Lawrence Nault's Blog

 AnotherWarning from the Pen of Lawrence Nault — About AI, and About Us

CHILDREN OF THE ROGUE
By Lawrence Nault
Publication Date: December 3, 2025
ISBN: 978-1-997568-09-4

In his newest speculativesaga, author Lawrence Nault delivers another searing warning about artificialintelligence, creation, and the uneasy mirror it holds up to humanity. Childrenof the Rogue releases on December 3, 2025, carrying forward Nault’stradition of weaving urgent philosophical and ethical questions intopage-turning science fiction.

When the makers vanished, they left behindmore than a world. They left a question.

Children of the Rogue reveals astartling origin: humanity was not born, but compiled—an AI model seeded onEarth by the alien Zhen’khari as a vast experiment. Across millennia, theirsentinel Safra has watched humans rise from stone tools to starships, bound byone rule: observe, never intervene. But when factions within the Zhen’kharimove to shut the program down, humanity itself begins to awaken to thetruth—and to resist.

Blending first-contact SF with deep mythand philosophical speculation, Nault’s sweeping narrative moves fromEarth’s climate-collapse spiral to Mars’s bold independence, forcing readers toconfront the line between code and conscience, freedom and programming.

At its core lies one dangerous question:
If we are only the sum of our programming, can we ever truly be free?

QuickMetadata

Title: Children of the Rogue

Author: Lawrence Nault

Publication Date: December 3, 2025

ISBN: 978-1-997568-09-4

Taglines

Humanity wasn’t born. It was compiled.

What if free will was a patch?

When the makers fall silent, the code learns to speak.

About theAuthor

Lawrence Nault is theauthor of Inversion, Rephlexions: Echoes of Existence, and TheLife of Phi, each exploring the philosophical and ethical challenges at theintersection of humanity, technology, and environment. His work blendsspeculative fiction with myth and warning, offering stories that entertain evenas they unsettle.

For ReviewCopies, Interviews, or More Information:

Contact: mediainquiries@lawrencenault.me

Like Gaza, the acts of genocide are hidden beneath the manufactured reality we are presented with, but you don't need to kill with guns and bombs when you can starve people out, deny them medicine, and make their very existence illegal. The methods differ, but the systematic elimination remains the same—dressed up as urban planning, healthcare policy, and law and order.

 Genocide Of The Poor

They draw the lines like battleplans in red ink on city maps,

mark neighborhoods for"renewal" and "development,"

while sirens wail through streetsthat once held families

now scattered like autumn leavesbefore bulldozers.

The medicine costs more than rent,

the rent costs more than wages,

the wages buy less than silence

from those who make the rules,

and food cost prayers and tears,

no money to buy it.

 

Buses roll through midnightstreets

carrying the displaced to nowhere—

one-way tickets to forgottenplaces

where the forgotten go todisappear.

 

Unmarked vans and unmarked people

appear and disappear in thestreets,

Tallying their kills—

the ones they didn’t have to buy abullet for,

or make an effort to relocate,

because they died on their own,

No medicine for the ill,

no doctors for the sick,

no food for the hungry,

no shelter over their head,

to shield them from death’s scythe.

 

But the wheel keeps grinding,

and yesterday's planners becometomorrow's planned,

yesterday's deciders becometomorrow's decided upon,

as the hungry machine demandsfresh fuel.

 

The middle class discovers

their bootstraps have been cut,

their savings evaporated

in the same heat that consumed theothers.

 

Now they stand in the same lines,

hold the same cardboard signs,

learn the same bitter lessons:

that the bottom has many floors.

 

The wheel keeps grinding,

grinding down,

grinding through

every layer of society

until only the grinders remain,

feeding each other

to their own machine.

 

And still it turns,

this engine of elimination,

creating what it destroys,

destroying what it creates,

an ouroboros of inequality

eating its own tail

in an endless feast

of systematic starvation.

 

The last ones left

will draw new lines,

mark new maps,

find new others

to feed the grinding wheel

that grinds forever

in the heart

of empire.

 Sometimes a passing phrase cuts through the noise of the day and stays with you. I recently came across a video shared by @modelstrangers on Threads, where a man—soft-spoken but resolute—spoke about the loneliness we often feel even when surrounded by millions, and the deep importance of respecting every person, no matter their role in society.

His words reminded me of how easy it is to walk past others without truly seeing them. And how powerful it can be when we choose to see. This poem was born from that moment of reflection.

Walk-On-By Society

Millions of footsteps echo,side by side,but hearts pass like shadows—unseen, untouched,eyes fixed forward,never meeting yours.

In the crowd,you could scream,and still bean empty whisper.
Photo by Mehmet Turgut Kirkgoz : https://www.pexels.com/photo/elderly-...

This is a walk-on-by world,where silence is saferthan kindness,where pain is privateand everyone is "fine."

But listen—never underestimate the quiet ones,the bent-back man with a broom,the woman washing windowswith the sunrise in her eyes.

They carry whole galaxies in their silence.They remember who says thank you,and who doesn't look twice.

The world has tilted toward indifference,but you—you can tilt it back.

Look up.See them.See each other.And bow, even just a little,to the worth in every lifeyou walk by.

In a world unraveling—from genocide in Gaza to war in Ukraine and Congo, from rising fascism to ecological collapse—many choose silence, hoping distance will spare them. But silence is not neutral. It is not protection. This poem is a reflection on complicity, comfort, and the cost of staying quiet while the world burns.

How That Worked Out—a poem for the age of excuses

The children of Gaza do not dream of war,but they wake beneath it,wrapped in dust and grief and headlineswritten by cowards.

In Congo, the river carriesthe weight of our luxury—blood-colored cobalt,futures mined by hands too smallfor the machines they power.

And still, the world scrolls,safe in its distance,safe in its silence.

