HOH Magazine: Quarantine Day 900 Edition

We're halfway there, folks! September 2nd, 2022, was the 900th day since I locked down for 6-8 weeks (42-56 days) and began counting the squares on the calendar (900 days.)

I've been on a sort of HOH Magazine haitus. I began, stalled, re-began, stalled, and re-began an issue of HOH Magazine for March of 2021, listing the names of the various humans whose lives were directly, literally threatened by a literal angry mob, and still decided to vote to not convict the man responsible for telling the angry mob where to go to find these very same people and inflict treasonous violence against them. That's weird!

What Kind of Butterfly (Final Correspondence From The Cocoon)

Here I am, on the precipice of my chrysalis. Pressing against the dried, transparent walls of my cocoon. Can you see my coloration? I don't worry about what shape or decoration I will take when I emerge but the shape of the world I'm emerging into. But then again, just as all acting is reacting, I don't actually give a fuck about what shape your petty, fetid world is in. It is not mine to control, so what matter should I give to my mind over its form? I guess the tables turned, the facade is down: I do truly, actually worry what shape I will become. How I will be pressed and molded as I molt and shed, poked and bled by this greedy machine of consumption. I'd hope it's "as an avenging angel doing the work of God." But how do I guide that hope – that intention – into practice? Such notions make wrestling matches in my mind, the spectacle of thought.

If I haven't stated it so clearly before, then here: This world was not made for me but I belong in it.

Under A Rock (Correspondence From The Cocoon #3)

Last known photo of me happy. 11/8/2016, 4:02pm

I want to be a care-free person again.