We trace the patterns. That’s what we do. Not because we want to be prophets, or martyrs, or right. But because we’re scared. Because we’ve seen this before. Because somewhere beneath the noise and the slogans and the calls for blood, we remember what it means to be human. This is the tenth post in a series I wish I never had to write. I thought maybe one piece would be enough. One scream. One warning. One grief made public. But the world kept moving. The machine kept turnin

It starts with a shrug. A cough dismissed. A mask pocketed. A headline scrolled past. The quiet normalization of risk. The idea that “everyone will get it eventually.” That some people just won’t make it, and that’s fine. That’s the price of moving on. But that’s how political violence begins — not with spectacle, but with consent. With the slow erosion of empathy, the bureaucratization of suffering, the dulling of outrage until neglect becomes policy. The body count turns in

It didn’t happen all at once. That’s what makes it so terrifying. There was no singular law passed, no dystopian regime, no camera drilled into the center of every ceiling. What happened instead was slower. Quieter. Cultural. Algorithmic. We turned ourselves into witnesses, into judges, into brands. We learned to perform—and then forgot we were performing. And somewhere along the way, the surveillance state didn’t need to grow stronger. It just needed us to keep watching each

The words are out in the open now. Not whispered in think tank reports, not hidden in policy drafts, not implied between lines of speeches — spoken plainly, with applause in the halls of Quantico. The new banner is raised: defense is dead. Defense is no longer. War has taken its place. We are told peace is not the mission. War is. We are told pacifism is not caution. It is “naive and dangerous.” We are told lethality is not a grim necessity but a calling card. And we are

It was never going to take long. The gunfire was still echoing, the grief still raw, and already the script was waiting. Not from the fringes this time, not from anonymous accounts stitching lies together in the dark corners of the internet, but from the podium of the White House itself. A statement polished to a blade: blame named, enemy chosen, cause declared. “Unhinged crusade.” That’s the phrase they use. Not grief, not inquiry, not even hesitation—just crusade. As if cri

It starts quietly, like so much else in this country now. An order slips across the wires, sudden and absolute: every general, every admiral, every senior commander above a certain rank must be in Virginia. Not a request. A command. Rearrange your missions, reroute your flights, leave your posts. The world will wait. And they come. Hundreds of them. Veterans of old wars, survivors of deployments that stretched decades, men and women who have buried soldiers under too many fla

It keeps happening. We’ve seen another shooting. This time, two ICE detainees are critically injured, with one dead, in Dallas. And already, the same war machine is turning: press conferences, buzzwords, declarations of war. A shell casing marked “ANTI-ICE” becomes the proof of an ideology. A name. A face. A photo. A post. That’s all it takes. The script is ready. But dig even slightly beneath the surface and it slips. As Ken Klippenstein has uncovered , Joshua Jahn, the shoo

This isn’t a celebration post. It’s a grieving one. For everyone who’s lost in silence while the spotlight only shines on power. Not every death means the same thing. Some are tragedies. Some are signs of a deeper sickness in the system. Some are the inevitable result of a machine that thrives on cruelty. And while we’re all supposed to treat them as equal—mourn them the same, respond the same—the truth is: context matters. Power matters. And who gets heard in death says a lo

Not everything ends in a scream. Sometimes it starts in silence. With memories quietly swept away. With a story rewritten so often that the old one disintegrates beneath it. The past erased— And the erasure itself forgotten. Until the lie becomes truth. And then, one day, it shifts. Just slightly. A cold wind under a blue sky. You glance at the clock. It says thirteen. The world insists it’s always said thirteen. Then the scream begins. Not from a mouth. From a system. Online

So, let’s talk about the news that broke today. I don’t know who will read this, or how it will be judged, or what eyes will pick it apart once it leaves my hands. That’s fine. I only know that I can’t carry it silently. I need to let it out, to trace the shape of my grief in words, even if I don’t have answers. Because this is not how it should have happened. There is no healing in this. No restoration. The people who were harmed by his words, by the violence he nurtured and