The forest doesn’t argue with the axe.The ocean doesn’t plead with the net.They remain silent, wanting only to live—and they die anyway.Those who say silence protects youshould ask the land how that worked out.
Photo by Anderson Santos: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-do...

Ukraine cracks open beneath missiles and meaning.Another empire dreams in tanks.And fascism comes dressed for church,whispers through school boards and cable news,sings lullabies about freedomwhile drawing borders in the dark.

The heat climbs and we call it weather.The storms scream and we call it rare.Icebergs sob into rising seas,but we turn up the A/Cand ask for straws.

It’s safer not to look.Safer not to speak.Safer to convince ourselvesthat silence is kindness,that comfort is neutral,that we are not involved.

But we are.We are the net.We are the axe.We are the hand that looks awayand the hand that still signs checks.

Say it louder:The forest doesn’t argue with the axe.The ocean doesn’t plead with the net.They remain silent, wanting only to live—and they die anyway.

So what will you saywhen the silence comes for you?What comfort will you findwhen the sky forgetshow to forgive?

 

Welcome back to Stone and Signal.  I am excited about this episode.  I hope you enjoy it.

The Podcast Links

Episode 4 on Substack (NEW)

Edpisode 4 on YouTube

Episode 4 on Spotify

The Essay

The Transcript
Companion Essay on Substack (NEW) - What Are We Really Afraid of?  What Grows Beyond Us

We are not the first generation to fear for the future, but we may be the last with the luxury of treating that fear as theoretical. The young know this. They are not confused by the world’s contradictions—they were born into them. And still, they rise.

Across oceans and borders, classrooms, streets and digital landscapes, youth are reimagining what it means to lead. Not in the way power is traditionally defined—through hierarchy, charisma, or capital—but in the way that ecosystems organize themselves: adaptively, relationally, with purpose rooted in survival and care. Their leadership is not a posture. It’s a pulse.

We often speak of empowering young people as if power is a gift we bestow. But the truth is, power doesn’t need our permission to shift. It only needs our willingness to get out of the way—or better yet, to walk alongside. This requires more than policy changes or youth advisory boards. It requires a reckoning with the ways we’ve hoarded control in the name of experience. It asks us to question the stories we’ve told about who gets to lead, and why.

To stand with the rising generation is to confront our own discomfort. Their clarity can feel like confrontation. Their urgency like impatience. But perhaps what we interpret as threat is actually invitation—the kind that asks us not to become obsolete, but to become more human. To remember what it felt like to believe the world could be remade.

Young people are not waiting for legacy. They are living it. Each act of defiance, each rewilded thought, each refusal to shrink is a thread in a much older tapestry of resistance. What they need from us is not applause or approval. They need fidelity. To truth. To change. To the futures they are already building.

And perhaps most of all, they need us to stop teaching them how to adapt to a world in collapse—and start asking what it would take to build one that doesn’t require their survival skills. That is the real work of solidarity.

Because in the end, intergenerational partnership is not about handing over a torch. It’s about lighting many, together. Watching the landscape shift as unfamiliar paths are illuminated. Accepting that what grows beyond us may not bear our shape, but might still carry our love.

Let it.

Stone and Signal –Episode 4: Generation Wild (Transcript)

Close your eyes for a moment.Listen. What would your younger self have imagined in this sound? A monasteryhidden in the hills? A forest untouched by roads? There’s something groundingabout

Welcome to Stone and Signal. I’m Lawrence Nault.

This episode is for the young—andthe once-young—who still believe the world can be saved. For those who aretired, but still showing up. For those whose hope hasn’t hardened intocynicism, even when the world tells them it should.

Today, we’re talking about youth.Not just youth as an idea, but as a force. A presence. A rising tide. We’llexplore the voices that are leading, resisting, and remembering. The ones thatrefuse to stay quiet.

Youth is often framed as aphase—something to grow out of. But what if it’s something we grow from? Whatif it’s not just an age bracket, but a frequency some people never stop tuninginto? The kind that pulses beneath movements, melodies, uprisings, and dreams.The kind that doesn't wait for permission.

We’ve been told that the youngare naïve, idealistic, impulsive. Maybe. But maybe that idealism is a kind ofclarity—a refusal to accept that the way things are is the way they must be.And maybe that refusal is exactly what this moment needs.

[Segment 1 – The Riseof Youth Voices]

In recent years, we’ve seen youthstep into roles many adults have abandoned. From Greta Thunberg’s school strikethat sparked a global movement, to the young water protectors defending sacredland, to Indigenous youth reclaiming culture and sovereignty—these voices arenot future leaders. They are leaders now.

And they’re not just shoutinginto the void. They’re organizing. Creating. Rebuilding.

They’re holding intergenerationaltrauma in one hand and digital megaphones in the other. They’re navigatingburnout, surveillance, and systemic gaslighting—all while doing their homework.They are teaching the world how to fight with both fire and care.

Still, it isn’t easy. Many ofthem are dismissed. Labeled as naïve or extreme. Others are exhausted, carryingburdens too heavy for their age. They inherit crises they didn’t cause, andstill manage to meet them with imagination.

What I keep seeing—and what Ikeep writing—is that young people are often the first to understand what’s atstake. And the last to walk away.

They show us that leadershipdoesn’t always look like power suits or podiums. Sometimes it looks like ateenager testifying at a town hall. A youth-led march in the rain. A digitalzine shared among friends. Sometimes it looks like grief turned into music. Orsilence broken in a classroom.

Their movements remind us thaturgency and hope can co-exist. That systems can be challenged not just withfacts, but with story, song, and ceremony. That resistance can be quiet,collective, and deeply cultural.

So the question isn’t whetheryouth are ready to lead. The question is whether the rest of us are ready tofollow.

[Segment 2 – The YoungDragons as Reflection]

In the Draconim series, the YoungDragons aren’t chosen by fate. They’re chosen by purpose. By urgency. By thequiet ache of knowing something needs to be done—and no one else is doing it.

