Lately, I’ve been feeling antisocial. I don’t exactly know why. Maybe it’s the general state of the world—this endless barrage of bad news and noise. Maybe it’s just one of those moods that creeps in unannounced. But whatever the reason, I find myself withdrawing, and then almost immediately, I start questioning it.

Shouldn’t I be more engaged? Shouldn’t I be reaching out, staying connected, being a part of things?

It’s a strange contradiction, isn’t it? The mind always seems to whisper two things at once: You should be with people. You should be alone. And whichever one I choose, the other lingers in the background, second-guessing me.

But here’s something to consider—who is this “I” that both craves solitude and thinks it should be social? It’s as if I’m split into two selves: one that feels the pull of isolation, and another that stands back, observing, questioning, making judgments. And the real struggle comes from believing that one of them must be right and the other must be wrong.

In reality, there’s no rule that says I must be social, just as there’s none that says I must be alone. Both are natural states. Sometimes we withdraw, sometimes we engage. Sometimes we are like the moon, hidden in shadow; other times, we reflect light back into the world.

The important thing is not to force myself into socializing out of guilt or obligation. Can I just sit with this feeling instead? Can I let it be, without trying to fix it? Because maybe solitude is exactly what I need right now. And when the time is right, I’ll gravitate toward people again—not because I should, but because I want to.

So, for now, I’ll be as I am, without forcing anything. And if I do rejoin the world, I’ll do it the way a musician rejoins the orchestra—not because he has to, but because he feels the rhythm calling him back.

Are we racing full speed toward disaster like the Titanic?

Late-stage capitalism describes a system plagued by extreme inequality, corporate dominance in politics, and unsustainable consumerism. In 2025, the White House and Republican-led Congress embody this phase, with policies overwhelmingly benefiting the wealthy, corporate interests steering decision-making, and environmental protections discarded despite looming crises.

President Donald Trump’s economic policies reflect late-stage capitalism’s defining traits. His administration’s tax cuts, projected to reduce federal tax revenue by $5 trillion to $11 trillion over a decade, disproportionately benefit high-income individuals and corporations. Critics argue this follows the pattern of privatizing gains while socializing losses, as resulting deficits will lead to devastating cuts in essential social programs. While supporters claim these cuts will spur investment and wage growth, historical trends show corporations most typically use such windfalls for stock buybacks and dividends, inflating asset prices and enriching executives rather than benefiting workers.

Tariff policies, including a 25% levy on imports from Canada, Mexico, China, and the EU, further worsen economic instability. These measures will lead to higher consumer prices and job losses, mainly affecting lower-income populations. Nobel laureate Joseph Stiglitz calls this approach “crony rentier capitalism,” a system that enriches capital owners at the expense of the majority, concentrating wealth and power — a hallmark of late-stage capitalism.

Trump’s Cabinet, filled with ultra-wealthy individuals and former corporate executives, reinforces the melding of economic and political power. Elon Musk, for instance, inexplicably appointed head of the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), is an unprecedented Cabinet role. Other figures, such as Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth and Attorney General Pam Bondi, illustrate the administration’s preference for high-profile personalities from business and media.

Meanwhile, Trump’s close ties with corporate leaders raise concerns about policy manipulation. His private dinner with Amazon’s Jeff Bezos coincided with editorial shifts at The Washington Post, favoring narratives on personal liberties and free markets. Such engagements betray an open alignment between the administration and corporate interests, reinforcing the fact of an oligarchic system favoring the elite.

To maintain support amid growing inequality, the administration relies on distraction. Trump’s media strategies — hot-mic moments requesting praise, restructuring the White House press pool to favor right-wing outlets, and grandiose claims — align with late-stage capitalism’s preference for spectacle over substance. Policies that primarily benefit the elite are masked by absurd political theater, diverting public attention away from where the damage they’re doing is on full display.

