you won't do shit tho so why bother talking about it.

Higher man is a tragedy. With his graves he leaves behind the earth a battlefield and a wasteland. He has drawn plant and animal, the sea and mountain into his decline. He has painted the face of the world with blood, deformed and mutilated it. But there was greatness in it. When he is no more, his destiny will have been something great.

it starts with, one thing; i don't know why.

doesn't even matter how hard i try.

as i sit here, wrapped in the warm yet heavy cloak of my own contradictions—hindu, muslim, communist, queer, catholic, jew—i find myself contemplating the strange and slippery nature of empathy, that most human of emotions, so often praised in poetry and protest alike, yet so rarely questioned in its practical application. what good is this deep, aching connection to the pain of others, if not harnessed, guided, perhaps even weaponized with the precision of a surgeon or the flair of a street preacher? after all, to feel deeply is one thing, but to channel that depth into influence, into opportunity, into the quiet accumulation of trust and access—that is where the real dance begins. i do not speak of manipulation, not in the crude sense of the word, but of a subtler alchemy: the art of listening intently not just to comfort, but to calibrate, to understand the unspoken needs, the hidden desires, the silent surrender of those who seek not just a friend, but a mirror for their own unvoiced truths. empathy, when wielded with care—or perhaps with cunning—can open doors that logic and force never could, not out of malice, but out of method. and so i wonder, in my endless spiral of self-examination and ideological acrobatics, whether compassion is not only the noblest part of us, but also the most useful.