I wish I could stay home on
a rainy day but I can't even
stay home when I'm sick.
I'm just a tiny woman in the
teeth of the machine, working
my tiny brain to understand it all,
working my tiny feet to put food
on our plates.
Is
the
world
a collossal
phone screen?
Degradation everywhere I turn.
Demoralization just a part of
the routine. I squint to see
past it, beyond the
women on
YouTube
jiggling
their breasts
for children, beyond
the men so exhausted by
female liberation that they eat out
of cardboard boxes every night,
beyond the Jewtainment of
broken families and the
mocking of White men.
And what do I see?
The only thing I can still afford
in an artificial economy: nothing.
Bereft of kin, ancestry, history,
mythology, and divorced by
no fault from the divine,
I'm left to ponder
in solitude.
Our enemies have rewritten
our stories so I ignore them.
I buy books I don't have time
to read and steal time to write.
How can I elevate my spirit
in a world where nature itself
tortures innocence for an
evolutionary advantage?
The pelican mommy disgorges
the chick of another pelican
mommy into her nest.
He trembles, bewildered.
He's coated in digestive juices
and tries to shake himself free.
He expects his own pelican
mommy to look after him,
to soothe him.
Instead he's eaten alive by the
offspring of another pelican
mommy.
And thus he dies in fear and
confusion, and thus nature's face
is besmirched by its foundational
premise: eat or be eaten.
Top to bottom, nature itself is a
machine that crushes innocence.
Are the baby-eaters among our
own kind then akin to nature?
Is self-sacrifice then false?
Another lie?
What is evil if not the deliberate
destruction of innocence?
And so I'm consumed by my own
thoughts on a rainy day at the end
of July. Safe and warm and dry
only by sacrificial separation
from my family. My family
safe and warm and dry
only by my sacrificial
separation.
I have no answers. No answers,
honestly, would satisfy me.
'This is why you suffer' or
'your suffering is your own fault'
has no meaning when I can't
find the time to think in
between my labors.
I know only that it's raining
in Albany and I wish I was home.
I am a tiny woman caught in the
teeth of the machine. Some day
it will grind my bones to dust
and everything that I am will
blow away on a wet wind
and all my questions
will be forgotten.
Maybe that's
the only answer I need.
July 30, 2026