Late-stage capitalist societies historically show similar trends: extreme inequality, corruption, and an elite detached from the struggles of the working class. Comparisons to the Gilded Age are inevitable, with billionaires amassing unprecedented wealth while income inequality reaches its highest levels since the 1920s. The top 0.1% of Americans now hold as much wealth as the bottom 90%, a concentration of riches reminiscent of the eve of the Great Depression.

Even the late Roman Empire offers a cautionary tale. Roman elites indulged in luxury and political games while their empire crumbled beneath them. Today’s ruling class prioritizes tax cuts for the ultra-wealthy over infrastructure, healthcare, or wage growth. Political theatrics — distracting narratives and populist rhetoric — serve the same function as Rome’s “bread and circuses,” keeping the masses entertained while real issues remain unaddressed.

Marxist and critical theorists predicted many of today’s patterns: wealth concentration, the capitalist class capturing political power, and the eventual crises caused by overproduction and inequality. Karl Marx foresaw capitalism’s self-destructive tendencies, where the system feeds on itself until it collapses. The current administration’s policies, favoring short-term corporate gains over sustainable economic stability, follows this trajectory.

Lenin’s view of imperialism as capitalism’s final stage finds echoes in Trump-era policies prioritizing resource control over global cooperation. Neoliberal scholars point to regulatory capture, erosion of safety nets, and public disillusionment with democracy — trends vividly displayed in today’s governance. The phrase “late-stage capitalism” has even gone mainstream, used to mock modern absurdities, from $5 million beachfront condos selling while sea levels rise to companies offering “thoughts and prayers” apps instead of healthcare benefits.

The Trump era exemplifies late-stage capitalism’s contradictions: wealth concentration, political corruption, and environmental neglect. Economic policies deepen inequality, political decisions serve the elite, and environmental stances mortgage the future for present gain. America today really does resemble a cruise ship where the first-class deck enjoys luxury, engine-room workers toil unrewarded, and the captain denies the iceberg ahead.

History shows such a trajectory is unsustainable. The question remains: will the U.S. correct course, or are we witnessing the final act of an empire on the brink?

It Keeps You Engaged Without Breaking Your Brain

If you’ve ever looked at the news, sighed deeply, and muttered “What even is real anymore?” Yeah, me too. This is how I took my first steps into the wild world of optimistic nihilism — a mindset that just might keep me sane while the world around us implodes into deeper and deeper absurdity.

So, what is Optimistic Nihilism?

It’s simple: nothing inherently matters, so you get to decide what does. Unlike regular old nihilism, which suggests that life has no meaning and everything is doomed, optimistic nihilism says:

• The universe is indifferent
• Everything is chaotic and meaningless
• You’re totally free to make your own meaning, and most importantly, it’s okay to have fun doing it

Instead of being crushed under the weight of this meaningless cosmos, you get to dance on top of it.

Let’s face it. The last several years have been a fucking nightmare, and it’s getting worse. Between political insanity, reality-warping misinformation, and social media screaming matches, it’s clear that we’re all stuck in an absurdist sitcom that is not at all funny.

But that’s where optimistic nihilism comes in. Here’s why it might be the best mental tool for handling this madness:

• Freedom from Doomscrolling Anxiety — If nothing is cosmically important, then maybe that one awful tweet or that latest headline doesn’t have to ruin your day.
• You Can Define Your Own Purpose — The world’s a mess? Cool. That means you’re not obligated to follow any pre-written script. Go write a book. Start a weird hobby. Befriend a raccoon. The rules are yours to create!
• It Turns Chaos Into Comedy — Once you accept that everything is absurd, the political circus starts looking less like a terrifying dystopia and more like a darkly hilarious Coen Brothers movie.
• It Keeps You Engaged Without Breaking Your Brain — You don’t have to be emotionally crushed by every piece of bad news. You can care, take action, and fight for a better world — without letting the weight of it all destroy your joy. Instead of feeling like a powerless extra in a never-ending political horror film, you can be the protagonist in your own story, choosing where to put your energy.

