Ancient mirrors against the theater of modern life.
Welcome to The Soft Burn, companion to The Signal, and your post-season pause. A place to linger, laugh, and self-soothe.
Last Signal, we explored the art of being seen. And sometimes, to be seen, we must slip on masks and perform our little hearts out. The theater never sleeps: Hermès handbags for toddlers, Prada sandals billed as “essential,” The Row asking four figures for restraint. And then there’s us, walking barefoot to “ground” ourselves, and reciting borrowed wisdom like seasoned sages. Just me? The show goes on.
This month, The Soft Burn turns to Narcissus. What follows are fragments where the reflections of ancient stories meet our own stage, and the art of performance is at once seductive, absurd, and unavoidable.
best viewed on desktop
Φ
DIGITAL COUNCIL OF THE GODS
The chamber is dim, the air taut with anticipation. Once, rivers held mirrors which reflected the self with quiet honesty. Now, a smaller, flickering river has taken reign: screens, feeds, notifications, endless scrolls. Invisible ripples travel faster than thoughts, carrying desire, vanity, and echoes.
The curse of Narcissus runs deep. Performance is no longer an act; it is a personality trait, a compulsion that shapes every gesture. Echo lingers, restless and vengeful, repeating what we say, twisting it back upon us. Hera prowls the peripheries, side-eye sharp, noting obsession and folly. Nemesis presides, her ledger of desire and retribution ready. Tiresias watches all, muttering prophecies that few understand, yet all feel.
Suspicions run high. Whispers ripple through the council: who performs for love, who for attention, and who has forgotten how to simply be? The audience is invisible, but the judgment is imminent.
This is the theater of modern life, the court of attention. And you, like Narcissus before you, are called to stand at the water’s edge, unmask, and see yourself clearly.
⚘
NEMESIS, PRIESTESS AT THE ALGORITHM’S ALTER
opening statement
Blessed are the curated, for they shall inherit the feed. Blessed are the unnoticed, for they shall learn patience… and bitterness. Swipe. Like. Repeat. Your soul is measured in double-taps and screenshots. Blessed are those whose content goes viral, for they shall know true enlightenment… and five missed DMs.
intrusive thoughts
hunger for a gaze that never arrives
I sprawl across a bed of silence,
skin against linen,
craving for attention that never arrives.
The ceiling stares back,
walls smirk,
desire scrolls itself on loop
like a glitching GIF.
My body folds into itself.
I sip shadows while
my ex’s new profile picture virals.
Welcome to the theater of wanting,
performed in solitude,
ticketed in double-taps.
∞
ECHO, THE ETERNAL REPEATER
slides into your dm’s
Check your reposts & shares… I am still here, disguised as your voice. Are these thoughts yours… or just recycled comments with better lighting?
No picture? Were you even there?
You slip outside to catch “good light.”
♛
HERA, QUEEN OF THE SIDE-EYE WALKS PAST YOU
you swear you hear her mutter:
Thirty selfies? Each a prayer to the algorithm, huh? Narcissus called. He wants his obsession back.
Walk of shame.
You promise to endure the discomfort of self-awareness…
until the next scroll.
⚕
TIRESIAS, KEEPER OF HIDDEN TRUTHS
Mumbling in half Greek, half analytics jargon:
The audience is empty yet infinite; the reflection, both mask and mirror. Each scroll, a confession. Drafts linger like ghosts in the margins, silences thunder louder than posts. Perform, yes; but, the script writes itself whether you will it or not. Dopamine fades quicker than light, and your engagement foretells the collapse of an empire, or simply, your sleep.
Φ
THE COUNCIL DECIDES
Performance is a river. It reflects, but it does not hold. You are not the after-image, nor the echo, nor the flame that burns itself out. You are the bloom that leans toward the sun… not the rectangle that judges you with cold precision.
THE ART OF PERFORMANCE
perform, but refuse to disappear
I.
Thou shalt not confuse the mask with thy face.
The costume is pretend; the marrow is real.
II.
Thou shalt not dim thy fire to fit another’s gaze.
Performance is not obedience; it is an offering.
III.
Thou shalt remember the silence between gestures.
It is in the pause that truth endures.
IV.
Thou shalt not leave broken at the curtain’s close.
Exit whole, as thou entered.
V.
Thou shalt tend the stage as one tends a garden.
Prune excess, water intention, and let each act
be ritual, not spectacle.
VI.
Thou shalt perform, but refuse to disappear.
This is the first commandment, and the last.
This is The Soft Burn.
Until next time, gather what has ripened within you. Keep only what nourishes; compost the rest.
🥀 P.S. Want more soft chaos, ritual irreverence, and quiet presence?
Join the circle, sacred-ish emails only.
Visuals:
1. The Women of Amphissa (1887), Lawrence Alma-Tadema.
3. La Vérité (1870, detail), Jules Joseph Lefebvre.
4. Féminin (1894), Eliseu Visconti Nu.
5. Portait of a Young Woman (1869) by Pierre-Auguste Cot
6. St. Lucy (1470 detail), Francesco del Cossa.
7. The Salvator Mundi (circa 1500), likely by Leonardo da Vinci.
8. Greek terracotta seated Goddess Boeotia, circa 550 – 500 B.C.