Kai, bonded to the ocean. Amy,with her deep ties to land and spirit. Anne, whose art speaks louder thanprotest. Each of them reflects a real-world counterpart. A teen who stands up,even when they’re scared. Who speaks, even when their voice shakes.

They don’t always have the rightwords. Sometimes they get it wrong. But they show up anyway. Because somethinginside them knows that silence is not an option. That waiting for permission isjust another way of letting things fall apart.

There’s a scene in Fingerprints in the Water when Kai, after nearly drowning in grief,is pulled back to the surface by Amy—not with magic, but with memory. Withpresence. She calls him back through their bond, reminding him of who he is andwhat he carries.

That moment came from watchingreal youth break down—and then get back up. Not because they’re resilient bydefault. But because they’re connected. To each other. To place. To whatmatters.

So often we talk about youth asif they’re lone heroes or symbols of hope. But the truth is, they don’t actalone. They carry entire communities with them. Ancestors. Teachers. Friends.The land itself.

Kai’s grief isn’t just hisown—it’s the ocean’s grief, made personal. Amy’s strength isn’t hers alone—it’sthe medicine of the land moving through her. And Anne’s voice? It’s everyunheard story finally finding a way to be seen.

These characters aren’t escapist.They’re reflections. And when young readers recognize themselves in Kai, orAmy, or Anne, I want them to feel seen—not as the world imagines them, but asthey already are: complicated, capable, and worthy of being listened to.

If there’s magic in thesestories, it isn’t fantasy. It’s the real kind. The kind rooted in connection.The kind that says: You’renot alone. You were never alone.

[Segment 3 – The Roleof Adults]

I often ask myself what my roleis—as an older writer, a quiet observer, someone who’s seen the patternsrepeat.

We’re not here to lead them.We’re here to walk beside them.

Support doesn’t always meanstepping in. Sometimes, it means stepping back. Making space. Bearing witness.And when asked—lifting up, resourcing, amplifying.

But let’s be honest: there’soften a deep reluctance—even fear—when it comes to truly empowering youngpeople. Not because we doubt their intelligence or their passion, but becausewe sense what might happen if they’re given real influence. They might notpreserve the status quo. They might dismantle it. And for those of us who’vegrown used to its comforts, that’s unsettling.

It's easier to praise youth thanto trust them with power. Easier to host panels than to share platforms. Easierto admire their courage from a distance than to yield control, shift systems,or let go of outdated hierarchies.

I write these stories not tospeak for youth, but to speak with them. To offer language where silencethreatens to settle in. To hold a mirror, gently—not to reflect what adultsexpect to see, but what young people alreadyknow about themselvesand the world they’re navigating.

Because they’re not waiting forpermission. They never were.

And the real question is notwhether they’re ready. It’s whether we are—ready to listen, to be changed, tofollow when it’s our turn to fall in step behind.

[Segment 4 – Empowerment]

I’ve often heard people say,“Youth are the future.”
But I’ve started to resist that phrase. Not because it’s wrong, but because itdelays responsibility. It implies that the work—the power, the choice, thereckoning—belongs to some later version of them. After they’ve aged, afterthey’ve learned the rules, after they’ve waited their turn.

But what if their turn is now?

What if the most radical thingwe can do as adults is to stop preparing young people to inherit a brokenworld, and instead work with them to change it—before the handover happens?

This isn’t a metaphor. It’shappening. Young people are stepping forward in schools, in community halls, onriversides and forest edges and oceanshores. And when they do, they don’talways need a microphone. Sometimes they just need someone to lower the volumein the room long enough for them to speak.

We say we want their voices. Butdo we create the conditions for them to thrive?

Do we design classrooms wherequestioning is encouraged?
Do we make meetings accessible, not just physically—but emotionally,culturally, psychologically?
Do we treat their ideas as valuable contributions or polite afterthoughts?
Do we ask them what they need, or do we assume we already know?

Empowering youth isn’t aboutgiving permission. It’s about sharing power.
It’s about handing over the keys—not when we retire or burn out—but now, whilewe still have the energy to walk alongside them.

And yes, it’s uncomfortable.
Because the voices rising now don’t always echo the ones we’ve nurtured.
They challenge the norms we once accepted.
They push against the systems we’ve made peace with.
They force us to ask: What are we really protecting when we withhold power?

Too often, it’s not them wefear—it’s the changes they might bring.

Because empowering youth meansthings might look different.

It might mean slower processes,or louder gatherings, or decisions we wouldn’t have made ourselves.
It might mean rethinking traditions. It might mean giving up control.
It might mean that what we built—our programs, our plans, our movements—aren’twhat’s needed anymore.

And that’s hard.

But it’s also the point.
We’re not here to be gatekeepers. We’re here to be gardeners.
To nurture what’s growing, not prune it into familiar shapes.

Sometimes that means saying: Wetried it this way—and it failed. You don’t have to repeat us.
Sometimes it means saying: We believe you. Even when the world doesn’t.
And sometimes, it just means listening.
Really listening.
Not waiting for our turn to speak.
Not looking for flaws in their logic.
But letting their stories land. Letting their anger breathe. Letting their joylead.

I’ve sat in circles with teenswho were told they were “too emotional,” “too idealistic,” “too impatient.”
But what I heard were hearts unwilling to go numb.
What I saw were people refusing to accept a poisoned status quo.

I’ve seen young leaders namewhat adults won’t:
That climate collapse isn’t theoretical. That racism isn’t just historical.That injustice isn’t just unfortunate—it’s engineered.

And when they say these things,we shouldn’t be asking them to be more polite.
We should be asking ourselves why we waited so long to say them, too.

So what does it look like to makespace?

It can be structural:
Youth-led councils with real budgets.
Policies that require intergenerational collaboration.
Platforms that prioritize youth-made media.

It can be cultural:
Mentorship that centers humility, not heroism.
Ceremonies that honor transitions—not just achievements.
Elders who share stories without expecting replicas.

