duskmachine

[duskmachine]

chainsaw man ch 198 spoilers

"fami" being the death devil is the greatest way to wake up on april 1st holy shit. and it makes so much sense too, i was played like a fucking fiddle it makes me giddy with delight.

here she is, gluttonous, filling her body with food that will rot in her. death is absurd is like that! it calls for you to indulge in life:

to prepare for festivals despite the oncoming death. to live a normal life where "we can smile like our old selves." can you believe it? despite the war and violence that comes as a consequence to the rot and malice people hold deep in their hearts, here is a student that requests a smile because it would help them more than escape (death).

because the most absurd thing exists, one that counters death and exists because of death: HOPE. "the world's full of hope!" exclaims this false justice chainsaw man. it's so insane to me it's false JUSTICE chainsaw man that says this. in a world filled with corrupt politicians willing to sacrifice the lives of thousands of children to protect the status quo that only benefits them— here comes JUSTICE, a balanced scale, to declare HOPE. to live despite! to live is absurd!

to laugh! to smile! to have that childish spirit in you and eat dumplings in destroyed buildings left behind by war. to seek love in a desecrated corrupt world. hope is absurd. and it's the only reason why these kids continue to live on. and death is the reason why we hope.

it is because of the absence, the nothingness, the hollow and empty land, that children who laugh and smile in the face of death and destruction can build and paint for future festivals. they face their black painted future that was shit on by the adults in their lives, and they request each other to smile and look forward to tomorrow.

and look! how absurd it is that the death devil wants to die! here is a corpse that is planning for its own destruction! war that demands death means something. war that demands death be sacrifice for something larger! and death! who looks deadpanned at this! and turns away to prepare for the school festival.

who cares? who cares about stupid politicians and war? there is hope that clings to us and it is asking us to point and laugh at those who demand for us to die. because we live absurd stupid lives that exist like the ants we crush. we will live. we will love each other and tell each other to smile, because "the world's full of hope".

[duskmachine]

i wish people weren't so afraid to be awkward. with ai people are trying to remove monotonous tasks or general annoyances. ai is advertised, not as a tool, but a literal part of ourselves. they help us write emails of gratitude, they send automatic messages to friends or to possible employers who haven't reached out yet. ai becomes us— it is not only how we express ourselves but it becomes our identity. it is a form of presentation, which alters the judgement of others, morphing it into our humanity.

i don't believe ai can be considered a tool if it continues this way. it is not an extension of ourselves like a phone is, or our arms, or voice; it breaks us into separate identities. there is something, someone, replacing us to deal with the nasty stuff. the boring stuff. the airplane turbulence, the thank you letters during christmas, the dentist, our jobs.

who you are— which was originally created by your habits, your decisions, your agency— is washed away. taken up by another, someone who isn't you. who can't be you. but has taken the place of you. now when you meet the person you sent an ai generated email to— can you express yourself as you had? it was you who had sent it after all, but the you who sent it isn't here now.

you: severed. eventually, you have to face yourself. read the emails generated by some machine to know yourself, to pretend to be yourself in front of others who know you through your mechanical talking piece. who are you, when you have been stripped of everything? what is worth saving after all of it? can you reintegrate despite the pill in your head, despite your work-life balance? does love transcend severance?

you shouldn't be so afraid to feel things. the pain, the grief, the loneliness. it comes with the love, the joy, the relief. it is ok to be awkward. to be clumsy with words and sketches. it is part of the process of becoming yourself; what are you if you are born as a blank slate ready to do a job?

[duskmachine]

I briefly saw a clip of Sophie Strand explaining one of her main inspirations for The Body Is a Doorway. She speaks about a study from MIT about how a spider's cognition is extended to its web, and she continues this idea to humans. How we understand ourselves by understanding others. Constantly, I am reminded of Frankenstein. This recognition of self through others. "If I am not a person then I must be an animal." Yet, here we are dedicating ourselves to lives smaller than us to understand ourselves. A spider and its web is equivalent to us breathing the smog of the cities built hundreds of years ago by hands we have never known.