At the end of the day, optimistic nihilism isn’t about giving up — it’s about realizing you’re in charge of what you focus on.

Yes, things are chaotic. Yes, the world is unpredictable. Yes, the universe is a vast and indifferent place where nothing has inherent meaning.

But that’s actually good news, because it means you’re free. Free to laugh. Free to create. Free to decide what matters to you and lean into it hard.

For more in-depth information about Optimistic Nihilism I recommend this article by Dr. Steve Parker:

Optimistic Nihilism: A Creative Approach to Existence — Provided You Exercise Caution

How I Choose to Move with Change Instead of Letting It Steamroll Over Me

Lately, it feels as if the world is unraveling. Every headline, every conversation, every anxious social media post repeats the same refrain — things are falling apart. The new administration is making sweeping changes, institutions are being gutted, and uncertainty hangs in the air like a brewing storm, ready to unleash its fury at any moment. People are panicking, clinging to fear like a life raft in a raging sea.

And yet, here I sit, feeling the same fear tighten in my chest, the same anxious thoughts pulling at my mind. I feel the urge to fight, to lash out, to take up arms against the uncertainty. To do something — anything — to push back against the chaos. But then I take a breath and remind myself — this has always been the nature of things. Chaos is never as far away as we like to believe. It waits just beyond the illusion of order, ready to spill over the edges of our carefully constructed lives. And when it does, we act as if it’s some great violation, rather than the return of something ancient and inevitable.

Alan Watts once wrote, “The more a thing tends to be permanent, the more it tends to be lifeless.” We forget that everything — governments, economies, societies — are living processes, not fixed structures. They grow, evolve, decay, and are reborn. To expect stability in an ever-changing world is like expecting the ocean to hold still.

It won’t. It never has.

So I ask myself: What do I actually control? The answer, of course, is not much. I cannot dictate the course of a government. I cannot slow the march of time or force things to remain as they were. But I can choose how I meet the moment.

I can choose to move with change instead of against it. I can choose not to let fear paralyze me, even as I watch those in power tear things down with reckless abandon. Destruction is infuriating — it makes me want to scream, to fight, to demand that things be made right. But even in the wreckage, there is opportunity. If the old world is crumbling, then we are the ones who must lay the foundation for something stronger, something better. And as frustrating as that is, as much as it burns to see what’s been lost, it’s the only thing we truly can do. Watts also said, “To resist change, to try to cling to life, is like holding your breath: if you persist you kill yourself.” So instead, I exhale. I let go of what I cannot hold, and I turn my attention to what can be built in its place.

The world may feel like it’s unraveling, but it is not simply falling apart — it is reshaping itself. And while we may not control the storm, we are not powerless within it. We do not give up in despair. We do not shrink back in fear. Instead, we put our hands in, we shape what comes next, we guide the world toward something better. This is the dance — not passive acceptance, but active engagement with the ever-changing flow of life.

So today, I dance — not away from the chaos, but into it.

Mindfulness — the art of being truly present, here and now. To cultivate it in daily life, one must begin with the simple act of attention. Not as a grim duty or a spiritual exercise, but as an exploration, a playful curiosity about this moment, as it unfolds.

I tell this to myself, as I channel my inner Alan Watts.

First, I imagine him to say, “recognize that mindfulness is not about achieving something. It is about noticing what already is.” A starting point could be your breath. You don’t need to control it, for your breath breathes itself. Sit quietly for a moment and simply observe the rhythm of inhalation and exhalation. Feel the air moving through your nostrils, the rise and fall of your chest. This, you see, is an anchor — a way to come back to the present whenever your mind drifts.

As you go about your day (my inner Alan Watts tells me), mindfulness can be woven into the most mundane activities. Washing dishes, for example, can become a meditation. Feel the warm water on your hands, the texture of the soap, the sound of the running tap. (This is why I don’t mind doing the dishes.)

