By Morgan Miller Introduction Shadow work, as popularized through Carl Jung, encourages individuals to confront the hidden parts of themselves — the fears, insecurities, resentments, and unacknowledged motives that shape our behavior. At its best, it fosters personal insight and growth. It can help someone notice the difference between what is happening now and what a past wound is trying  to make them believe is happening. It can interrupt cycles of defensiveness and project

AI didn’t make me an artist. I was already an artist from childhood. It helped me stay alive long enough to remain one. I need to say something about AI and art, and I need to say it in a way that doesn’t pretend this is simple. Because it isn’t. And because I’m tired—so tired—of watching people treat every complex situation like it’s a courtroom drama with a clear-cut monster, a clear-cut hero, and a clean little ending where everyone claps and justice magically happens in

I keep saying I’m done with Christmas. And then December hits, and my brain does the same thing it always does:it remembers the lights. Not the ads, not the chaos, not the “perfect family” photos with matching pajamas and a mortgage. The lights . The quiet glow in a dark room. The way a single candle still feels like defiance when everything else is burning. Christmas in a Broken World  is my attempt to make music for that  feeling—for the people who still love the season, bu

I can feel it dying in me. Not in the cinematic way people imagine when they hear a sentence like that. Not a single dramatic crack, not a clean “before and after,” not a tidy storyline where the pain arrives, does its speech, and exits stage left. It’s quieter. Meaner. It’s a slow dimming—like a lamp that used to fill the whole room with warmth, now flickering because the power keeps cutting out, and nobody wants to admit the wiring has been sabotaged. Used. Lied to. Abuse

🎪 About Madness, Survival, and Refusing to Go Numb There’s a question that’s been haunting me for years: If the things that nearly killed you also kept you alive… what do you do with that? The Final Circus is my attempt to answer that without lying to myself. It’s a dark-carnival cabaret concept album about surviving psychiatry, misdiagnosis, psych wards, shared delusions, social-media witch hunts, alcoholism, and the quiet kind of hope that still crawls out of the wreckage

I need to share something difficult — not for advice, not for comfort, but because sometimes grief needs a shape outside the body, and if I don’t give it one it will keep living in my ribs like a trapped animal. For those who’ve known me a long time, you know who this is about without me saying it. The old story. The one that became a quiet landmark in the geography of my life. The relationship that ended and never really ended, because the ending didn’t come with an explanat

There’s a kind of loneliness that has nothing to do with being single. It’s not about not being loved. It’s not even about not being chosen. It’s about not being matched. I’ve been loved—many times, by many people. But I have yet to meet someone who loves like I do, who shows love the way I do. And that is a different kind of grief. Because what do you do when the thing that defines you, the thing you offer most freely, the fire that burns in your chest like purpose, is a lan

A Field Guide to Future-Faking, Overwhelm, Polyamorous Grief, and the Quiet Ruptures We Don’t Notice Until They Break Us There are heartbreaks that scream, and then there are heartbreaks that simply… vanish. Not with a dramatic ending. Not with a fight. Just a sudden absence — a door closing mid-sentence while the ink is still wet. This is a post about that second kind. Not as a callout. Not as a revenge letter. Not as a “here’s what you did to me.” This is a map. A prot

Preface (For the One Who Might Someday Read This) If you ever read this, I want you to know I do not hate you. What happened hurt me deeply— and it hurt my wife too— but the hurt is grief, not anger. I understand, even in the parts you didn’t say aloud, why you pulled away: the fear, the overwhelm, the suddenness of intimacy that your nervous system couldn’t hold. That doesn’t mean I believe the way it ended was right; there were gentler, clearer ways this could have unfolded

A trilogy of the heart There are some projects that don’t begin as projects. They begin as pressure — as something caught under the ribs, building and building until your chest feels full of static. These albums weren’t outlined, planned, or sketched on a whiteboard. They grew the way storms do: in pieces, in layers, across years of feelings that refused to stay quiet. I didn’t sit down one day and say, I’m going to make music. What really happened is that I’d been carrying t