A world extended to us by others to be molded by it. Our connection, our webs, the things we posses. What does it mean for us in a world like today? I'm thinking about Metaverse. It is a digital world. It gives you the building blocks of creating a human life. You can create a theater, purchase popcorn, and pretend to eat it. An artificial experience you make real through your mind. Here is your extended cognition that only exists in temporary digital blocks made by nameless programmers and controlled by a man who only sees people as dollars.

Then I think about church in the Metaverse. Here lies God's house in a formless mind game. Our point of meeting and worship destroyed the moment these digital blocks prove to be worthless by our kings we spit on the faces of. What do these digital spaces say about us? Our identities are so temporary, fleeting and glitched. Rushed with no origin and no destination. Trees standing straight with no roots.

We are possessed by rulers who don't see our humanity. Whose web is created by our intertwined arms as they crawl across us to reach insects to suck the insides out of. "If I am not a person then I am an animal." "If I am not rich then I am poor." "If I am poor then I am not human."

The non-human populous grows. Our webs, our territories, are not owned by us. We have no control over them. Like spiders, we can only watch as man sticks their fingers into our web. How do we recognize ourselves in these circumstances? What is worship and tradition worth if it is only valuable if we can sell concepts of success through money spent? Slaves to our beloved Frankenstein. Frankenstein slave to his possessed mind.

[duskmachine]

Cradle the feeling that's been spoiled like milk. Hot fog of rot escaping as your breath. The scent reenters you through your nose— it's disgusting and makes your eyes roll back. Split open your body with itching swollen fingers. White curdled welts fall from your stomach with a wet sound.

Cradled child decaying in your belly. Feeling that you blanket with your flesh— clawing fresh wounds into you. Keeping the living emotion imprisoned in you. Punishment for crimes unfinished and unpolished.

Without the weight of your rot sleeping in your abdomen— you fall to the ground. Snow softens the blow. Blood from your head gently paving its way through glimmering flakes. A river escaping its cage. Yellow curdled milk against the brilliant white snow. Red warmth against the blue cold. Rot revealing itself hidden in meat, escaping into a fridge.

[duskmachine]

I should've struggled when it mattered. When there was a dream and life was a streaming train that was blasting through visions of fleeting happiness. Where you never got off, but you could imagine a flourishing life beyond the thick plastic windows.

Perhaps, if I had never gotten off to take a breath in I wouldn't have realized the air was thinning. That, in reality, the golden skies I saw filtered through the windows were a gray hue. If life was something I could delude myself into believing in. If life was created by flashing lights. If life wasn't destined to be destroyed the instant it began.

If I had stayed on the train and witnessed a lime green light slowly transition into yellow sunlight as it passed through glowing trees. Had I continued to yearn for a life outside of my created vehicle of fragile safety. Maybe then, I would've died a natural, moving death. Where shapes were created by a pulsing radiance and coffins sit in the shadows of dead branches, but everything was moving, moving, moving. That something as permanent as loss, could pass.

Because they'd release that cart containing my diseased body. And I'd go flying, flying, flying. Flying backwards to watch my life flash by me like the wings of a hummingbird. Colors of something completely untouched. Life could've been the light streaming through white curtains that your fingers drift through.

Instead, I stand in a field. The train has long abandoned me, or maybe it hasn't, but I refuse to look back. The storm is rolling in and I don't have a home. Hypotheticals torturing me as wheatgrass brushes against me, itching my skin, reminding me of where I am.

[duskmachine]

They'll tell you stories about the Devil. He dwells in the deepest corners of Hell. Hiding in the shadow of his eternal flames. He'll smile with yellow jagged fangs and make you sign a contract that sounds too good to be true. He's an evil naturally born in tandem with God's goodness. You'll pray at night before you go to bed to escape his hands. Be good, do good, and God's heavy cross that weighs on your chest will bathe you in light. Darkness can never exist in that blinding whiteness.

