How do we act in a reality we cannot name?
This question has become the haunting motif of my days. Everywhere I go, I hear a looping disorientation: spikes of urgency, sharp and vertiginous, followed by long stretches of quiet in which daily life hums along and the world seems, on its surface, fine. Especially in democracies grappling with their own fragility—pressed by rising populist revolts and their push for recognition, shadowed too by ecological distress that flares and fades from view—there’s a rhythm of crisis and forgetting that leaves many of us grasping for bearings reliable enough to make discernment, and the committed action that flows from it, possible.
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