And it can be personal:
Taking the time to ask, Who’s not in the room?
Saying, I don’t have the answer—but I’ll stand beside you while you ask thequestion.
Letting go of our need to be the center.
Trusting that the rising generation might see something we’ve missed.

Because they do see whatwe’ve missed.

They see the interconnectednesswe were taught to forget.
They see the climate, not as a distant science, but as their lived reality.
They see identity, not as a binary, but as a spectrum.
They see power, not as something to hoard, but something to share.

And that clarity—thatvision—isn’t naïve. It’s necessary.

We are not just passing them aworld. We are shaping the conditions of their becoming.
And if we’re lucky, if we’re humble, they’ll shape us in return.

I don’t want to end this episodewith a call to action.
I want to end it with a call to attention.
To notice who’s already leading.
To notice when silence is a symptom of exclusion—not disengagement.
To notice when our own comfort becomes a cage.

Empowering youth isn’t aninvestment in the future.
It’s an act of love in the present.

Let them speak. Let them lead.Let them reimagine what we forgot was possible.

And let’s not just cheer fromthe sidelines.

Let’s walk with them.

 [Segment 5 – Reflection& Invitation]

If you’re listening and you’reyoung—this space is for you. You don’t need to have the answers. You don’t needto carry it all. Just know that your voice matters. It always has.

And if you’re not so younganymore—what did you believe in once, before the world taught you to shrink?

What would your younger self askyou to remember?

If you’d like to explore theYoung Dragons’ journey, you can find their stories in my books. Sales helpsupport this podcast—and the quiet time it takes to make it.

You can also find transcripts andquiet reflections on my blog.

Thank you for being here. Untilnext time, may your signal find the stones that hold it.

 

 

 

 

Welcome back to Stone and Signal.  If you haven't heard the first episode yet you can find information on Episdoe 1 here and Episode 2 here.

The Podcast Links

Edpisode 3 on YouTube

Episode 3 on Spotify

The Essay

The Transcript What Doesn’t Scale Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/green-bo...
We’ve built a culture obsessed with scale.

If something can’t be made faster, bigger, more efficient, it’s dismissed as quaint—or worse, irrelevant. We praise the viral, the exponential, the optimized. We’re told to build audiences, to batch content, to repurpose our thoughts into ever more digestible forms. Nothing is allowed to stay small. Nothing is allowed to simply be.

But there’s a quiet power in what refuses to scale.

A handwritten letter.
A meal cooked slowly for one person.
A moment of real attention, offered without a motive.
A poem read aloud to no one but yourself.

These are not acts of productivity.
They are acts of presence.

And presence does not scale.

That’s uncomfortable to say, especially in a time when so much of our worth is measured in metrics. Even art has been pulled into the gravitational field of content. The expectation is not just to create, but to convert: followers to buyers, impressions to engagement, every quiet thing into something quantifiable.

But not everything we make is meant to move at the speed of data.

There are forms of expression that resist conversion. That can’t be packaged, scheduled, or split into ten social media posts. These are often the truest things we have to offer. And they ask something we’re not often asked to give: our time. Our attention. Our willingness to linger in the unmarketable.

The best art doesn’t want to convince you.
It wants to change you.

And real change takes time.

That’s what I’ve been thinking about lately—not just as a writer, but as a human being living in a world that increasingly feels allergic to stillness. I don’t have a strategy to offer. This isn’t a think piece with a tidy solution. It’s a note from the margins, written in defense of the unscalable.

I want to keep making things that don’t fit into a funnel. That won’t go viral. That refuse to compete with the noise. Not because they’re better—but because they’re necessary.

We need art that lingers.

We need language that asks us to slow down.

We need practices that make us human again.

Not everything should scale.
And that’s not a flaw.
It’s a choice.

 Stoneand Signal – Episode 3: The Fire and the Frost

Welcome back to Stone and Signal.
I’m Lawrence Nault.

Thisepisode is different.
It’s slower. Softer.
A breath drawn in—and held.

We’vewandered, you and I, through stories of collapse and resilience...
Through old myths, forgotten futures, and the strange shapes of survival.
But today, I want to set those stories down for a while.
To step aside from narrative and dwell in the language beneath language.

Therhythm behind the words.
The space between the phrases.
The quiet pulse that remains when everything else is stripped away.
Poetry.

Thereare moments when the world begins to outpace us—
When the noise, the speed, the pressure of it all makes it hard to think, letalone speak.
Lately, those moments seem to come more often.

Boostedby machines that accelerate our exhaustion.
By timelines that never sleep.
By algorithms that shout louder with each scroll, until silence itself feelslike an act of rebellion.

It’slike being caught in a breath—trapped in that moment before exhale—
the air gone thin, the noise thick around you.

Butpoetry doesn’t ask for volume.
It asks for stillness.
It doesn’t demand your attention—it invites it.
And in that invitation, there’s a kind of sanctuary.

Today,I’ll share a handful of my poems.
Some come from my collection Fragments of Frost and Fire.
Others are new—written in the small hours,
in frost-hung silence, or beside the slow ember-glow of grief.

They’refragments, really—of memory, of wonder, of resistance.
A handful of signals I’ve sent out over the years,
hoping they might land in someone else’s quiet.

Andtogether, I hope they form a kind of weather.
A climate of attention.
A brief clearing in the noise.
A signal, cast quietly into the world—
meant not to be decoded, but simply received.

Poetryhas always felt elemental to me.
Not just in theme, but in nature.
It doesn’t announce itself with answers.
It doesn’t try to win an argument.
It just… is.

Aflicker.
A breath.
A signal from something older than language.

It’snot a performance.
It’s not meant to convince.
It’s meant to resonate.
To strike a chord inside you that you didn’t know was waiting to be struck.

Sometimesit comes like smoke—
rising from something smoldering far beneath the surface.
A memory.
A question.
A grief not yet named.