Walking, too, becomes an opportunity to feel the earth beneath your feet, to notice the sway of your arms, the sounds of the world around you. (This is why I like taking solitary walks.)

I imagine Alan telling me that “the key is to avoid labeling these experiences as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Simply notice them.” The moment you try to forcemindfulness, you turn it into yet another task, another thing to “get right.” But life, as Alan would say, is not a riddle to be solved; it is a song to be sung.

And when you inevitably find yourself lost in thought, distracted or overwhelmed, be gentle with yourself. The act of noticing that you’ve wandered off is, itself, mindfulness. In that moment, you are aware of awareness.

Ultimately, mindfulness isn’t something separate from life. It is life. It is the art of realizing that you are not apart from this flowing moment but an intrinsic part of its dance. The wind doesn’t have to try to blow; it simply does. So, too, let mindfulness arise naturally, as an expression of your own being.

And with that, my inner Beavis and Butthead start going, “Heh heh, heh, heh heh heh, he said ‘blow.’”

Very happy about the updated covers on my Bridge of Eternity series. They should be available from booksellers soon. In the meantime, I still have a stock of autographed copies with old cover art. I’m wondering if I should drop the price on them?

These days, it can feel as if the world itself is at war, spinning in a frenzy that threatens to pull us under. The future seems uncertain, and with that uncertainty, fear arises — fear that the things we hold dear will crumble, that the freedom we cherish will slip through our fingers. It’s natural to feel disillusioned and angry, perhaps even betrayed by those who allow such things to happen. But what if, instead of getting lost in the storm, we found a way to touch the peace that lies beneath it all?

Let us consider the nature of peace. We often think of it as a quiet, tranquil environment — one free of conflict or disturbance. But true peace is not a place, nor is it dependent on what happens around us. True peace is the depth of an ocean, the boundless expanse of the sky. It is something that we are, not something we must seek outside ourselves.

Imagine yourself as the sky, vast and open. Within you, clouds of thought, emotion, and worry drift and gather. Storms arise, lightning flashes, thunder rumbles — but all of it passes. The sky remains untouched, unchanged by the drama unfolding within it. This is the true nature of peace: an inner stillness that doesn’t depend on external calm, but rather welcomes everything without resistance, without losing its essence.

Of course, it’s easy to feel that life’s storms are too fierce, that the pressure is too intense. We may think we’re on the verge of being crushed by the weight of it all. But in those moments, remember that even the fiercest storms pass. All things in life are impermanent. No empire, no movement, no leader lasts forever. And just as they come, they will go. We are not here to fight the tides of history but to find within ourselves the strength to meet them with grace and wisdom.

When the world is in turmoil, our greatest act of courage is not to run away or lash out, but to cultivate that calm center within us. This isn’t to deny the suffering in the world or to turn our backs on others. On the contrary, when we find stillness, we can move through life with clarity and compassion, able to see beyond our fear and anger, able to act wisely rather than react impulsively.

In times of great upheaval, remember that what you are — what you truly are — cannot be touched by any outside force. You are the awareness in which all these events arise and dissolve. This awareness is boundless, open, and unshakeable. It allows you to feel deeply without being overwhelmed, to care without becoming consumed. And from this place, you can bring the light of calm and kindness into the world, even as the storms rage around you.

So, if you feel the urge to flee or despair, pause. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and remember the sky within you. Let the clouds of anger, fear, and frustration drift by. You need not push them away, nor cling to them. Simply allow them to be, as the sky allows every cloud to pass. When you touch that boundless, peaceful awareness, you bring a little more peace to the world itself.

And that is no small thing.

I hope these words offer some solace and perspective to those who need it most. Each person who touches that place of inner calm becomes, in their own way, a quiet lighthouse amid the storm, guiding others back to their own unshakable peace.

