Given that a double-digit number of people unsubscribed from my weeknotes newsletter last week after I posted a poem, I’m going to assume everyone still reading is sufficiently indifferent to the form that I can go ahead and do it again.
One of the things I enjoy doing in my journal is splurging out whatever I’m thinking or feeling without stopping. Over the years it’s become a vital tool for the maintenance of my mental health.
I write in my diary at least once a day, sometimes more. Most of what ends up on this blog, or in my podcast, starts this way, or as a transcribed voice note. But the vast majority of this daily practice is left on the page as lexic exhaust.
But writing always happens in the edit, and compression is an important skill with a muscle that needs regular flexing. Often, if I’ve written something that isn’t going anywhere, I’ll read it back and then try to strip the whole thing down to its bones.
That’s how this post came about. I wrote it this afternoon and then edited it after dinner.
When you compress personal writing to these extremes, what emerges is something like a prose poem, or a lyric essay. But neither of those terms quite captures it. Instead, it feels like a distinctly stylised kind of prose. A form of online writing that borrows tone, pacing, and emotional resonance from poetry, with the clarity and contemplation of non-fiction essays. Close relatives might be found in newsletter culture, blog posts-as-art, or even podcast monologues.
I think there’s value in this kind of writing, and it’s something I produce quite often. And whether or not it fits neatly into a box, I want to share more of it, because I’ve stopped caring about whether I should share it or not.
Sitting This One Out
The market’s crashing.
Tech stocks are bleeding.
Friends are losing jobs. Again.
This is the third real-time crash of my life.
I feel the pull.
I’ve felt it before.
To watch. To know.
And to tell yourself you’re staying informed.
But somewhere Duncan says,
a man is sitting by a waterfall.
No phone. No headlines.
No idea how afraid he’s supposed to be.
I think I could be him.
Maybe that I should be.
I’ve been a good boy since holiday.
Inputs managed.
Lines held.
But it doesn’t take much.
To slip back under.
Into the current.
This morning my alarm went off
I opened the phone.
And there it all was-
Panic, piped in like gas.
Other people’s opinions before breakfast.
It stays with me all day.
A low hum.
Jittery nerves.
By noon, I’m flooded-adrenaline and moral urgency.
But not my own.
Timelines don’t just steal time online.
They shape your world.
They decide what matters.
It’s battle for attention.
And on the other side,
of the dark mirror.
The conflict of disinterest.
A two-step dance.
One step toward what matters.
One step away from what doesn’t.
It’s not nihilism.
It’s a form of care.
Refusal as clarity.
Indifference as strategy.
Not apathy.
Discernment.
Not everything earns your energy.
Very little does.
When I stay offline in the morning: write, make coffee, move slowly,
the day feels lighter.
It’s mine.
Not abstract. Not lost in the symbolic.
Real.
This new crisis, whatever it is, will play out.
It’s just that point in the time line.
I could watch it.
Post about it.
Lie to myself that it matters that I’m informed in real-time.
But I’m sitting this one out.
Posting only simulates agency.
It isn’t action.
It just makes things louder.
And it makes you feel worse.
It’s just noise.
And I don’t want to contribute.
The platforms want your outrage.
They profit from fear.
But not everything deserves your attention.
Yes, things are falling apart.
But panic isn’t participation.
It’s performance.
So no.
Better to hear the voice across the table.
Better to attend to what is here.
What is real.
Because sovereignty isn’t just where you place your attention.
It’s what you let drift by.
And right now?
I choose to overlook.
I’m sitting this one out.
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