And that's the story of the Devil and our God. Concepts without bodies. Contracts with no words or signatures. Just a cross and a paranoia that pulses in your mind. Your body is comforted by the weight on your chest and the pain in your hands as you hold onto your cross. Your mind follows suit.

Yet, you were born curious. Child of Adam and Eve who ate the fruit of knowledge, you seek worlds outside of your fragile paradise. This peace they sell you crumbles so easily in your hand, you dream of a future that you won't have to glue back together with delusions and verses.

And you'll meet the Devil. Except he won't be shrouded in shadow. He will be an ugly man standing tall on a stage surrounded by applause and loved by many. The Devil has a body. He is not the black of night, he is not the dirty air you breathe. He will smile with teeth from your skull, he will shake your hand with his warmth, and he will sign contracts for you.

Because evil is a phenomenon in stories. It is what begs you to build walls to keep others out. These beloved tales that allow paranoia to settle in your mind are written by the hands of man. The Devil does not exist. There is something scarier that keeps your paradise so pristine. This fleeting peace; are you willing to kill your siblings to keep the Sun in your sky? Are you willing to kill your kin for a crumbling land?

When you witness life beyond the apple tree, will you return to paradise? Or will you reach deeper into denser woods and allow the smoke to fill your lungs. Will you die soft, unmarred, to exist only in stories that will spread terror to others unable to breach your paradise? Or will you reach for others to mend wounds? Do you imagine a world where we tend to each other? Or do you want to keep pretending?

There are hungry eyes watching you in your glass house. Child of Adam and Eve, do you think of me a snake? Your blind faith has never protected you.

[duskmachine]

Last year I wrote about how I finished The Stranger on new year. I wrote about how nothing has happened, nothing meaningful was worth writing about. I dreamed of a life devoid of purpose, something more akin to rocks and oceans. Ripples of an infinite time that stretched out to become a passive observer of moving life.

I dreamt of a life that was whole because it was nothing. How everything lives, burns inside, filled with something made to connect to everything. Death, a concept so devoid of meaning it becomes the thing that matters the most somehow. My bird's ashes sit in a wooden box with flowers carved in it. Three thousand dollars is what death is worth. It means so very little.

I drank a cup of black coffee and I sat at the dining table alone in silence. Nothing happened. Everything was isolated from me. Nothing burned in me. I was supposed to make something from it. Make something from a monumental day about the passage of time. Make something from the death of a year. Make something from the death of my bird. Make something from the life I had not lived.

I once wrote that stars reach us with a light. Space, made up of a black fabric, catches on fire. Strings untangled from such a cloth, fly out to us to bring us: a light. I once wrote, one should not be afraid to look up to witness the stars reaching for us. That instead, we should wave to them. Even if they're dead. Surely, this flame that has traveled through light years, cannot be a meaningless thing.

And perhaps, I was wrong about that. Perhaps, it is meaningless. There is nothing special about nature and its order. There is nothing special about anything. But, what feels special is what burns. What burns inside of us to connect. It remains innate in us; bursting stars reminding us of a white hot core dwelling in our hearts. It is that love that sets space on fire to give us shooting stars to wish upon. A life too hot to hold, it jumps and reaches for something beyond time.

But I am not a star. I am not the whale bones at the bottom of the ocean. I am not the rocks eroding from giant waves. I am a person. And I will be here. I dream of a life not belonging to me. I am privileged to be this, just as the ocean is, just as death is. To witness the ocean reach for the moon, to watch love burn in still life. I lived as a stranger. "Couldn't he see, couldn't he see that? Everybody was privileged. There were only privileged people. The others would be condemned, too."

I live a life others cannot see, estranged from the passion that grows innate in nature. And yet! Someone held my face today and invited me into their home and told me, "I will always want you here." This life, its only purpose which is to die, too hot to hold, was grasped by love desperate to see me for the new year. Time, pushed to the side, for me. And I, who exists with infinite time for I have lived for absolutely nothing, suddenly burned with that same fire from the stars. A light that wished to reach another's heart.

