A manifesto for Dante on the day the Barefoot God leaves the Sea
For a long time, God refused to wear shoes. Fourteen years of bare feet in saltwater. Fourteen years of dissolution, of softened edges, of immersion without arrival. Neptune moved through Pisces like a dream that never quite ended, beautiful, infinite, exhausting. An era devoted to feeling everything and deciding almost nothing. You learned to read pain like scripture. Trauma, became a language you could speak fluently. Lineage revealed itself as pattern instead of accident. You learned how n...
The Fool’s Headlining Set
By the time the Fool reached the monastery, he was four days late, one sandal short, mildly hungover, and carrying a folding chair he claimed was “symbolic.” No one had asked what it symbolised. That, in a way, was the beginning of the problem. He had not set out to become a heretic. He had set out, like everybody else with a cracked heart and insomnia, to find Meaning. Something sturdy. A hidden key. A bearded man on a mountain with excellent posture who could explain why everyone he loved b...
I choose… even if I’m still learning how.
A manifesto for Dante on the day the Barefoot God leaves the Sea
For a long time, God refused to wear shoes. Fourteen years of bare feet in saltwater. Fourteen years of dissolution, of softened edges, of immersion without arrival. Neptune moved through Pisces like a dream that never quite ended, beautiful, infinite, exhausting. An era devoted to feeling everything and deciding almost nothing. You learned to read pain like scripture. Trauma, became a language you could speak fluently. Lineage revealed itself as pattern instead of accident. You learned how n...
The Fool’s Headlining Set
By the time the Fool reached the monastery, he was four days late, one sandal short, mildly hungover, and carrying a folding chair he claimed was “symbolic.” No one had asked what it symbolised. That, in a way, was the beginning of the problem. He had not set out to become a heretic. He had set out, like everybody else with a cracked heart and insomnia, to find Meaning. Something sturdy. A hidden key. A bearded man on a mountain with excellent posture who could explain why everyone he loved b...
I choose… even if I’m still learning how.
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He notices it first in the grocery store.
Not fear,
fear would be cleaner.
This is something fuzzier.
Like everyone is slightly misaligned with themselves.
The cashier scans items too fast,
like she’s trying to outrun a thought.
A man in line buys six bottles of milk
and laughs when someone looks at him.
“Just stocking up,” he says.
But nobody asked.
The fluorescent lights buzz louder than usual.
Or maybe he’s just listening harder.
He walks home through streets that feel… rehearsed.
Cars stop at red lights.
People check their phones.
A couple argues quietly outside a café.
Everything is normal.
Everything is too normal.
Like a stage set that forgot
it’s supposed to become something else.
At home, the news is on.
Muted.
Always muted.
Images flicker:
maps, arrows, men in suits speaking with careful mouths.
He doesn’t unmute it.
He already knows the tone.
That careful, padded language,
the kind that says
“we are not panicking”
in twelve different ways.
He opens the fridge.
Nothing has changed.
Eggs.
Butter.
A jar of something he meant to throw away three weeks ago.
He stands there longer than necessary,
hand on the door,
as if the cold air might tell him something.
It doesn’t.
Later, he texts someone.
“Hey. You feeling weird lately?”
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Finally:
“Yeah. idk. just vibes.”
He almost laughs.
Just vibes.
That’s how it happens now, doesn’t it?
The end of the world reduced
to a mood.
Across the collective psyche tonight:
A high-pressure system of denial sitting directly over major cities.
Sudden gusts of dread moving through quiet moments: dishwashing, scrolling, brushing teeth.
Visibility remains deceptively clear. You can see everything. You just can’t believe it.
Advisory:
Many will mistake this feeling for personal anxiety.
It is not.
It is the soul noticing something the headlines haven’t admitted yet.
He goes to bed early.
Not because he’s tired.
Because he doesn’t know what else to do.
The ceiling looks the same as always.
A faint crack running across it
like a map of a country that doesn’t exist anymore.
He wonders, briefly
not dramatically, not even fully consciously
What if this is the last normal night?
The thought doesn’t land.
It hovers.
Like everything else.
Somewhere across the city,
someone is making love
like nothing will change.
Somewhere else,
someone is packing a bag
and pretending it’s temporary.
Somewhere,
a child is asleep
in a world that is already ending
in ways they won’t understand
for years.
And him?
He turns on his side.
Pulls the blanket closer.
Checks his phone one last time.
No alerts.
No sirens.
No confirmation.
Just that quiet, electric feeling
in his chest,
like standing on a platform
where the train is late…
but you can feel it coming
through the rails.
He notices it first in the grocery store.
Not fear,
fear would be cleaner.
This is something fuzzier.
Like everyone is slightly misaligned with themselves.
The cashier scans items too fast,
like she’s trying to outrun a thought.
A man in line buys six bottles of milk
and laughs when someone looks at him.
“Just stocking up,” he says.
But nobody asked.
The fluorescent lights buzz louder than usual.
Or maybe he’s just listening harder.
He walks home through streets that feel… rehearsed.
Cars stop at red lights.
People check their phones.
A couple argues quietly outside a café.
Everything is normal.
Everything is too normal.
Like a stage set that forgot
it’s supposed to become something else.
At home, the news is on.
Muted.
Always muted.
Images flicker:
maps, arrows, men in suits speaking with careful mouths.
He doesn’t unmute it.
He already knows the tone.
That careful, padded language,
the kind that says
“we are not panicking”
in twelve different ways.
He opens the fridge.
Nothing has changed.
Eggs.
Butter.
A jar of something he meant to throw away three weeks ago.
He stands there longer than necessary,
hand on the door,
as if the cold air might tell him something.
It doesn’t.
Later, he texts someone.
“Hey. You feeling weird lately?”
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Finally:
“Yeah. idk. just vibes.”
He almost laughs.
Just vibes.
That’s how it happens now, doesn’t it?
The end of the world reduced
to a mood.
Across the collective psyche tonight:
A high-pressure system of denial sitting directly over major cities.
Sudden gusts of dread moving through quiet moments: dishwashing, scrolling, brushing teeth.
Visibility remains deceptively clear. You can see everything. You just can’t believe it.
Advisory:
Many will mistake this feeling for personal anxiety.
It is not.
It is the soul noticing something the headlines haven’t admitted yet.
He goes to bed early.
Not because he’s tired.
Because he doesn’t know what else to do.
The ceiling looks the same as always.
A faint crack running across it
like a map of a country that doesn’t exist anymore.
He wonders, briefly
not dramatically, not even fully consciously
What if this is the last normal night?
The thought doesn’t land.
It hovers.
Like everything else.
Somewhere across the city,
someone is making love
like nothing will change.
Somewhere else,
someone is packing a bag
and pretending it’s temporary.
Somewhere,
a child is asleep
in a world that is already ending
in ways they won’t understand
for years.
And him?
He turns on his side.
Pulls the blanket closer.
Checks his phone one last time.
No alerts.
No sirens.
No confirmation.
Just that quiet, electric feeling
in his chest,
like standing on a platform
where the train is late…
but you can feel it coming
through the rails.
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