April () 2026
We dull it down, so far down, until discomfort and grief caused by blurred experience is levelled at comfort. The confines of language and labels, the filter of capitalism, the knowing that responsibility is easier passed on than assigned onto oneself. Atmospheric haze, by proxy, makes that blurriness tangible, and that’s comforting(?)
You got the education in numbing tension to the volume of complacency. I for one, am a capitalism baby. The florescent skyline pulls on the inside of my hair follicles like insincere acupuncture; I can’t help but to see beauty in dis-regulation. When dice roll, so that the game can start, they’re loaded, and I know it.
It’s on dim and hazy nights like this, that pass the forecast as rain, where you smell the density of dust on the sweaty backs of fuzzy molecules, and it’s fresh. Observing this fuzziness functions to caresses an internal one. It paradoxically personifies ‘malaise’ in it’s sense of perceived unclarity and disturbance of sight. Though this kind of mal-haze, subverts etymology to satisfy a moodiness that isn’t convoluted in judgmental, rather, one that actually sits with you, on the windowsill, like a mother, and listens, well. It feels really good. The haze authorises actual efficacy in my experience. Phenomenologically speaking, haze interrupts the view of this urban expanse; an earth system taking over man-made ones with none other than it’s most intuitive conductor–being the structural make-up of our bodies. And that intervention strokes the core of comfort.
They communicate in an ancient code, the water inside you and the ‘thick’. Modern lights mediate the discourse in a way family can’t. Cocooned, I’ve found comfort in a disturbed mystery, as justified as the certainty of weather, welcoming the smoke from a machine at a club.