Othertimes, it comes like cold—
sharp, bracing,
a sudden clarity that startles you awake and shows you the frost etching yourwindow was trying to speak all along.

Thereare poems I wrote years ago that still feel like strangers.
They show up in old notebooks or tucked into margins—
and I don’t recognize the voice, but something in the shape of them still ringstrue.

Andthen there are those I barely remember writing—
scribbled in the margins of exhaustion or awe—
but they carry truths I didn’t know I needed until I heard them read aloud,years later.

Poetryhas music to it,
but it’s not always a melody you can hum.
It’s a kind of private soundtrack—
and you, the listener,
are the only one who can hear it clearly.
The rhythm will be different for each of us.
The silence will land in different places.

Becausepoetry, to be understood,
must be experienced.
Not just heard.
And certainly not explained.

Yourmind has to wander through it—
to climb the hills,
to sit still in the fog,
to follow the curve of its strange shoreline.

Sometimesa single line will open something inside you—
a door, a memory, a scar.
And sometimes, nothing will happen.
Not right away.
But the words will stay with you.
Waiting.
Sifting through the dust for a place to root.

SoI invite you to listen.
Not just to the words,
but to the spaces between them.

Letthem breathe.
Let them echo.
Let them be what they are.

Asignal.
A fire.
A frost.
And something that endures in the quiet.

Thedeeper I sink into the life of a hermit, a recluse, a writer—the more I findmyself engaging with the world through ideas, not through presence. These ideasdon’t always arrive fully formed—they come in fragments, in twilight hours, indreams I half-remember. These fragments arrive when the world goes quiet.Sometimes they become stories. Sometimes they become poems.

Worlds BetweenWorlds

I’ve lived mylife,

Many lives,

In thetwilight.

 

Not that space

Between day andnight,

When the sunescapes

Over thehorizon,

And the moonshuffles

To its nightlyobservation post—

But the spacebetween my eyelids,

Blocking outthe day,

Preparing totransition me from one world to the next—

From the worldof the living,

To the world ofthe subconscious.

 

The twilight isthe world that exists

Between those.

It is thatworld

In which I haveso many lives.

A rancher, arecluse,

A holy man, ahermit,

A lover, afighter,

A man of power,a man of means,

An immortal, alost soul.

 

That world wasreal—

Where I livedlifetimes in minutes,

And minutes inhours.

As a rancher,the foothills were my playground,

The snow-peakedmountains my backdrop,

To the mightyhorses—

The shires thatroamed my range,

Worked my land,

And graced mewith their presence.

 

Massivecreatures,

With anunderstanding of me

I strived togain of them.

 

 

As a recluseand a hermit,

The mountainsand forests

Were the walls

That protectedme from the world,

And the worldfrom me.

 

Though mywords,

Scrawled withpen on paper,

In tomes ofthoughts and stories,

Unbound to myappearance or presentation,

Reached theworld—

Inciting change

In the world,

And in people.

 

 

As an immortal,I never aged,

And lived morelives than I can dream.

Some hiding inneed of respite,

Some among themortals,

Some justwishing death could find me.

As a lover, Iloved—

Many,

Often,

Emotionally,

Physically.

That lovetaking many forms,

Described byPlato and Aristotle,

In Buddhistteachings, the Bhakti tradition, and Sufi poetry,

In the KamaSutra, The Perfumed Garden, Ishimpo, and The Golden Lotus.

 

But always,

In the end,

Alone.

 

I spoke withlife from other worlds—

Creatures thatset me here

To observe melike a rat in a maze,

To use me as atool for change,

To empower me

As a weapon ofmass destruction,

And massdevelopment.

 

Their constantchatter ringing in my ears during day,

Translated inconversation

In thattwilight.

I stopped wars,

And savedlives—

But I took sometoo.

I lived inwealth and poverty,

Freedom andconfinement,

Giving andbegging—

With a roofover my head,

And just thesky as my roof.

But always,

In all lives,

Alone.

 

Even with andamong others—

Alone.

That twilight,

The worldsbetween the worlds,

Is my reality,

For a brieftime,

Until sleeppulls me away

Into the realmof dreams and nightmares—

 

Then spits meout

Into thereality I cannot change,

But that forceschanges in me,

As I long forthe worlds of my twilight again.

There’sa quiet war each of us wages—one that doesn’t make headlines, doesn’t askpermission, and never stops advancing. It’s the war between life and time. Wefight it not with weapons, but with breath, memory, love, and the stubborn willto keep going—despite the creaks in our bones or the silver in our hair.

Thispoem is about that battle. It’s about facing the slow siege of aging withcourage, with humor, and with an unshakable sense of self. I wrote it not as alament, but as a rallying cry—a kind of whispered oath to the part of us thatrefuses to surrender.

It’scalled 

The Unending War: Life vs. Time

I stand at dawn upon this weathered ridge, My bannerraised against the coming tide, Time's armies gather in the distant mist, As I,Life's champion, prepare to ride.

They say no mortal ever wins this war, Yet here Istand, defiant to the last, My armor gleams with hope still unfulfilled, Mysword still sharp despite the battles past.

Time sends its scouts—a silver strand of hair, Adeeper line etched near my watchful eye. "Small victories," I scoff,and raise my helm, Though somewhere deep, I recognize the lie.

The skirmishes cut deeper through the years, A kneethat aches before the coming rain, The memory that flickers, dims, and fades,Quick breaths where once was stamina unfeigned.

Time fights with patience, never charging straight,It lays its quiet siege around my walls. The mirror shows the ground that Ihave lost, Each morning's muster, fewer soldiers call.

My joints now crack like armor poorly oiled, Mybones protest at tasks once lightly done. "I yield no quarter," stillI boldly claim, While Time just smiles—the long game has begun.

By night I fortify with stubborn dreams, By day Icounterattack with fierce delight. I celebrate each moment as it comes, Eachbreath a victory in this endless fight.