It has taken me an entire year to understand The Stranger. And all it took, was for nothing to happen.

[duskmachine]

I've been mildly miserable about writing. Not for any poetic reasons, I'm simply thinking about writing as a job. A lot of people have "writer" in their bios and I think it's really funny a lot of them just like saying they're a writer because they love to write. Of course, I don't think this is a bad thing. "Writer" is a rather vague title, it's fun to see how others may interpret it to be.

However, "writer", as writing for a living, does interest me. The stories we know and love are circulated around because of many, many factors, but a damning factor most cannot deny is money. A "writer" must have the funds, the time, and the persistence to publish. They must, despite their internal desires, fold to the principals of the publisher.

"Writers", who like to move narrative pieces to create their own stories, learn to hand over their possessions into greedier, more powerful hands. I wonder then, how many stories that were meant for something more (or sometimes something worse) were shaped into becoming more palatable for the sake of making money. How many writers stretch out problems solved long ago for the sake of funding their next big project? How many of them lost their reputation in this process and were never able to publish what they really wanted to?

Perhaps part of my disappointment in a lot of our media is due to this "process". Bad stories must exist for good stories to emerge, but this is not a "writer" who loves writing. This is a writer who is attempting to read the minds of masses that function under tired psychologies that no amount of rational thought can explain. There are no bad drafts for these movie scripts, there is no craft. There is only money, a computer, and a digital white paper that never displays mistakes along the way. These "writers" never witness what their art became through the process. Just as it is.

And it is only that. It only exists as one thing. Never will they look back to see the beginning of their passion; what brought them to this bright blank page glowing on a screen. It is just the result. Not the pieces.

Stories that people have loved will crumble in quality and that same audience will go scouring the internet trying to read the mind of the writer, but there are so many moving factors that could've lead them down this path and somehow, every single factor involves money and time. Writers and readers stare at each other in horror, and somehow, they're all thinking the same exact thing. This horrible distance between the two, one that is destined to be observed for the rest of their career, and the other tapping the glass. Both of them, "writers", watching through a screen from opposite ends.

Both of them, looking for the exact same thing: an answer from the other.

[duskmachine]

I don't know if it's because I recently returned to Honkai: Star Rail, but I think there's something to be said about the increase of gacha games releasing. I'm not saying gacha games have never been a thing until Genshin Impact, but I am saying that there is a concerning amount of gambling in supposed "free to play" games.

There are those loot boxes (or are they crates?) and skins in League of Legends, but very honestly I don't know anything about those games so I'm just going to acknowledge them as part of this trend rather than discussing them further.

Of course, to no surprise to anyone, escapism has become very popular. One can argue it has always been concerningly popular, however this is not my point. What I'm trying to address is our interest in escaping our own lives can be capitalized on.

It is easy to spend money when the world offers you nothing to invest in. New generations cannot afford homes, are not paid livable wages, most live with their families still, and I know a concerning amount of folks accruing a significant amount of debt for grad school to delay going into the "real adult world".

People, to a certain extent, are more interested in short term gains. Companies are too! It is simply how capitalism functions: the line must go up. Since I started with Honkai: Star Rail I'll talk about Penacony. I recall someone saying it was brave of the writers to speak on "waking up from the dream" when majority of players often indulge themselves in these games to escape from their reality. I don't believe it to be necessarily "brave" of the writers to do this when they recognize majority of players don't read, but I understand that it can be jarring to see a game so easily point at the problem that allows them to make such a stunning amount of money.

Penacony is a giant Evangelion reference, and Evangelion itself is a dedicated show (alongside several movies) to criticizing those who use media as a means of escapism. There is a responsibility an individual has, not just to themselves but to others, to maintain tethered to the ground. For life, for humans, is on earth not so much the sky. Yet, I find Sunday's argument compelling: "If you are weak, which God should you turn to for solace?"

Indeed, if your so-called Gods have turned your Earth into something unlivable, if those Gods create your destiny of a life of servitude and nothing more, who then will provide you justice to a fulfilled life? Why not let life slumber if there is nothing to wake up to? Why then do you wake to an ocean of blood, choking the girl that never wanted to understand you?

