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 pity. The pity would say, how embarrassing 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 constant commitment to capitalist ideals — how sad that must feel, it blasted 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 at me as I journal in cafes or occupy public spaces doing nothing but looking around. Yet the more I engage in the reversal, the less audible the pity becomes. I suspect it’ll continue to reemerge, only with growing hits of shame as perhaps itself experiences the reversal, realizing it isn’t actually the thing, zero semblance of any truth, and its audience has moved onto actual living.