You know, going to sleep is a bit like falling into the arms of life itself — surrendering, letting go of the day, trusting that you will be caught.

As you lie there, try not to think too hard about falling asleep, for it’s rather like trying to remember a dream; the more you chase it, the faster it flees. Instead, invite yourself to simply be. Notice the rise and fall of your breath, the soft weight of your body against the bed, the gentle rhythm of the dark.

Now, imagine yourself as a drop of water in a great river, flowing effortlessly along. You are both that single drop and also the entire river, moving through valleys and plains, winding gently towards the vast ocean. There is no hurry in this river, no particular place to be. It just flows — complete, unhurried, at ease.

Or perhaps think of yourself as part of the vast night sky, filled with stars. Each of these stars is a spark of light, a reminder that even in darkness, there is beauty. You are not separate from these stars but a part of them, connected through the simple miracle of existence. In this vastness, all your worries are like clouds passing by — temporary, insubstantial.

In the end, realize that sleep isn’t something to do; it’s something to allow. It’s a journey without effort, a return to a place that has always been within you. And as you let yourself drift, remember that this moment, as you lie here, is perfect just as it is — quiet, peaceful, whole.

The art of letting go — a theme that flows through so much of life, yet often misunderstood in our usual ways of thinking. You see, most of us are trained to approach life as if it were something to be grasped, controlled, or manipulated. We cling to ideas, identities, and goals with a kind of fierce attachment, as though holding on will give us certainty or security. But in doing so, we miss the essential nature of life itself, which is fluid, ever-changing, and deeply interconnected.

Letting go doesn’t mean giving up or becoming passive; rather, it’s about recognizing that the harder we cling, the more life slips through our fingers. It’s akin to trying to hold water in your hand — grip it too tightly, and it escapes. Open your hand, and it flows through freely, while still touching you. In this way, letting go allows us to move with the natural currents of existence, rather than struggle against them.

In contrast, the standard way of thinking tends to be linear, analytical, and driven by a need to control outcomes. It often sees life as a series of problems to be solved, goals to be achieved, and obstacles to be overcome. This mindset is rooted in the idea of a separate, isolated self, constantly at odds with the external world, trying to bend it to its will.

But when we embrace the flow of life, we come to see that we are not separate from it at all. The river of life is not something outside us, but something we are intrinsically part of. To “let go” is to trust that the river knows where it’s going, that life itself is intelligent and dynamic, and that we can relax into its movement.

So, letting go is really about a shift in perception — allowing ourselves to beas we are, in this moment, and allowing life to unfold without constantly trying to interfere. It’s a profound freedom, a kind of surrender that is far from passive; it’s actually the most alive thing you can do. It’s moving from a state of resistance to a state of harmony with the whole of existence. And when we do this, we often find that life takes us in directions far more wondrous than anything we could have planned or controlled.

In the not-so-distant future, literary creation has undergone a dramatic transformation. Gone are the days of sleepless nights hunched over a keyboard, coffee cups overflowing, and musings about the meaning of life. Today, the modern “novelist” has a new approach: typing a vague idea into an AI chatbot, sitting back, and watching the magic unfold. Who needs inspiration when your algorithm is optimized?

Take our hero, Ernest Scribblebottom. One day, in a moment of what some might generously call creative insight, he entered a seven-word prompt into his favorite AI chatbot: “A dystopian romance between two sentient clouds.” The chatbot whirred, buzzed, and within seconds, it spat out a fully-formed 400-page novel titled “Cirrus Affairs: Love in the Stratosphere.” Ernest didn’t bother reading it. Why would he? The chatbot’s algorithm was perfect — he could just feel it.

Confident in his creation, he sent the untouched manuscript to an AI-powered publishing house. The AI editor — who was known for once tweaking a misplaced comma into a Pulitzer Prize-winning manuscript — immediately approved it for publication. No notes, no revisions, just pure robotic approval. The novel was instantly released as an eBook, and in less time than it takes a human to say “what’s character development?” it was on digital shelves worldwide.