"I will never get justice in this life." Is a post I saw on Instagram. I think about this line everyday ever since I saw it. It is so easy to spend stupid amounts of money to see your favorite characters become heroes and gamble away, what could be, your life savings if there is nothing to save for. The life we had imagined when we were kids has been destroyed by Gods (big corporations: ConEd, BlackRock, big oil, you name it), and now, there is no one to turn to.

We recognize it's quite impossible for anyone to care about our lives, as we don't ourselves! I don't have anything spectacular to say in the end. I just think we've lost our imagination. We've lost the ability to imagine a world without these Gods, without the line going up, without the carelessness we treat our lives. We buy books to keep them in shelves and never open them. Imagination: a product rather than a tool.

The writers of Honkai: Star Rail can confidently tell you to wake up from the dream because they know you can't. Because the answer to: Why does one wake? Is simply: because God wills you to. He asked for the Sun to rise, the birds to sing, and for you to open your eyes. So you can log back in, spend money, earn it, and spend it all again.

"'Hope' is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul... I've heard it in the chillest land And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me."

Perhaps, there is no reason to lose hope. But is there a reason for it at all in a dream? "On this eighth day, I grant myself departure."

"Disgusting."

[duskmachine]

There is a vampire who sits in rubble after the world has ended. She'll pull out a lighter and set her cigarette aflame to have a smoke. And she will have no vicious memory of the life before her because she has lived in selfish memoriam for herself.

Shadows and secrecy, never has she acted to hide, but rather to be beside herself. Witness herself. The Sun not need be upon her, her reflection in others' eyes captures herself. Kidnapped in the storm of primal desire, there is never a need to know the tragedy of never knowing herself. Observed and absorbed into tales, memory is a vision for others; she lives presently to wash her life before death.

This is her dance. Holding warm arms of who she was, and what she is now. Erasing that identity by becoming more, by igniting that flame of tragedy and knowing only light through the threat of being burnt. Killing is part of her nature; a vampire lives by instinct. Never shall she deny, her greed will never allow it. Consumed by these ills, she lays beside her grave and carries her bones. Eye sockets hollow from decay, she can never see herself reflected through herself.

It is destiny then, for a vampire to only know tragedy, for misery is the only truth of walking amongst the living. And what joy in knowing and relenting. To bite into the flesh of others and taking what you seek; to only understand what you are in pieces of people. A vampire is not a human. It dances in distorted reflections of bulbous fearing eyes. Memory, which is captured in decaying bleeding brains, tells the story of the vampire.

And she puffs an air of smoke through her mouth. Appearing as if she is alive.

[duskmachine]

When you reach the end of the stream and you look back to see how far you've come, a hand will pull your face forward to look at the black hole that sits waiting for you. People often say to stop and smell the roses. Make life an enjoyable journey, for the ending is far less interesting. All destinies are exactly the same.

Yet, we mull over stories' endings. We imagine lives that string out far beyond the physical pages of what is presently written down. Our bodies limited to visions of life, can only ever bear witness to those in the living. A ghost walks among us, whispers of tales. A life beyond this one— or perhaps not a life at all.

I ask you what does it matter being alive if it feels like you're dead? You sink in stagnant waters, walk with the stream beside you; your life, fragile, held together through water. When one can only walk one path the ending seems like the only interesting topic of discussion.

How does one witness your life? We have read the same stories. Witnessed every end. All novels share the same affliction. The one standing between life and a man is boredom. You are bored of drinking water. Bored of reading books. Bored of living. The one standing between death and a man is inconvenience. Simply too lazy to pick up the necessary tools. Simply don't have the money. Or perhaps it would be an inconvenience to others.

When you look back, do you still see a vision? Or will it be nothing? Living entirely due to convenience, waiting to die because of boredom. Who is the hand that pulled you to death? I lack an answer.

