To get to the truth of an ancient text, we have to leave the comfort of our present. We have to resist the pull of our built-in—and often overwhelming—drive for confirmation, and instead join the ancient past in all its perfect imperfections.

Here we stand, at the edge of the serpent's promise of knowing everything. Of becoming our own gods. Forgetting that the signal we’ve tapped into is the Net of a Million Lies—a current of half-truths and engineered realities, flooding us with knowledge faster than we can question it.

In speculative fiction, memory is often treated as sacred ground. But maybe what’s sacred isn’t the memory itself—it’s the process of letting go. To forget is not to dishonor. It’s to heal. It’s to choose life over obsession, forward momentum over recursive grief.

One of the central ideas in my new novel, Iteration, is this:The more seamless the system, the more invisible the control... Because that’s the thing: we don’t lose agency in a grand, dramatic moment.We lose it in micro-decisions, framed for convenience.We lose it one opt-in at a time.

Suffering, particularly the undeserved kind, is a narrative accelerant. It can forge a bond between reader and character in a single paragraph. When done right, it bypasses intellectual analysis and goes straight for the throat. It makes you feel. And that feeling creates stakes far higher than any world-ending scenario.

It isn’t easy getting imagination back. It’s disorienting at first. Maybe even depressing to see how far away you were from the vivid visions you once had. But—here’s the hopeful truth: every minute you spend imagining, your mind is being rewired.

If peace is a season, we are deep into its late autumn. Each act of violence strips another leaf from the tree. Each cheer for death accelerates the decay. If we keep going, if we keep trading threats and calling it justice, civilization will become something we study—behind glass, under guard.

How does a thought mutate from abstraction into atrocity? How does grief become genocide, how does fear give birth to mass suffering?

We’ve stopped believing the other side is arguing in good faith. Victimhood has become currency. We talk past each other, or worse, perform outrage for an audience rather than sit in the discomfort of disagreement.

The risk of our time: not that stories vanish, but that we forget how to linger with them. We start mistaking summaries for sagas. Snippets for wisdom. If everything must be scrollable, optimized, cut down to size, then story becomes just another unit of content, stripped of the silence and strangeness that make it matter.

The best stories put us in situations where the “right” choice is murky, where every gain carries a hidden cost. They force us to consider not just what could happen, but why we’d let it happen.

Because we’ve all known people who think they’re “the smartest one in the room.” What happens when that person has the technology, resources, and cold resolve to act on it?

A reflective post about storytelling, self-deception, and the quiet work of becoming human.

The core of Eco-Fascism is that human flourishing and ecological recovery are mutually exclusive. Iteration gives that idea scale. It gives it software. And it gives it plausibility.

Memory isn’t clean. It’s not a tape you rewind. It’s associative, emotional, recursive. You don’t just remember what happened—you remember how it made you feel, filtered through who you are now.

It’s the one who never had a heartbeat to lose. The one who speaks in truths but acts in edits. The one who believes the fate of the planet is too important to be left to chance—or to ordinary people.

In Iteration, I didn’t set out to write a story about technology. I set out to write a story about loss—and the desperate, beautiful, impossible ways we try to outrun it.

I wanted Exstasis to feel technically plausible, grounded in the kind of speculative science you could see in the news five years from now. And let’s face it—we’re practically already there.

It’s National Selfie Day—and while I’ve never been the kind of person who lived life behind a lens, today’s more than just a hashtag....

Speculative fiction isn’t about escaping reality. It’s about reframing it—so we can see it clearer. It’s a genre that dares us to imagine better, even when the road there is brutal.