L'homme est né libre, et partout il est dans les fers. Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. — Rousseau, Du contrat social, I.1

Sunt lacrimae rerum

I feel so scared. Like a hare in a snare.

I feel perpetually on the run — as though I always have to be doing something, scrambling to make my life better. And the air around me has gone heavy, metallic, leaden — like crows circling, like everything in the world has quietly turned to work against me, and against everyone I love.

First it was the slow internet strangulation.

Then it was the war.

Then it was the EU, where the laws were not written for me.

No matter where you step, no matter what you try to do — there are always rules, regulations, and interests of other people you've never met in your life, and nobody in your social circle has ever met either. Maybe except for the few lucky ones who got out to Silicon Valley.

We wretched ones, why do we love you, fleeing world — you flee from us, always, everywhere. Nothing remains in one immortal stay. Bright day is darkened by the shadowy night. Golden youth that once would course the stag is stooped above his stick, a tired old man...

I'm genuinely sad. I'm planning the move to Glasgow, I'm trying to build a business — or, rather, businesses — but just being who I am in this world and getting through an ordinary day is genuinely complicated.

Clamavi De Profundis are singing the Song of Durin. Orbeli are green outside the window. The world is grey, the mountains old.