Coffee Log, Day 349


Coffee: Locomotive Blend, PennyCup Coffee

I was born the year the Cold War ended, ’89. Growing up, I didn’t get raised in a constant state of fear. There’s a negative to that – I think the blissful ’90’s sewed seeds for the pot boiling over now – but it was peaceful, at least for me.

This week, the US backed out of the INF treaty and Russia followed suit. That’s just some words on paper, ultimately, but they’re scary words, like ‘nuclear proliferation.’ Maybe the world’s just tired. Maybe it stopped taking its antidepressants. Suicidal brinksmanship. Maybe we’ve all just given up.

I’ve known a few people over the years who tried to kill themselves. They never got too far with it, although one was hospitalized. Thankfully, no-one succeeded. The story you’re supposed to hear is that you come out the other side of that better than you were before – you’ve exorcised your demons; you’re thankful to live. But in every case I’ve seen it doesn’t work that way. The same people who wanted to die ten years ago still want to die today. They might have a better handle on how to control their urges, but the urge is there.

When Augustus took power over Rome, he killed 100,000 political dissenters as a first act of order. After that, he had a peaceful and stable reign.

I think it’s all a form of prayer. We’re looking for a cause greater than one more day waking up and trudging the same cold streets as last year. And if there is a God, he’s a silent one, so we need to start fires to believe there’s a chance for magic. The idea of human sacrifice is hardwired into us – be it ourselves, our neighbors, or the world’s blood we’re spilling. Maybe because the only thing larger and more imposing than life is death.

Sorry for the morning doldrums. I haven’t had much coffee yet.

Novel Count: 20,287

Currently Reading: Killing Commendatore, Haruki Murakami

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or fortune having hitherto seconded him in his designs, made him resolute and firm in his opinions, and the boldness of his temper raised a sort of passion in him for surmounting difficulties; as if it were not enough to be always victorious in the field, unless places and seasons and nature herself submitted to him.

Plutarch, Plutarch’s Lives Vol. 2 (on Alexander the Great)

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