[duskmachine]

Liver on a platter, you sit in front of it, with fork and knife. How do you eat this damn thing? You have to eat it whole so you can finish your wine. Without it you have nothing to destroy. But, if you cut it into pieces it'll be destroyed with no value. What's the point of drinking wine?

The Devil tells you that if you eat the head of a snake you can unhinge your jaw to swallow it whole. The Sun tells you that it can kill your hunger, that way you will never suffer again. But, the Sun is in the reflection of the Devil's eyes and the snake is the Devil's tongue. Surely, no good comes from their deals. Yet, the desire is there. Can you imagine a life without it?

So, you walk into a church and pray to God. He appears to you as a stone and tells you to offer the liver to Him so He can drink the wine for you. He'll take the pain of wanting so you'll never need to know it. What's the point of desire? He asks you. Despite His Godly appeal, the want to want keeps you in the shadows from His deal. Surely, there is no point in a life without needs.

He asks you: Would you choose to die over this? The Devil asks you: Would you prefer a life with no passion? The Sun asks you: Wouldn't you rather be dead than to suffer? You tell God: People have died over much less. You tell the Devil: Of course not, but eating the head of a snake sounds painful. You tell the Sun: To suffer is the only truth in the world, dying causes suffering too!

Stuck here with a fork and knife; is there a worse fate than paralysis? God, All-Knowing, did he cause your suffering? Is the only salvation through him? Why then did He create false light only for His to be true? Why then does only His touch bring warmth? Are you willing then to choke on your liver just for some wine?

Why suffer? But, can you even imagine a life without it?

God, then existing as Truth, must be eternal suffering. And you sit there, lingering in the aftermath of preserving hunger as your stomach begins to hurt.

[duskmachine]

What can be gleamed from one's reflection? A touching idea, dowsed in dots of blue and red, that thoughts create a man. Cogito Ergo Sum. An ideology used to justify imperialism and violence. That identities less than human, yet possess human bodies, may not hold any imagination in their mind that may prescribe them the title of "man".

Is one born with the ability to know oneself? Distortion through the space you proceed in— is it the markings you leave on the world that define you or your body painted by the world surrounding you? For when things merge into shades of purple, can you discern yourself from the colors that made you? Was there ever an original form of yourself?

Cogito Ergo Sum: a rational man's conclusion. A weapon disguised as a tool, for how is one able to know another's thoughts? You are only in possession of your singular body, this conclusion held in a gun holster, is able to spill blood thoughtlessly for you can only ever know your own existence in the rationalities of your own creation.

One cannot hold such sentimentalities to those that shall not and never will possess such imaginations as yourself. One cannot garner empathy for living creatures tested on for the sake of mankind. For, as the man who wields the gun that is [thought(s)], all beings who were born with breath were not born equally to distinguish themselves as gentlemen of [thought(s)].

As a rational man who assuredly, as I tell you I am, has the ability to think thoughts procured in my conscious purity, I will rationally debate the sentience of the individual before me. For, they have not provided me the evidence that has controlled my rationality of blue and red, which have never mixed (I assure you), Cogito Ergo Sum. I, in the court of law, am absolved of the guilt from the violence I may have caused, for each of those I have murdered were not born as a man with my capabilities nor mindset.

I think, I assure you, therefore I know, that I am. I have no doubts of this.

I rest my case, your honor.

[duskmachine]

"Time is money." is a phrase that has eaten away at me for a really long time. Presently, this is a really interesting metaphor. With the deplorable job market and the emergence of "I should've made a linkedin account and gotten an internship while in the womb" memes, "Time is money." begins to take shape in a profound way.

We are expected, from the start, to invest in a future we assume to be still. Businesses promise us they are legacies who will last the test of time. Coco-cola airs its ads focusing on families and the idea that the gift of Cola will be passed down from generation to generation. Brands are identities that we take on; to like Coco-cola is a separate identity from liking Pepsi. You are not A, therefore you are B. Essentially, we believe our lives to be as stable as the market. Which, under the rules of capitalism, will continue to rise and rise and rise. Our jobs, the money we have under our name, is a tool to help us invest in products that add to our identity that grows and grows and grows.

