life circled around me as my world congealed into an entire second.
"It's as if I'd never been here," I told myself. I realized I'd been standing and staring at this sign for so long that the pins and needles in my legs had spread throughout the bottom half of my torso…
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