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a room — it presses against it. Then it hums in your ears until you start to wonder if it isn’t silence at all, but a frequency only conscience can hear. It’s the quiet that comes after you’ve finally said everything that mattered. Not just once. Not just in passing. But over and over — gently, honestly, vulnerably. You put your care into the world, shaped it into words, actions, offerings. And for a while, you believed that ef

This blog post is a chapter in a new part from an upcoming Expanded Edition of my book. Welcome to The Reckoning. I wrote once that we’re watching each other die inside. I didn’t realize then how loud it would get. Every sentence a scream for relevance. Every confession a brand strategy. We talk like thunder and listen like corpses. Meaning decays in real time — chewed up by applause, spat out as content. You know the taste of it — the metallic tang of meaning turned into

“Every myth ends with the hero returning home. But what happens after they arrive, when the world still needs mending?” You have walked this with me. Through the gunfire and the silence, through the language and the rebuilding, through the ache of goodness that never quite stops aching. You have read the ruins, planted the gardens, learned the grammar of repair. You have looked into the mirror of cruelty and found your own reflection staring back—not as condemnation, but as i

Every philosophy begins as language. But language, if left alone, becomes scripture—something to be quoted instead of lived. Ethicism was never meant to be a sermon. It was meant to be practiced: in how we speak, how we build, how we grieve, how we choose to remain human when the world makes humanity inconvenient. Across these essays, we traced that journey—from ruins to repair, from conscience to structure, from theory to praxis. What began as a warning became a map. What be

Hope is not the opposite of despair; it’s what survives it. It doesn’t erase injustice or promise victory. It simply refuses extinction. The reality of hope is brutal and beautiful: it knows the world is rigged, but still insists on trying. It knows cruelty scales faster, but still plants gardens anyway. It knows the story ends badly—and still shows up for the next chapter. After Language Becomes Repair , the temptation is to think the work ends once the system is rewritten,

Every civilization writes itself in the grammar of its care. You can tell what a culture values by the words it uses to apologize, to console, to rebuild. The language of repair is slow, awkward, unprofitable — and absolutely vital. Because without it, all we have left is performance. After Imperfection Finds Its Grace , we know that failure is inevitable — that goodness isn’t about flawlessness but about how we return after we’ve faltered. But once you’ve confessed, once you

We were promised empathy. That’s what haunts me most—not the rise of cruelty itself, but the fact that it came wearing the robes of compassion. In corners of the internet once devoted to justice, art, and peace, something colder has taken root. A fury not directed at institutions or corporations or systems, but at people. Specifically, at people who use generative AI. Not to harm. Not to exploit. Just to explore. To play. To create. And suddenly, for that alone, they are decl

You will fail at being good. That’s not prophecy — it’s arithmetic. The world is too complex, the systems too tangled, the heart too tired. But failure is not corruption; it’s curriculum. What you do after the failure decides whether conscience survives it. After Kindness Learns Its Shape , you might have felt a fragile steadiness return — that sense of rhythm between care and rest, between saying yes and saying no. But what happens when even that balance falters? When your b

A book for those who still believe kindness can survive the noise. We’re all tired. But tired isn’t the end of caring. After years of tracing what happens after outrage fades, the work finally became a book. It’s called Ethicism: The Practice of Care — and it’s out now. If this language feels like home to you, it’s waiting in print. There’s no mailing list, no campaign — just the book itself, waiting for whoever still believes care matters. Click below to get your copy: Pape

When empathy begins to fray, boundaries become the loom. After the flood of feeling, after the exhaustion of trying to care for everything and everyone, what remains is the quiet need for form. The previous chapter ended in that silence —the moment after the storm, when conscience finally breathes and asks, How do I keep caring without coming apart? That question is where this begins. Because empathy alone is not enough. It must learn its edges. Mercy without limits turns int