I’ve been thinking a lot about reflection and our tendency toward the act, especially as the year turns over once again. I’m usually one who is perhaps overly prone to reflection at these arbitrary points, at this established moment when we can all say “okay, enough of that, I’m sure we can do better.” This year though, I don’t feel the standard impulse. Today is the same as yesterday. I think this imposed self-ignorance (as in, the purposeful suppression of the inner-self) is another outcropping of the suspicion that we’re all living in some kind of M.C. Escher-meets-Edvard Munch construct, one which flaunts a particularly and nonsensically tyrannical suicide wish, and so while my personal days have seemed to flow rather uncorrupted from one to the next in 2017, the weight of living under such an onslaught of absurdity has made reflection rather unappealing.