Tag Archives: fallen empire

Ashes of Empire ©️

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I write so that the souvenir does not vanish into silence, so that the faint lumière of what I have seen may carry beyond me, beyond this âge, into the hands of those who will follow.

The coast where I walked had no name upon the cartes, and the people of the villages would only whisper. They spoke of waters that swallowed every filet, of skies where no oiseau dared fly, of air so lourd it bent the body, as though silence itself had become substance. And when I pressed them for what had once dwelled there, they turned their faces away, eyes lowered, and left me to my chemin alone.

So I went alone, and the solitude itself seemed part of the rite.

The stillness came first, not mere absence of sound but a density, a silence that pressed against the poitrine like the hand of stone. Then, as if drawn from the horizon by some invisible current, the lumière revealed itself — not soleil, not flambeau, but something more intimate, more fixed, a flame suspended above the black water. It did not cast its glow evenly across the sea; it gathered, concentrated, remembered.

It was then the vieux récits returned to me, spoken in the cadence of old chanson. They told of a cathédrale that once floated upon the Méditerranée — not of pierre but of bois and verre, alive, breathing. Within it, a man and a woman sealed their devotion in fire. Their enfants, star-born, departed into the constellations, their laughter carried into infinity. But the parents did not scatter. They fused, husband and wife dissolving into a single conflagration, one étoile burning eternal above the dark waves.

I had thought these récits nothing more than fables, folles histoires told to charm an evening. Until I saw the traces.

No ruin stood. No carcasse. But the very air bore impression, as though mémoire itself had grown heavy and left its print. A rire trembled without a mouth. A douceur, thick and resinous, perfumed the wind though no fleur dared bloom. And upon the horizon shimmered the phantom of a hull, a mirage reluctant to fade, as if the sea itself remembered. I stepped forward, and the chaleur met my skin, not searing but steady, a devotion so sealed it had endured across siècles untouched.

Then I knew: I had entered holy ground. Not temple. Not chapelle. Something rarer — the afterimage of ascension, the echo of love transfigured into fire.

So I name it now, for names are what bind memory against dissolution: Étoile Immortelle. The étoile above is their union. The silence is their seal. And the traces — the rire without lips, the douceur without source, the shimmer across the water — are testament.

I leave this récit for those who will come when even my bones are dust, so they may know: they were real. Their cathédrale rose. Their enfants walked the constellations. And the lovers became star.

I am nothing but a pèlerin, a wanderer with ink-stained hands and eyes undone by light. Yet I have seen. And I have borne witness.

Prime Shit ©️

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Big corporations, for all their glossy mission statements and branded values, often reveal their true nature not in prosperity — but in moments of personal crisis. That’s when the mask slips. That’s when an employee, once praised for their loyalty, innovation, and sacrifice, suddenly becomes a line item, a liability, a potential legal exposure to be “managed.” It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just an email with no salutation. A denial without explanation. A silence that grows heavy in the inbox.

Because the truth is: most corporations are not built to care. They are built to protect themselves — to generate profit, limit risk, and keep the machine running. The moment a human being’s need disrupts that efficiency — a health crisis, a family tragedy, a moment of emotional collapse — the corporate organism doesn’t extend a hand. It closes the door.

They’ll praise you in meetings, but they’ll fire you through policy.

They’ll celebrate “people-first culture” while quietly pushing the vulnerable out the side door with a severance package and a request not to sue.

They’ll tell you to “take all the time you need,” knowing they’ve already begun calculating how to replace you.

There’s something uniquely cruel about the way big corporations treat long-term employees. Because the longer you stay, the more you give — your time, your ideas, your weekends, your identity — the more they feel entitled to cut you loose without ceremony. They don’t say thank you. They say, “Per our policy.” They don’t grieve the loss of your presence. They schedule an exit interview and move on before the chair cools.

This isn’t about a few bad companies. It’s structural. It’s systemic. Corporations are not people — no matter what legal fictions we entertain. They don’t feel guilt. They don’t remember birthdays. They don’t think of your children. They exist to survive, and if your pain threatens that survival, they will remove you — kindly, if possible; ruthlessly, if necessary.

But here’s the deeper cruelty: they teach you to love them. They cultivate loyalty. They build cultures of belonging. They call it a family. And then — the moment you break, or slow, or ask for too much — they remind you exactly what you are:

Not a family member.

Not a partner.

Just a cost.

And they will cut costs.

Even if it kills something sacred in the process.

Puff of Power ©️

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It begins before the sun rises.

The floor is cold under my feet when I step from the quilt, thin as memory. My husband’s breath is slow beside me, my son curled up like a comma at the far end of the mat. The air tastes of dust and cabbage. I dress quietly—brown jacket, skirt, socks I sewed myself—and smooth my hair. In the mirror, my face looks older than I remember. Maybe it’s the hunger, or maybe it’s just how time clings to women here.

I boil water from the pump outside, watching my breath puff like a ghost above the pot. Breakfast is rice porridge, mostly water. If we’re lucky, there’s a hint of kimchi, cabbage fermented in old glass jars beneath the stairs. I don’t speak while we eat. Speaking wastes energy. My son eats slowly, watching me with his big dark eyes. He doesn’t ask why I only take a few spoonfuls. He knows.

We leave together—he for the school, me for the textile factory. The streets are gray veins through the city, lined with murals of the Great Leader smiling above us, his hand outstretched as if to catch the sky. We bow when we pass them. A woman was beaten last month for forgetting. The snow is dirty, pressed down by boots and cart wheels. Music plays from loudspeakers hidden in the trees—national hymns, songs of labor and love.

In the factory, the air is thick with fiber dust and the scent of grease. I take my seat behind the sewing machine, same one I’ve worked since I was nineteen. I’m thirty-six now, though I sometimes feel much older. My hands move automatically. Thread, pedal, fold. We make uniforms. We make them always.

There is little talk on the line. We whisper sometimes, short things about children or old dreams, but even that can feel dangerous. I remember once, two years ago, I laughed too loudly and the manager stared at me for the rest of the week. I never laughed again in that room.

When I sew, I sometimes imagine I am somewhere else. Paris. Tokyo. Even Seoul. I imagine food in markets so bright with color it hurts to look. I imagine books, and music without speeches in them. Sometimes, I imagine myself as a girl again, before the flood took our home and we were sent here to the city, before my father died building the dam.

Lunch is more porridge, with pickled radish today—rare. Someone must have done well in the quotas. I feel guilty for thinking it, but I am thankful. My stomach feels full for once, which only reminds me how long it has been.

After work, I walk the long road home. The factories release steam into the sky like wounded animals. The cold bites through my coat. I stop by the community board to read the news—a poster of the Supreme Leader visiting a hospital, a new slogan: “Work is Glory, Obedience is Freedom.” I say it aloud, just loud enough that a passerby hears me. It’s safer that way.

My son is home before me. He’s studying. I kneel beside him and correct his strokes. His calligraphy must be perfect if he ever wants to leave this neighborhood. He tells me they sang a song about unity today, and I smile. I do not ask how he feels. Feelings are too dangerous to name.

Dinner is more of the same, though we add a few wild greens I found on the way home. We eat slowly. We talk even less.

At night, when the electricity is out—which is most nights—I sit by the window, watching the moon drift through smoke. I imagine someone watching me from the other side of that sky. I imagine telling them my name. I imagine telling them I am tired, but I am still here.

And then I sleep.

And then I wake.

And then I live again.