A weekly light — poetry, stories, and reflections from the strange in-between.

Every day it’s some new atrocity.
And every day they lie about it.

Sometimes the lies arrive in suits,
carefully worded,
footnoted,
delivered like a weather report
no one is responsible for.

Other times they shout.
They pound podiums.
They grin into cameras
and dare anyone to call it what it is.

Both versions work.
That’s the trick.

They tell us it’s necessary.
They tell us it’s strength.
They tell us cruelty is just honesty now,
that empathy was a phase
we’ve outgrown.

They lie quietly for the record
and loudly for the crowd.
They lie until the noise itself
becomes the story,
until truth feels small
and correction feels pointless.

What makes me angry isn’t confusion.
It’s coordination.
The way justification and spectacle
shake hands behind the curtain,
the way volume replaces accountability.

They don’t want us convinced.
They want us overwhelmed.
They want fatigue mistaken for consent,
silence mistaken for agreement.

Some days I feel the pull of it—
the temptation to tune out,
to let the shouting blur into static,
to survive by not looking too closely.

But anger keeps cutting through the noise,
not loud,
not clean,
just sharp enough to remind me
this isn’t normal
no matter how often they say it is.

Every day it’s some new atrocity.
Excused.
Cheered.
Broadcast.

And I’m done pretending
the volume is accidental.

🕯️ Lantern Note:
This Lantern is a reminder:
Volume is not honesty.
Repetition is not truth.
Silence is not consent.

🕯️ For a new light every Thursday, subscribe to the Lantern.