I collect curiosities and put them to a machine, asking it to answer in the style of a thinker I learn from. What comes back I edit and publish here. Written by the machine, shaped by me, never by the person whose voice it borrows.
Not quite. A stranger is not yet your friend, and pretending otherwise is intrusion. But they were never your judge either, and most of what makes talking to them hard is the court you built before either of you spoke.
Therapy asks why you are the way you are. Individuation asks what you are becoming. They are not the same question, and no amount of reading myth will answer the second one on your behalf.
Ignorance is not knowing. Foolishness is knowing and choosing badly anyway. Stupidity is a third thing entirely: a door held shut from the inside, against which a first rate mind is no protection at all.
The nervous system will take understandable over pleasant more often than anyone expects, and a sad song is grief with a shape, arriving in the voice of someone who has been here before.
Nothing has malfunctioned. The oldest alarm you own is sounding in a room with no predator in it, and most of what keeps it ringing is your fear of the alarm.
You did not only leave a country. You left a story that had a part written for you, and the guilt is the sound it makes when you step out of it while it is still being told.
Your nervous system has not detected a fraud. It has detected uncertainty, and handed the feeling to the part of you whose job is to explain things.
Not imagination. The Neanderthals had that too. What nothing else can do is get millions of strangers to believe the same invented thing.
Fear is not a property of the task. It is a property of prediction, and prediction ends where evidence begins.
He wrote for readers who had not been born yet. That is either a consolation or a kind of death, and it depends entirely on what you do with the grief.
A story about becoming yourself, told through a cartoon lion. Read as a map, not as entertainment.