Money becomes something that gives you the right to be human. It gives you the privilege of earning an identity. These are subsets of culture. If you cannot buy your way into culture then you are simply not a part of it. Culture is then created by those who can afford it; that is the future. The future is molded by a culture created by a small sum of people who hold large amounts of a tool (money) that gives them the "right" to be human and be part of "society". That is the security we were sold. Consumerism is such a huge deal because it is a part of culture. Consuming is our future: stocks will rise and rise and rise and we will continue feeding into the market to make it grow and grow and grow.

Our future is only as stable as these stocks, as these legacy brands. If we choose to separate ourselves from the premise of capitalism, we then sever our human identity that we have "earned" through our job, our title, our money. "Time is money." teaches us that time is something we must invest in. It is a trust we must fund. While at the same time, we must spend time to earn that money. Time becomes a tower built by blocks of identities. You were a student. You used to work at that store. You used to really like that product.

Each moment you choose not to invest in your future is time lost. You must procure the time to spend by earning the funds to "buy time". Think about the ideology of: if you live a hard life now, you'll live an easier life later. For the majority of our lives, we will spend it attempting to earn a better future despite our present.

Well, but what if brands fail? What if the future they sell is founded on bad research and baseless lies? Coca-cola sells us a life in an idyllic nuclear family that has its roots in American imperialism. Fossil fuel companies have been paying researchers to stay quiet and to publish data that convinces the public that their production is something that we can rely on since it will never harm our future. For lack of better terms: The future they sell is complete fucking bullshit.

The white picket fence surrounding a beautiful house and lawn is not a future most can afford anymore. That is a culture that is essentially lost because it is hoarded by previous generations. This is wealth that is holed up in dying identities and traditions that do not exist to serve anyone, but the person practicing it. Temperatures rise, our over reliance on oil reveals to us a culture unwilling to change for the benefit of a genuine future: one where the planet is habitable. This future, as previously stated, is created by only a handful of people. It is a product sold and handed to people running out of a future to live meanwhile young people without generational wealth stand on bidding time.

"Time is money." is a saying from Benjamin Franklin. The face of the $100 bill. His legacy, our tool to buy an ungrounded future where the rich live in the stars, abandoning the Earth they set aflame. Not ever acknowledging they chose to treat our future as the fuel for theirs. A sacrifice that was never necessary.

[duskmachine]

I have been trying to understand why I'm so afraid to apply to grad. There are the simple reasons: I'm afraid I'm not smart enough. That, perhaps in some horrible way, I only did well according to my professors because no one else did. If I reach beyond my small pond, I'd be greeted with cold air and uncaring glances at my gulping face as I attempt to breathe in a place I don't belong.

I think, in reality, my fear is much worse. Rejection hurts, but what hurts more is being unimportant. I was an English student. In my 3 years of being a college student I witnessed the theater department dissolve. The pictures of faculty that once were pinned up on the wall slowly came down one by one. I wasn't even aware of this program's dissolve. I had only come to discover this because my theater professor, turned English professor, told me it, "felt like the Hunger Games" watching the pictures of his coworkers be slowly be plucked off the walls.

It made me laugh at the time. Now, it makes me feel a little sick. I watched professors lose their jobs. I watched them lose their jobs! The thing they have studied for their entire life, crumbled into dust instantly. A death that was always visible sitting in the black space— a star. It became the truth. And now the theater program is dead. And that death merged into the English department. It was deemed so unimportant by the head that they made the remaining professors of the theater department English professors.

The death of the English major was discussed often in our department (it was even a panel!) and I have never felt it more in that moment. Death burrowed its way into this study. They are banning books, they are letting go of professors, they are not providing enough resources for professors and students, they are slowly depriving us of everything we need for a functioning department in university so when they finally destroy us they can go: well, their performance was lackluster anyways.

