There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from context switching—jumping from writing fiction to analyzing sales dashboards to scheduling posts.
Why don’t Canadians call ourselves patriots? Because our pride sounds different. Born from Loyalists, peacekeepers, and quiet builders, Canada’s strength has never been in shouting, it’s in showing up. From Confederation to Canada 150, our patriotism has stayed humble, civic, and collective. In an age of loud nationalism, that restraint isn’t weakness, it’s wisdom.
It’s been a month since Pejorative left my desk and entered the noise. The algorithms have already decided who should see it and who should not. Every click feels like a vote of confidence, or a funeral rite.
Dystopia isn’t arriving, it’s already here, just unevenly distributed. For some, it’s daily survival; for others, a new shock. This memoir fragment explores how silence becomes complicity, why endurance is not apathy, and how writing can stand as witness.
The road wound higher than I remembered, climbing through high hills with just enough guardrail to suggest safety. On one side, forested hills stretched into layers of green and shadow. On the other, a drop, sharp and unforgiving, reminded me of gravity’s patience. Above it all, a clear sky stretched like a promise.
Coffee in one hand, edits in the other, the rest of the cottage still asleep.
