George Orwell worried that a shrinking vocabulary would eventually produce a shrinking range of thought.
It is difficult to think a nuanced thought with a blunt language.
tolerating always turns into resentment. at first, you call it patience, then love. but what it really is, is self abandonment. every time you swallow a boundary, excuse a pattern or silence your discomfort, something inside you keeps score. eventually, the bill comes due.
Your Anthropic subscription now includes :
>fake deadlines
>fear-based marketing
>spyware like fingerprinting
>anti-open source incentives
Subscribe to Claude Fable until July 12!! (or maybe 17th)
It’s crazy how we found a way to purify literal rocks into 99.9999999% pure silicon, then have magicians pull it into crystals, then etch a trillion little runes on it, put some electricity into it, and now it has 130 IQ
and the most common thing to do with this miracle is email
The kindest thing literature does is remind you that your peculiar little feelings have always existed. Someone, in some century, was equally confused by love, bored by society, tired of performing, and hungry for meaning.
I love how delusional some clothing descriptions are. You read the tag and it’s like, “Hand wash only. Tumble dry on low.” Son, you’re a cotton T shirt. You’re going in the washing machine, and whatever happens in there is in God’s hands.
Laughter is anti-inflammatory. Crying is regulating. Hugging is immunoprotective. Singing is vagal toning. Dancing is neurogenic.
Joy is a biological necessity.
i think the purest form of love is just wanting someone to notice life with you. "taste this. look at that. hear this song." again and again. until you can't imagine noticing life without them.