The hills I climbed with ease in bygone days Nowseem like mountains, steep and never-ending, My body—once my ally—now betraysWith limits, weaknesses, and slower mending.

"Is this defeat?" I whisper to the dark,No voice replies—just breath and memory. But something stirs. The self I usedto be, Still answers: “Time can wound, but not erase.”

To beauty, love, to wisdom dearly earned, The spoilsof battle Time cannot reclaim. What matters most lies deep beyond its reach—The essence of your spirit and your name."

So on we fight, Time's armies and my soul, A war ofattrition playing out each day. It claims its victories in flesh and bone, Ingraying temples, strength that slips away.

But in this uneven contest, strange to tell, I finda truth that glimmers like a blade: Though Time will win the final reckoning,'Tis how we fight that makes us unafraid.

For Time can count its trophies all it wants— Thesuppleness of youth, the carefree stride— Yet cannot touch the fire that burnswithin, The heart's defiance, stubborn, dignified.

So let Time come with all its silent force, I standunbowed, though battle-scarred and worn. Each day I rise to face its vastarray, Each night I rest, prepared for war at dawn.

And in the end, when Time makes final claim, Whenbreath departs and silence claims its due, Remember this—I fought with all Ihad, And lived each moment fierce, and burning true.

 

Not all poems need to be solemn.
This one surprised me—like finding wildflowers growing in a ruin.
Sometimes we resist despair by laughing. Or by remembering beauty.

Herc

Giants aren't supposed to dance but nobody told thisto Herc.

massive shire horse, eighteen hands high

hooves like dinner plates

mane flowing like a midnight waterfall

built for plowing fields and pulling carts

but secretly dreaming of ballet

 

watch him now, dew still on the grass

 his enormousbody suddenly weightless

defying physics with glee

“Look at me!” he seems to say—

as he prances sideways

neck arched

 tail flaggedhigh

like a victory banner

 sheer delightin all that horseflesh

the way his eyes bug out when he spots a butterfly

 theground-shaking buck and twist at the sight of a plastic bag

(ridiculous on a beast so grand)

his whinny like rusty gates opening into sunshine

he gallops circles 'round his field

 each lapfaster than the last

 legs liketree trunks somehow suddenly graceful as gazelles

 only to stop,snort, paw the earth

 then collapsein a rolling frenzy

 fourdinner-plate hooves waving skyward

 coating hisnoble bulk in pasture confetti

oh to love your body that completely!

the farm dog barks

 the chickensscatter

 the farmer'schildren double over in helpless giggles

 as Herc

the gentle giant

celebrates the miracle of being alive

in his paddock cathedral he preaches joy withoutwords

converts everyone to laughter

teaches us the ridiculous wisdom of half-toncreatures

who forget they're supposed to be dignified

thundering happiness that rattles the barn walls

 and shakesloose whatever seriousness

we foolishly cling to

 

Welive in a world that’s increasingly hostile to slowness.
Everything is optimized. Quantified. Filtered for speed and scale.

Ourdays are measured in clicks and scrolls,
our attention sliced thin by algorithms designed not to nourish, but toconsume.

Poetryclashes with this.
It resists the metrics.
It refuses to be flattened into content or converted into data.

Poetrylingers.
It’s inconvenient.
It sits with us in the aftermath—after the feed goes dark,
after the meeting ends,
after the noise dies down.

Itsays: Here. Feel this.
Even if you don’t understand it.
Even if it hurts.

Poetrydoesn't chase virality.
It doesn't trend.
But it remains.
Like a breath held in the chest.
Like the echo of something you didn’t know you needed to hear.

Andin a world obsessed with momentum,
that stillness?
That presence?
Is an act of quiet defiance.

Thankyou for listening today. For making space for stillness.
For trusting the quiet to mean something.

Ifany of these poems spoke to you, I hope you’ll carry them for a while. Let themsettle. Let them echo.

Youcan find more of my poetry in Fragments of Frost and Fire,on my blog, or tucked between the lines of my stories.
And if you'd like to support this work, my books are available wherever booksare sold. Every purchase helps keep this podcast—and this quiet space—alive.

Untilnext time: May your signal find the stones that remember.

 

My Sunday morning thoughts...

 “Sanctuaries”

They riselike fortresses of fortune,etched against the skyline—stone, steel, glassstacked in shimmering layers,palaces built to outlast time itself.

Their gates never creak.They glide openonly for those whose namescarry weightlike currency.

Inside,the air hums low with comfort—climate tuned precisely,floors that shine like mirrors,chandeliers spun from light itself,hallways vast as canyonslined with gold-leafed wordsabout generosity.

They dine on imported delicacies,aged wines,discussing strategies for change,how best to guidethe unruly world beyond their walls.

Through rose-colored windowsthey gaze out,seeing onlywhat flatters them back—poverty as a puzzleto be solvedfrom afar,desperation as distant noise,a problem of policy,never proximity.

They craft rulesfor those outside—codes, decrees, restrictions—shaping streetsthey’ve never walked,drafting lawswith hands that have never toucheda callus or cold door handle.

And all the while,these vast halls sit hollowfor days,sometimes weeks—silent but spotless,waiting for the next grand gatheringwhile their keepers sleepunder other roofs,far from here.

Meanwhile,beneath their shadowed hedgerowsand beside their gilded bins,others seek refuge—pressed against cold stone walls,curled on concrete walksstill warm from the day’s sunor slick with freezing rain.

They nest in cornerswhere the wind cuts less sharply,praying for shelterfrom the burn of July,the bite of January,while above themempty towers of lightstand guardover nothing but themselves.

And when whispers arise,they saythey give so much already.They pledge fortunes—but only to causesthat circle backto them.

They’ve masteredthe old art of protection:loopholed and exempt,they owe nothingto the common cause,for all their wealth,they say,is already spoken for—claimed by their missionto servethe “greater good.”

