Art as Escapism

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I can hear the protests from my window. There are protests everyday. And whenever I open my mouth a little glob of despair comes tumbling out.

Things are scary. Reality feels fictitious, joke-like, like aliens are creating some sad holographic reality where everything’s gone wrong. (What a disorienting liberal echo chamber)

Social progress works in waves. Humanity trying to move away from humanity. Lift up humanity, these are the recesses of humanity. I try to inject a little bit of optimism in my paper: maybe we’re rolling back but, overall, moving forward. Right? That’s how waves work, right? I don’t know.

I still don’t feel like writing. I’ll have to flesh things out and be rational and empowered but I feel like neither.

Thank God I have art to turn to. Thank God I have people to go to.

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