The sun is filtering through branches into the window of my bedroom, light dappling across the walls and illuminating my sadly-empty bookshelves. I’m listening to angry medieval-punk music, laying on my bed, staring past this screen at the play of yellow light through my room. It’s a peaceful scene, and I would otherwise be in that peace, fading along with the day into a calm Breton evening.
But notifications that people are talking about me keep coming through my phone, and because I don’t know how to turn them off I’m instead uneasy, disquiet, and deeply exhausted.
Those notifications are telling me that people think I’m a fascist, you see.
The irony is a bit hilarious, I guess. Two years ago similar notifications assaulted my private space from people certain I was a Marxist demagogue bent on destroying Paganism, one who labeled everyone who wasn’t “left of Bernie Sanders” a…