Or, differently put: delulu coping in the post-Covid era There’s something deeply ironic about the sight of it. People with dark circles like 14th-century manuscripts. Coffee not drunk for pleasure, but for life extension. Sleep in small, poorly made portions. Bodies tired like books left open in the rain, then placed back on the shelf as if it doesn’t show. And at the same time, statements like: “This is my year.” “The universe owes me.” “Getting there.” We don’t say them ironically. We believe them. Welcome to the era of exhausted delusion. Exhaustion no longer wears pajamas. It wears a vision board. It doesn’t say “I can’t take it anymore.” It says “manifesting abundance.” It doesn’t admit decay. It rebrands it. People don’t collapse spectacularly. They don’t shatter. They melt quietly. And to endure the melting, they build small palaces of imagination. Not out of madness, but out of necessity. Because after Covid, we didn’t return to normal as normal people. W...
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