In truth, my fear is the death of the field I love. In truth, my fear is that the one thing that has allowed me to feel connected to everything will be deemed unimportant and will be shot in the head like an old dog. In truth, my fear is that writing will be understood more as a product than knowledge. That writing will become dusty books sitting pretty in untouched shelves to color the room with "personality". I am afraid that my only happiness will become a dream, a commodity.

I desperately avoid grad because I am realizing the only time I have felt happy was when I was studying English and discussing with students and professors about their work. I know that my joy is created by people who deem it so unimportant that I can feel death glowing behind the clouds waiting for me to look up.

And I think it so unfair. I've grown into a hateful, jealous thing. As I watch people easily decide to continue their studies into grad with their parents' money, while I sit here afraid to accept that I have always loved writing. Because if I accept that, I will have to reminisce about days far behind me about a world that has either: abandoned me, or has been abandoned.

But I dare to dream! I remember people acknowledging my work. I remember that same theater professor, turned English professor, proudly turn to me when someone asked to keep a copy of my work. "Don't forget that feeling!" he said.

"Don't forget that feeling!" he said as the pictures of familiar faces he knew are slowly taken off the board.

As I lament to another English professor about the lack of jobs and subpar pay, he looks at me and quickly states, as if it's a known fact, a truth of the world, "If you enjoy it, you should continue."

I can never forget this feeling. Despite it all, I still imagine a life where I can read and write forever. Walking into darkness reaching out to hands who willingly reach back out to me, pushing me forward towards a guillotine that sits low on the ground. Death, not so much a fairytale, but grounded and waiting for my hands to feel where my head is meant to go.

[duskmachine]

Sound so fragile it is strangled back into silence. Barely alive it reached for light and yet, dark and damp, your mouth closes once again. Throat tightened up like a beast ensnaring the beating heart of a small bird. What would you say if the air was warmer? What would happen if the eyes glancing at you noticed your apprehensive breath?

And what would happen if you did speak? The only reality that exists now after your refusal to disrupt the slow drawing line of time is the distance between you and others. Space that stands so solid, atoms dancing to build borders from you truly understanding others and yourself. If you could reach into your heart, would you?

The disgusting feeling of your softened body, guts splayed open; would you choose to see your beating open body? If you could close that space between you and the world with blood, would you?

And I watch you hesitating with your shaking hand as you peer into your own chest. Are you debating it? But what does it matter? Your voice and your blood means nothing as long as it touches the bordering space between you and me. Did you think I could understand you? Did you think you could understand me? The time has long passed. Until your heart stops beating, will anyone have the courage to reach back into you.

[duskmachine]

Fujimoto has perfected creating the most authentically selfish characters. I feel in many stories characters' selfishness are justified through the narrative. That they have suffered through something so significant they deserve to be selfish. I'm not saying I disagree with that sentiment, selfishness is necessary for self preservation at times. But what Fujimoto does is very different.

His characters are selfish consistently. They want to be the best, make the best movies, be good, and be known for being good. Their selfishness is not justified and it feels awkward and cringy. They often do awful things and think about it hundreds of times until finally their thoughts overlap in such a way they have convinced themselves they did the right thing. Sometimes, they never had to convince themselves.

Denji wants a normal life, but he wants fame! He wants tons of girlfriends, but he wants to be loved unconditionally! Asa wants to save Denji, but she's really thinking about how good she'll look saving him! She sits in front of a TV giggling about how awesome she looks killing a giant devil and being renowned for it. Fujino scared that Kyomoto will become a better artist than them, actively attempts to trap Kyomoto with them and keep Kyomoto from going to art school.

There is no justice in their actions. They have no right to feel the things they do, do the things they do, yet they feel these selfish wants with all their might. They are children sure, but the adults have the same selfishness twisted in more wicked ways, backed up by legalities and, what they presume to be, rational thought. Justifying selfishness is what an adult does. Being selfish is what a child does. And being selfish should not be demonized, nor should it be justified.

Selfishness is part of the heart. It is part of us, and no matter what we do, we will act with selfish precision.