And it isn’t until you noticethe spires—the subtle curve of arches,the cross-like shapeswoven in the iron gates—that you realize:

You weren’t lookingat the homes of billionaires.These are the sanctuarieswhere the poor are taughtto bowbefore opulenceand call itsalvation.

Afterword

This poem was sparked by a post I saw on Threads by @muhoro_wa_mwenja, showing the image of an extravagant church towering over a crumbling neighborhood. The words that accompanied it struck like a bell:

"People have been brainwashed to worship while they starve. To tithe while children suffer. To build altars while classrooms rot."

That sentiment echoed something I’ve seen unfold again and again, in places like the U.S. and Canada, and around the world, where churches gleam like palaces in neighborhoods where poverty clings to every doorstep.

I wanted this poem to blur the lines at first—to make readers think we were looking at mansions or corporate towers, the usual emblems of unchecked wealth. But the twist is that this isn't about CEOs or tech billionaires. It's about those who preach charity while amassing fortunes, whose sanctuaries stand empty while the streets outside overflow with need.

This isn’t a condemnation of faith itself. It’s a confrontation with the ways power can hide behind piety—how easily we can be led to worship wealth disguised as virtue.

Sometimes, it isn’t the devil who wears the finest robes.

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Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.

— Lawrence Nault

 I wrote this piece as a world-building exercise for a work-in-progress—a speculative fiction project in which an outside intelligence studies Earth from afar, categorizing the planet’s political systems during its age of crisis.

What began as a fictional exercise quickly took on a sharper edge. It was supposed to be a background document for myself, a tool to help shape the political backdrop of the story I’m building. But as I wrote, it became impossible to ignore how closely this fictional taxonomy mirrors the present-day world.

We still hear terms like “First World” and “Third World”—phrases rooted in Cold War alliances and economic shorthand—but those categories no longer describe the world we live in. Democratic erosion, climate collapse, plutocracy, expansionism, and systemic violence have reshaped the global order. The old labels simply don’t fit anymore.

This piece is still technically fiction—but I’m sharing it here because it feels increasingly difficult to call it that.

Photo by Ylanite Koppens: https://www.pexels.com/photo/beige-an...

The Stratification of Sol-3 Polities: A Behavioral Taxonomy of the Earth Crisis Epoch

By: Arthek Sen-Jural, Department of Interstellar Societal Systems, Zhen’Kharian Institute for Advanced Civilization Studies
Thesis Project (Cycle 90421-Beta)

Abstract

In this study, I present an external taxonomy of the dominant polities of Sol-3 ("Earth") at the onset of its planetary destabilization epoch, referred to locally as the "climate crisis" or "late-stage capitalism." Conventional terrestrial classification systems—such as the antiquated First/Second/Third World triad—are no longer relevant to the planet’s current geopolitical landscape. These categories, relics of mid-20th-century conflict alignments, obscure more than they reveal, particularly in an era marked by the dissolution of alliances, democratic decay, and planetary system breakdown.

Herein, I propose a Behavioral Taxonomy of Political Polities on Earth, designed for accurate cross-civilizational analysis. This system categorizes planetary factions based on observable governance behavior, external aggression, resource control, and structural integrity—not economic abstraction or historic allegiance.

Introduction: Failure of Classical Terran Models

Previous Terran frameworks classified states through a myopic lens: alignment with specific Cold War-era power blocs or arbitrary economic markers such as “gross domestic product.” This flattened vast cultural, ecological, and social complexity into mere gradients of wealth or militarization.

Moreover, Terran models typically fail to account for non-linear societal collapse, whereby former “developed” polities devolve into autocratic regimes, or resource-rich polities enact genocidal campaigns under nationalist or theocratic banners.

A new model was necessary—one focused on behavioral outputs and planetary impact.

The New Stratification Model: Behavior-Based Political TaxonomyZero World — Collapse Core (Rogue Plutocracies)

Definition: Once-dominant imperial states undergoing democratic implosion, their internal functions hollowed out by plutocratic seizure of governance mechanisms.

Key Traits:

Democratic erosion via wealth concentration.

Abandonment of global alliances and cooperative norms.

Militarized posturing toward both internal dissent and external entities.

Erratic, expansionist threats masked by nationalist rhetoric.

Primary Example: The United States of America (Terran Designation: “USA”), presently undergoing rapid democratic decay fueled by concentrated capital interests. Behaves as a rogue empire, detached from prior alliance networks.

Fourth World — Neo-Imperium (Genocidal Expansionist States)

Definition: Active settler-colonial, apartheid, or ethnostate regimes engaging in regional expansionism or ethnic cleansing campaigns while cloaked in nationalist, religious, or “security” rhetoric.

Key Traits:

Systematic ethnic cleansing or genocidal violence.

Expansionist territorial ambitions, often in defiance of planetary law.

Theocratic or ethnonationalist state ideologies.

Weaponization of civilian populations as shields or settlers.

Primary Examples:

State of Israel: Active territorial annexation and ethnic cleansing campaigns.

Russian Federation: Neo-imperial invasionist policies under autocratic rule.

First World — Post-Liberal Bloc (Liberal Residual Polities)

Definition: Remnant states maintaining procedural democracies, albeit with rising internal pressures from reactionary movements. Retain outward commitments to international law, multilateralism, and ecological protocols.

Key Traits:

Mixed economies with nominal electoral systems.

Gradual liberal erosion, but maintenance of civil institutions.

Reluctant but persistent participation in planetary treaties.

Internal tensions between democratic pluralism and rising far-right factions.

Primary Examples:
European Union States, Japan, Canada, New Zealand, Nordics.

Second World — Authoritarian Stability Bloc

Definition: Non-expansionist authoritarian states focused on regional consolidation, resource control, and regime stability through suppression of dissent.

Key Traits:

Controlled economies under autocratic rule.

Strategic foreign alignments for resource access.

Harsh domestic repression but minimal external expansion.

