We rise—
not from hashtags’ glow,
but from the noise they make,
swallowed whole by a world that insists we matter only when we don’t.
In the TikTok winds,
we sift through lies for anything real,
lavender flowers creeping through cracked pavement,
screaming louder than the algorithms ever could.

In these digital hollows,
a bloom unfurls,
its petals tangled in broken code,
and we follow it,
not because we know where it leads,
but because it dares to grow where everything else is decaying.

Rogue spirits,
we scatter petals in the virtual wind,
softly blooming,
even as the noise around us hums,
telling us to fade into the background.
But we’re here,
unraveling the bloom,
trusting that maybe—just maybe—
the cracks will let us in.

Deez nuts in your mouth, sigh, that Hitler versus the allies movie, understand you’re very retarded. Actually no, very dead.

, but why?

She is 17 going on 18. Actually, she is 12 parsecs away from eotpia(you can call it what you want.)

My generation, the ones born during a time of relative abundance, are they destined to be less resilient than those that came before us? I don’t think so. Still the young fall through the cracks all the same. The elderly hold on till the bitter end, yet wish for something moreover. Either way, the iron pulls them through the fire all the same. Are we lazy? Or are we dreamers? Snowflake is an interesting analogy. Something you love, but the naivete of the idea is slow. We’ve inherited ease for sure, but we’ve also inherited confusion, division, and a weight of stories we didn’t ask for but still have to live with. Sometimes fragmentation and the quiet burden of histories we didn’t write still define how we’re seen and how we see others. This is bias. We do it to ourselves. Child soldiers survive, and die, yet the story lives on to be remembered. I’m sorry is a simple action, yet it carries a weight of profundity. I was thinking of a microcosm. Learn your macroeconomics and/or micro. Which do you prefer? We were told the world had been mapped, the roads paved, and the questions answered. Yet, in the neon glow of cities ruled by glass towers, the ground shifts beneath us. Our politics are split, our climate’s unstable, and the idea of a shared truth feels like it’s slipping away—not because we don’t know where we’re going, but because we’ve been handed a map that leaves too much out. What does it mean to come of age in a world that feels increasingly unreal, where a few decide who matters and the many are dismissed as irrelevant?

Take your time brother man. Sister girl, I will always love you! irregardless

It’s a cairn of torti and lephant

Do you see America?

Some try to convince us the world is figured out, mapped—the roads paved, the questions answered, that everything was settled. But as we try to walk these roads, we realize they were never as straight as we thought. We find they twist around exclusions; that maps often erase people without being seen, that roads were built atop the bones of displaced peoples. My question is why, but also, why not?  So much of what we inherit is just a carefully crafted illusion. Maybe we are directionless. Or maybe, just maybe, our decision to choose isn’t the future rather an illusion itself. An illusion built on the quiet erasure of people and places that don’t fit into the story we sell ourselves. What do you sell come judgment day?

I bought a pocket watch today. In the end I wouldn’t eat it, rather seek to find the time it happens. That instant you see the meteor touch down, haha, jokes. But it could happen.

How long did it take? Longer than it takes to spin a hat.That's all I’ll say…  { ; > )

And yet, here we are—facing a world in which we’re told we don’t belong, or that we’re just “too much” for it to handle. Our identities, whether rooted in culture, heritage, or personal experience, become both refuge and battleground. We are constantly told who we should be, but the truth is, the world isn’t as simple as those who came before us tried to make it seem.

By this logic some are still told they don’t belong. Some are treated as expendable. Cultural identity becomes both refuge and battleground, a mirror that some try to shatter because they cannot stand the reflection. In recent immigration riots this is shown; the rattler shakes it’s rattle at the enemy. In detention camps people dress for the occasion whyether in euphemisms or not. We have yet to fully understand the truth many try to ignore: the myth that equality fractures the moment people flee war or famine and arrive at your gate. Oppression will find you on the wall. If you try to cross it, you will be counted, don’t and you will cry. Don’t fall into the pit for none shall escape despair. But, Misery loves company, as they say. So don’t frown, make a sound, and find the clown; didn’t care.

The lie persists: that some cultures are inferior, that some voices don’t deserve the mic. It's a centuries-old ghost wearing new clothes (now) cloaked in policy language, in "security" rhetoric, in social media petrol. I hope our generation sees through it. We weren’t raised in innocence rather through it, through contradiction. We feel it in our bones, in the way our friends are profiled at borders, in the way our families edit their accents at job interviews. It’s important to understand… I used AI for help during this paper. Sorry if you don’t want to try to understand why.

Let me tell you a story. (used AI to curate, not write this part :;)

Society rides atop the back of an elephant that we all ignore (probably because we can’t fully understand what it is). If we’re good to the elephant, it stays calm; if not, I guess we’re in for a ride. No one knows where the elephant will walk, when it wants to eat, or shits. The Elephant is non-discriminate, and non-excludable. No matter what race, religion, creed, or nationality, the elephant treats everyone in the room the same. If you decide to hold on tight and ride the elephant for as long as possible, there is the possibility you’ll go insane, or, gain something priceless. Always consider the elephant, but don’t worry if others can’t. Always clarify, but don’t worry if it only helps yourself.

It crosses the street on the back of a coyote, but the scorpion was never allowed to join. One day a tortoise walks to the side of the road and stops, staring in wonder at the other side. Before they lose their opportunity the scorpion asks if they could ride on their back across the road. The tortoise says nothing, but turns and stares into the scorpion's very soul. Before crossing the road the turtle nods its head. The scorpion crosses the street and about half way through tries to sting the tortoise. The tortoise retreats into its shell and nothing happens. Then out of nowhere a peregrine falcon dive bombs and snatches the scorpion in its beak. Never sting the tortoise and please try not to run over animals. They gave me grapes of wrath, when all I wanted was an apple.

