Year in Review

I have no idea what history will make of 2020, but the only record I have kept of this cursed year are blurry photos of shrubs.

The point is to accept that our impulses cannot save us from impermanence, that change and failure and death are inevitable—that stillness, as much as movement, is divine. 

In a move critics are describing as “a bit on the nose,” I start playing a game about being trapped eternally in hell.

The crow is seen as a harbinger of death, a carrier of messages, a wise and knowledgable bird with a connection beyond this spiritual plane. 

Sometimes we never made it to the lesson and simply reflected on the disasters unfolding—not as a way to understand, but to talk about the impossibility of understanding.

The brand of simplistic and overzealous moralism that exists online has long been tedious, but the pandemic has made it even more so.

I don’t believe in guilty pleasures, and I do believe in taste, but I also believe in context.

It’s comforting to know that in the annals of history, my day-to-day personal suffering won’t show up at all. Unfortunately, in the present, the details are apparent, if only to me.

Some find comfort in conspiracy; I’ve found it in asking the same questions about plants and insects and mold my seven-year-old self might.