The Presumptuous
“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.”
When I started this site, I was trying to talk to someone I shouldn't have. A signal sent to a mind I couldn’t reach. And yet, it created real connections—with real consequences. It’s not something I should want. It doesn’t breed trust, peace, or goodness.
In time, I lost that receiver. Then found it. Then lost it again. And again. And now—I think—I’ve finally lost it for good. That’s probably for the best, because the alternative could lead to the worst. Broken minds and broken dreams.
The connection sparked an incredible energy in me—one I haven’t been able to find elsewhere. But some things aren’t for you. You have to let them go. Maybe that energy would have burned me out. Maybe I need to function at a gentler pace.
But in its absence, I found something else: an opportunity to talk to the universe. A universe that is by turns inviting, cold, and utterly indifferent. Why would it care about my voice?
Originally, I branded the site The Hypocrite (technically, it began with something more mundane). The idea was that my heart and my mind were at odds with the personal code I believed in. Saying I am one thing, while my actions and thoughts say something else.
That made sense at the time. But over the course of a quarter-million words and eight months, I’ve noticed something more insidious: not just lies in my heart, but a desire to lie. To chase things I shouldn’t, even at the expense of the long-term happiness of the people I love.
Something I read this week made that danger clearer. And the change—it didn’t come all at once. It seeped in. Subtle. Quiet. And now I feel I have two options:
Shut it all down. Quit writing. Let the library grow cold. There’s some merit to this. But then what happens to these thoughts? They haunt me when they have nowhere to go. Journals, sketchbooks—they help. But nothing is as cathartic as just putting it out there.
Shift the tone. Change the branding, the energy, the intent. I’ve found a voice I like—one that sometimes creates something compelling. Write what you want to read. I have. Sometimes.
The Presumptuous.
That’s the new title. We don’t use that word much anymore, but it means to go beyond the bounds of what is appropriate, right, or proper. I’ve done that. In prose, and in life.
The name owns a piece of my missteps—but I don’t want to live there, any more than I wanted to live as The Hypocrite. I want to be a good boy.
A good dog.
I’m wrestling with some volatile emotions right now. In the coming weeks, I hope to excoriate them.
Being mentally ill is strange. You exist in reality, but you can reshape the world entirely to your vision. It’s easy to ignore consequence. Easy to forget the impact you have on others.
If you’ve been reading all this time, thank you. I hope my voice has offered something worthwhile. I’m still learning how to distill thought instead of just rambling.
My goal remains the same: keep writing. But with more awareness. Acceptance of reality will change the way I feel—and how I write.
I hope it does.
Romans 7:13-12 (ish)
So, does something good cause my death? Absolutely not. But sin does—so that it can be exposed for what it truly is. Sin uses what is good to bring about death in me, and in doing so, it reveals just how utterly sinful it really is, especially when hilighted.
We understand that the Law is spiritual—but I’m not. I’m made of flesh, and I’m essentially a slave to sin. Honestly, I don’t even understand my own actions. I don’t do what I want to do—instead, I end up doing the very thing I hate.
And when I do what I don’t want to do, I’m basically admitting that the Law is good. But it’s not really me doing it, is it? It’s the sin living inside me.
Because I know that nothing truly good lives in me—that is, in my flesh. Sure, I want to do what is right, I even long for it. But I just can’t seem to follow through. I don’t do the good things I want to do. Instead, I keep doing the very things I don’t want to.
And if I keep doing what I don’t want to do, it’s no longer me acting—but the sin that’s dwelling in me.
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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