The Fragility of Privilege
Rights are not a gift from government. They are a claim built into what it means to be human. You can suspend them by force, fail to honor them in law, or ignore them in practice. But you cannot erase their source without denying the person who bears them. That is the heart of the matter, and one of the oldest arguments in political thought.
The Republic We Forgot
Imagine a country where the government decides what your pastor can say. Where your neighbor’s opinion becomes law. Where certain books disappear because they make someone uncomfortable. You might call that tyranny. And you’d be right.
You Were Never Meant to Be the Customer
In a system built on consumption, identity is no longer grounded in what we create, but in what we buy. The individual is not viewed as a generative force, but as a vessel for demand; a predictable recipient of ads, trends, and targeted offers. Even labor, once a mark of contribution, has been recast as a cost to be minimized. In this economy, you are not a producer. You are the market.
What Are We Actually Protecting? Why Rights, Justice, and Representation Shouldn’t Be Reserved for Citizens
We often defend rules as if they are sacred, but forget to ask what they were made to protect. If rights only apply to citizens, are they really rights at all?
The Myth of the Big Leap
“I want to go part-time,” I say.
My manager sits across the desk, a slightly quizzical look on her face. I’ve been in a full-time position at this hospital for nearly fourteen years. I love what I do, but I’m burning out. I need more time to pursue my life.
She leans back, hesitant.
“How many hours do you want?”
“Three days, eight hours each day,” I tell her. Then I pause. “Three in a row.”
Because I know how this works. I know there will be some effort to control it, to fragment the time.
The Architecture of My Creative Life
I lean down and scratch Margo behind the ears. She squints her eyes and begins to purr. A moment ago, I was still in bed. Now I’m making my way downstairs, moving through the small rituals that begin the day: grinding the beans, filling the kettle, opening the shades to let the morning in. The windows are a little hazy and could probably use cleaning, but I’ve grown to like the way the light comes through, softened and quiet.
What If We Didn’t Need to Escape
We’ve been sold a shallow version of the good life.
It looks like a beach chair. A plane ticket. A glossy brochure offering two weeks of escape from a routine that quietly wears us down. The structure remains untouched, but for a brief moment, we are allowed to step outside it, if we’ve earned it, if we’ve saved enough, if we promise to return.