modern media in a nutshell
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@cranberry-queen
modern media in a nutshell
today feels heavy like the air learned how to sit on my chest and decided to stay there
the world feels heavier than it needs to be and my hands they are not built for this kind of carrying
there is a phrase that keeps showing up everywhere like it belongs in polite conversation like it is normal like it is not a wound disguised as language
cost of living
as if living is a product as if it comes with instructions and a receipt and a breakdown of charges at the bottom
and I keep thinking about that word cost how easily it slides into sentences how no one flinches when they say it
I pay to exist in walls I pay to open my eyes in the morning I pay to be warm to be fed to be clean enough to be allowed near other people
I pay to work which is the part that never stops feeling like a joke told too quietly
I pay to see the people I love I pay to move through time without falling apart
everything has a price tag even the things that were never supposed to be for sale
and still we call it normal
like it is not strange that breathing has been turned into a subscription model
like it is not absurd that survival arrives itemised
and I keep asking myself what kind of world teaches people to accept this without shaking
because it starts to feel like a curse a quiet one passed down through every invoice every rent reminder every receipt that feels too long for what was bought
and somewhere in all of that there are people counting coins for bread fingers cold hope smaller every time it is folded into change
and there are others who do not even see the counting because they are too far above the ground where it happens
and I cannot hold both truths without splitting
for some to have everything something somewhere has to be taken quietly consistently until it looks like normal life
and it does look like normal life that is the worst part
we are not collapsing all at once we are dissolving slowly in budgets and bills and shifts that stretch too long in meals skipped without drama in bodies that learn to ignore hunger
we are dying not loudly but economically which somehow makes it easier to ignore
and I think about time how it is the only thing not directly billed and yet it still gets taken in hours worked in energy drained in years that blur into recovery from the years before
time is not free it just has a different collector
and then the thought that keeps returning like a door that will not stay closed
what happens when the cost of staying alive becomes higher than what a person is allowed to earn
what happens when a job can replace you faster than it can explain to your family why you could not afford to remain here
and I do not have a clean answer for that only the shape of it only the silence it leaves behind
because something in me refuses to accept that this is simply how things are supposed to be
and maybe that refusal is the only thing still intact
not hope in a soft sense not optimism dressed up as comfort
but something sharper
the awareness that this is constructed and anything constructed can be rebuilt
even if the people who benefit from it keep insisting it is gravity
it is not gravity
it is design
and I am still here inside it still noticing still naming it still unwilling to pretend it is natural
and if that is all I can do right now then it is still something
because I do not want to learn how to survive quietly in a system that mistakes exhaustion for normality
I want to learn how to look at it fully and not look away
Man: You’ve chosen to let humanity die. If women stop having children, there will be nothing left. Woman: I've chosen safety. I've chosen not to build life inside a world that makes existing inside it feel like a risk I can’t afford.
Man: That still makes you responsible for what comes after. Woman: Then let what comes after remember this: a species that calls it love but refuses to make it safe will lose the right to continue it.
The worst part of being a writer is that you can't turn it off. you're at a funeral eulogizing someone and part of your brain is quietly noting the light coming through the window
I genuinely cannot explain to a non-writer what it feels like when a chapter suddenly clicks. it's not satisfaction. it's not relief. it's this horrible specific feeling like you just remembered something you never knew. like the story was already there and you finally stopped being in the way of it. i don't know what to do with that feeling. i just close the laptop and stare at the wall for a bit.
My personal sci-fi pet peeve is when an “alien” planet is just Earth wearing a costume. Like if you’re gonna make an alien world, GO for it. Make the gravity weird. Make the atmosphere toxic. Make the food inedible to humans. Make me feel like evolution happened differently there.
I'd really like it not to give, “Earth but apples are called chespa now.”
The world feels wrong today. Muted, heavy, refusing to hold me. Even my bed has turned its warmth into something unbearable. Maybe it isn’t the world at all but the space I used to fit inside. As if the me-shaped hole in the world has already been filled, as if I have nowhere left to exist today.
writing is so fun until you run out of pre-planned plot and you stand at the precipice and slowly realise that you never really had a plot in the first place
things I won’t let ai take away from human writers
em dash
“not x, not y, but z”
short sentence stacking as a stylistic choice
none of these belong to ai. these are all what human writers have been writing since day one, way before ai was invented. ai was trained to mimic how human writers write — so em dash, not x not y but z and short sentence stacking would never have been used by ai at all if ai hadn’t learned and mimicked them from human writers.
no, you are not “fighting against ai” by accusing every work that has em dash, not x not y but z or short sentence stacking in it as ai-generated, you are helping ai harm the writing community by engaging in witch hunt and scaring human writers away from creating/sharing their works for fear of being wrongly accused of using ai.
speculations, accusations and ai witch hunt harm the writing community as much as ai does, if not more.
I never forgot what happens to women in this world, only that it could still choose me. I stepped outside, and the first man I met reached anyway, as if my wedding ring was nothing more than light catching on glass.
Someone died today, in a way the internet speaks in comment sections without thinking. Sympathy arrived late, dressed like it had somewhere safer to be. Maybe it only mourns what it’s no longer allowed to hate.
how to write, a step-by-step guide from my personal experience
open your draft
stare at the screen
cry
The version of me now would have known how to hold what we had and made it something softer, something lasting.
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