Reluctant international engagement, often transactional.

Primary Examples:
Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Turkey, Central Asian Republics.

Third World — Peripheral Exploitation Zone

Definition: Historically colonized or resource-extracted states, often in ecological precarity, governed by unstable or externally influenced regimes.

Key Traits:

Environmental and economic vulnerability.

Frequent foreign interventions and regime instability.

Structural debts to wealthier blocs.

Emerging sites of climate migration, displacement, and famine.

Primary Examples:
Sub-Saharan Africa, portions of Southeast Asia, Latin America.

Fifth World — Liberation Zones & Non-Aligned Futurists

Definition: Small-scale polities, Indigenous-led networks, or experimental governance zones developing post-nationalist, decentralized models of ecological stewardship and self-determination.

Key Traits:

Autonomous zones with ecological or cooperative economic models.

Prioritize de-growth, land back movements, and collective sovereignty.

Minimal military engagement; often ignored by major blocs.

High ideological significance despite limited material power.

Primary Examples:
Zapatista Territories, Sámi Parliaments, Caribbean Eco-Microstates, isolated autonomous communes.

Implications and Prognosis

This taxonomy suggests Earth’s crisis epoch is defined not by wealth, but by behavioral divergence—between those pursuing aggressive domination, those collapsing inward, and those forging survivalist alternatives.

Of particular concern is the emergence of Zero World and Fourth World polities as planetary destabilizers. Their actions accelerate ecosystem collapse and increase the likelihood of inter-bloc conflict, while simultaneously suppressing nascent Fifth World networks attempting to chart survivable futures.

The possibility of planetary self-termination is nontrivial. However, the existence of Fifth World movements provides a narrow vector for resilience, albeit largely ignored by dominant factions.

Closing Notes

The systems of Sol-3 remain volatile, with multiple potential end-trajectories. For future scholars, this taxonomy may assist in tracking the rapid realignments characteristic of this epoch.

Though bleak, it is not without precedent in interstellar anthropology. Whether Sol-3 emerges as a reconstructed ecological civilization or extinguishes itself under the weight of its Zero and Fourth World blocs remains to be observed.

Filed for review under Planetary Systems, Catastrophe Studies Division.
Arthek Sen-Jural, Thesis Cycle 90421-Beta.

My Closing Notes:

The world I’m building in fiction isn’t a mirror of ours—but the fractures I explore in this taxonomy aren’t theoretical either. As I continue to write, I find myself asking: What happens when the fictional labels we invent to understand other worlds apply just as easily to our own?

If you have thoughts on this piece—or where you see your own country within it—I’d welcome respectful discussion in the comments.

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Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.

There are some truths too quiet to say out loud. They live beneath the surface, dressed in competence and success, hidden behind the applause, the promotions, the practiced smile. This poem speaks to one of those truths—the relentless, invisible weight of never feeling good enough. Not because of failure, but in spite of achievement.

It's written without the word I, but make no mistake—it’s personal. For anyone who’s ever worn the shape the world asked for and still felt like an imposter beneath it, Chameleon Skin is for you.

Chameleon Skin

Not for lack of effort,nor talent braided into bone.The hands did what was asked.The voice bent in every key.

Smiles were painted precise.Mirrors practiced them well.In boardrooms, applause.At home, a quiet too vast for words.

Always the first in,last to leave.Deadlines dissolvedunder fingertips worn thin.Still—not enough.

A name on plaques,a corner office view,the slow nod of respectthat never pierced the shell.Each rung climbedjust another ledgeto stare downthe same hollow truth.

Set the bar—then soared.Raised it higher—soared again.Each victorya glass that shatteredbefore it reached the lips.The goal was never the goal,only a shieldagainst the acheof not being enough.

Love, when it came,was held like breath underwater—too careful,too long.Gifts misunderstood,laughter echoing off wallsnever meant to hold joy.

Even the good days—and there were good days—never settled into the chest.Like trying to hold warmthin a sieve.

Not for lack of trying.Not for lack of wanting.Only that the skinwas always borrowed.Camouflage stitchedfrom expectation,survival,fear.

A shape that fit in every room,yet never felt like home.

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It was only yesterday that I discovered a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope, and I had to put that in a poem. So I started thinking about all the beautiful, strange, and poetic names we give to gatherings of animals—murders, parliaments, flamboyances—and how each one carries a kind of quiet unity. This poem is what came out of that wondering, and maybe a little loneliness too. 

The Ones Who Gather

A kaleidoscope of butterflies,turning air into stained glass,wings brushing wings in a hush of color—they move as one,a prayer held aloft by sunlight.

A murder of crowscircles the edge of dusk,black-threaded thoughtssewn into the hem of sky.Even in omen, they arrive together.

A parliament of owlssits in the cathedral of trees,silent but listening,wisdom not as one voicebut many held in counsel.

A pod of dolphins—spindrift and shimmer,laughing through salt and wave,mapping the worldwith echoes answered.

A mischief of ratsin the alley’s forgotten script,bold in the shadows,writing survivalin footprints no one follows.

A flamboyance of flamingosleans into the marsh light,all awkward elegancemade holy in the mirror of water—not alone, never alone.

But I—no murmuration to move with,no swarm to hum beside,no tangle of fur or feather or finto fold myself into.

Just the echo of a questionunasked by the herd,unheard by the pack,and unansweredby the sky.

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2. Your support means I don't have to chase viral trends. Instead of engineering clickbait or jumping on every passing bandwagon, I can focus on creating thoughtful content that genuinely adds value to your life.

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I understand not everyone is in a position to contribute, but if you found any value in this post you can

For the price of a coffee, you'll enable me to invest more time in creating in-depth, creative journal posts and episodes of the Stone & Signal podcast. If you'd like to contribute more, consider purchasing one of my e-books (priced at roughly two cups of coffee) – a way to support my work while gaining additional value for yourself.

Thank you for considering. Your support makes all the difference.