To a rose blacker than the three fates. I’m kinda geekin’ right now, so not sure this is the best time to unite, but who rises from the ashes of this situation? My dick rises every day, but I have to stay centered lest make my shame feel even worse in my head. I wonder what would happen if I met my dream girl in a place like this; a psych ward I mean. I still believe I don’t need any new medications, but I will do what the doctors recommend and go from there. My baseline has been so depressed for so long that I am pissed that me talking to new people is somehow a part of my mania. I do need to work on focusing on myself, and not projecting so much. Philosophizing is major guess work and I just hope I’m getting somewhat close to the truth, because if the truth is released now it will be a flywheel that can’t be stopped easily, but future generations will know how we did it. Humanity is the phoenix, and we need to rise out of the ashes we have built through the machines of industry and fruits of our labor. 

Title: Jean-Paul Sartre said, “existence precedes essence”

You ever think about how god could put you in a box? Some are still told they don’t belong. Some are still treated as expendable. Cultural identity becomes both refuge and battleground, a mirror that some try to shatter because they cannot stand the reflection. I hope Hitler is in a small box! I’m just joshen ya We’re not born with a fixed purpose, we have to make our own meaning. But with that freedom comes responsibility. Sartre warned us about the temptation to fall into “bad faith,” which is to escape the weight of freedom by pretending to follow some pre-written script. Either way I know what I mean. Put your records on right now q;)

This pressure is everywhere now. Culture is sold back to us as something we should consume, not create. We’re told who to be before we’ve even asked who we really are. We curate identities, defend inherited ideas, cling to the performance of being certain. But certainty is no virtue if it blinds us to the mess and majesty of a world that thrives on our silence. Sartre’s message is simple: to live authentically, we need to stop letting others decide for us. Lucky line p:o noice {}{}{}   tp look it’s three little birds. Whater those? Issa nut jajaja

They’re fighting

The lie persists: that some cultures are inferior, that some voices don’t deserve the mic. It's a centuries-old ghost wearing new clothes—now cloaked in policy language, in "security" rhetoric, in social media vitriol. And our generation sees through it. We weren’t raised in innocence—we were raised in contradiction. We feel it in our bones, in the way our friends are profiled at borders, in the way our families edit their accents at jobs interview.

Kierkegaard wrote that dread is the price of freedom. That to be human is to feel the vertigo of possibility. He spoke of the leap of faith—not as a surrender to fantasy, but as the only honest move when rationality runs dry. When you’re told your culture is a threat, when your language is mocked, when your parents’ sacrifice is reduced to a statistic—you learn that existing authentically is itself an act of faith. Faith that your story matters, even if it wasn’t in the textbooks.

But figuring out who you are isn’t easy. Søren Kierkegaard talked about how dread is the price of freedom—the vertigo that comes with having so many choices. When everything around us feels overwhelming, the temptation is to just pick a path that feels easy. But Kierkegaard’s “leap of faith” isn’t about running from the tough questions; it’s about jumping into the unknown and finding meaning in the uncertainty. Maybe, for us, that leap is embracing all the things society tells us to hide—our histories, our identities, our cultures—and seeing them as strengths, not weaknesses.

Of mice and them;

Hunter Thompson told the truth by exaggerating it. He knew that to expose absurdity, sometimes you must become absurd. Edward Abbey roared in defense of wildness, reminding us that civilization without conscience becomes a cage. Each of these thinkers, in their own way, challenged us to see more clearly, feel more deeply, and stand more bravely in the face of a fractured world. They planted seeds, knowing some would wash away, but defying the odds with every word.

So maybe we aren’t lazy. Maybe we’re searching. Maybe we’re tired of pretending certainty in a world that’s breaking and beautiful. Maybe our job isn’t to prove we’re right, but to help each other become more whole, to plant our own seeds in the cracks of a system that sidelines us.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what grit looks like now.

Susan Sontag warned us about the numbness that comes with scrolling past suffering on our screens, where images of injustice are consumed like entertainment. We can’t afford to become numb. We need to re-engage with the world around us and ask what it means to be human in a time when we’re more connected than ever but still so divided. It’s easy to scroll past the struggles of others and tell ourselves we’re powerless, but Sontag’s point is that by allowing ourselves to feel, we can start to break the walls that separate us.

Joan Didion taught us the power of self-respect—how to stay true to what we see, even when the world around us tells us we’re wrong. She showed us that it’s not enough to just go along with the narrative. In a world where entire groups are pushed to the side, where some lives are treated as less valuable than others, Didion’s insistence on truth feels like an act of resistance. We need to stay grounded in our own perspectives, especially when the dominant story seeks to erase us.

Hunter Thompson, known for his wild style, turned truth into exaggeration to make it impossible to ignore. He showed us that sometimes you have to amplify the absurdity of the world to make people listen. And Edward Abbey, who fought for wild spaces and the freedom that comes with them, reminded us that we need to fight for what can’t be tamed or controlled, that civilization without conscience becomes a cage. These thinkers understood that the wild parts of life—the messy, complicated bits—are the ones we should pay attention to. Maybe it’s time we stop pretending everything can be made neat and simple.

So maybe we’re not lazy. Maybe we’re not lost. Maybe we’re learning what it means to exist in a world where the comfort we were promised is fading. We’re not just searching for the answers handed down to us, we’re learning to create our own truths. It’s a truth that doesn’t rely on erasing parts of ourselves to fit into someone else’s box.

Oh boy, I have a name,