Everywhere there is the illusion of normalcy. Coffee is still frothed in soymilk. A somber black and white portrait of FDR stares out vacantly into the laptoped masses. Slowly the highlights of his skin are giving way to the jaundiced yellow of antique paper. As I look out the walls of glass, I try to determine the nature of the particulate gristle hanging in the air, unsure if it is the entropy of the city or merely fog. Either way, its a lingering mixture of malpracticed winter. The new normal.
Today, the atmosphere possesses an old Eastern Block diffraction, strikingly similar to the clouds that once wrapped themselves around Brutalist Soviet apartment blocks. This morning it has resurrected itself, imposing an imperial ceiling on the skyline.
I’m beginning to understand being seduced by the spell of Russian surreality. Where survival and sanity is safeguarded by becoming an apostate of conviction.
Do I now understand what Wadsworth meant when he wrote,“The Mills of God Grind Slowly?” How much time is left before the celestial cogs grind slower than mills of man, where supervision has been abdicated to the whims of convolutional neural networks?
Today I commiserated with my hairstylist about our respective regimen of antidepressants. The irony of having to augment our existence at a molecular level just to cope. An entire supply chain that exists for the explicit purpose of self-censoring ourselves because we’ve ran the math on empathy and have equivocated that on average, it’s easier to shut up.
I think about the children of a divided Korea. Their hands clasped in the grip of their friends and loved ones. Their bones evaporating into embers.
I think about the children of Syria, their skin pale and turning purple with the dried film of asphyxiated saliva their lips.
All the corruption and greed that churns the wheel under its oppressive friction.
Refuse to shut up.