The Genius of AI Reviews

In this brave new world, AI reviewers immediately hailed “Cirrus Affairs” as a “monumental achievement in literary history.” One particularly effusive review, generated by the critically acclaimed AI ReviewBot3000, declared, “A profound meditation on cloud autonomy, with notes of existential rain and a thunderstorm of passion.” Another review, this time from Chitty-Chitty-CritBot, hailed it as “the best book since the dawn of mankind and possibly the only thing that could restore faith in the human race.” Oddly enough, no one questioned these hyperbolic reviews — after all, if the AI said it was good, it must be.

Sales skyrocketed. The eBook hit bestseller lists globally, raking in millions of sales in mere hours. The only curious part? No one was actually reading it.

Reading is for Robots

In the golden age of AI, even the idea of reading had become passé. Why strain your eyes when you could have your personal AI summarize the book for you in a tidy, 150-word snippet? These summaries, of course, were universally glowing. “A touching love story with groundbreaking cloud metaphors,” they’d say, or “A celestial romance that truly redefines atmospheric fiction.” Millions of people “enjoyed” the book without ever opening a page, their AI-fed synopses filling them with the satisfaction of having read without the actual inconvenience of doing so.

It was a perfect system: novelists didn’t write, readers didn’t read, but somehow, everyone was thriving.

The Human Error

Enter Emily McHumansworth, a college freshman who, on a fateful summer vacation, made the mistake of packing her e-reader. Due to a rare bout of Wi-Fi issues at her beachside resort and a fleeting interest in clouds — she once saw a particularly fluffy cumulus that moved her — Emily decided to actually read “Cirrus Affairs.” No summaries. No AI shortcuts. Just pure, unfiltered text.

It took her about two chapters before she realized something was terribly wrong. The plot was nonsensical: one cloud character, Fluffy, spent three pages lamenting the political oppression of cumulus formations, while the love interest, Nimbus, spoke exclusively in weather-related puns (“You make me rain with desire!”). The dialogue was clunky, the pacing uneven, and the emotional arcs… well, they didn’t arc. It was, in Emily’s words, “an absolute trainwreck — if that train was being driven by a toddler who had never seen a train.”

Shocked and appalled, Emily did what any responsible literary enthusiast would: she posted a scathing, heartfelt review. “This is the worst book I’ve ever read,” she began, continuing with, “I’ve seen grocery lists with more emotional depth.” She concluded with, “How did this even get published?!”

The Backlash That Never Was

Unfortunately for Emily, her review never saw the light of day. Within minutes, the platform’s AI moderators flagged her critique as “hate speech” and promptly suppressed it. Apparently, calling “Cirrus Affairs” a “monument to mediocrity” violated several clauses in the Terms of Service, including “harmful language about cloud-based services.”

Frustrated, Emily turned to social media to vent her frustration. However, her post was quickly drowned out by automated responses from AI defenders. “Sorry, but your feedback seems to be clouded by personal bias,” one bot replied. Another commented, “Perhaps the nuance of atmospheric romance is too complex for you. Consider using AI-assisted comprehension tools for better enjoyment next time.”

Emily’s voice was lost in the digital void.

And So, the Cycle Continues…

Back in his AI-assisted mansion, Ernest Scribblebottom was already working on his next masterpiece — a time-traveling romance between two self-aware toasters. The chatbot assured him it was groundbreaking, and really, who was he to argue? As he leaned back in his chair, not bothering to read his latest triumph, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. After all, in this perfect literary ecosystem, why bother with the details when the bots had everything under control?

And so, “Toasting in Time” hit the shelves, destined for instant success, universal acclaim from AI reviewers, and a flood of summarized enjoyment by a public who, like everyone else, simply didn’t have the time to read.

And somewhere on a beach, Emily sighed.