There was an era in which I, upon viewing someone journaling in a coffee shop or hearing my co-worker talk about heading home to craft, would silently yet viscerally experience

p i t y.

The pity would say to me, how embarrassing that these people don’t know how sad it is to publicly and unabashedly demonstrate that they aren’t constantly (ever?) taking actions to “make it,” “be successful,” demonstrate their human worth through everlasting commitment to capitalist ideals — how sad that must feel, it told me, in opposition to you who shall one day show everyone how deserving of love, in fact life you are through your artistic commodifications, your coming fame, that growing wealth!

The reversal took decades. I still hear the pity sometimes, now directed towards me as I journal in cafes or occupy public spaces doing nothing but breathing or looking around. Yet the more I engage in the reversal, the less audible it becomes. I suspect it’ll always be there, perhaps resurfacing with growing hints of shame as itself experiences a sort of upheaval: realization that it offers no thing, zero semblance of any truth, and its audience has moved onto actual living.