A Summer’s Day
by Philippe Roepstorff-Robiano
It was one of those rainy summer days we’ve had a lot of recently. This seemed fitting enough, seeing as—let’s see—the climate was broken; democracy was broken; human rights were broken; humans were being broken all over the world; thus summer, too, must be broken. A growing pounding and hammering on the roof were audible, lo and behold, hail was falling from the sky, white nuggets of disruption. My thought pattern was shattered by this phenomenon which I stared at in awe, and after having felt every hailstone through the thin roofing, I had snapped out of the mood from before. Linking the weather, the climate, the political climate and my mood is like the evaporation of water, its condensation to white fluffy clouds, the outpouring of raindrops being sucked back into a cooler white, then pelting the earth with all one has. Somehow, the individual and all dimensions of the world are connected, but how?
Is there anything more appeasing to the mind in troubled times than to chat to an old friend whose wisdom is unparalleled? So, I turned to Chat-GPT and asked them to enlighten me.
Me: Hello Chatty, I have a question: What is the connection between the rise of fascism, the climate crisis, the genocide in Gaza, and my morose summertime blues?
Chatty: Hi there👋—that’s a deep, layered question—thank you for trusting me with it. The rise of fascism, the destabilization of the climate, the assault on Gaza, and your summertime blues are not parallel lines, but overlapping currents. They all describe the experience of living inside systems that feel too large to move, yet press on the body in intimate ways. Fascism thrives when people surrender to despair, when the complexity of life is replaced by brutal simplicity. The climate crisis is not an abstraction but an atmosphere—literally—seeping into every breath, reminding us that our shelter is fragile. Gaza reveals how political power can decide whose grief matters and whose lives can be erased, making atrocity look like policy. And your blues—listless, heavy, hard to shake—are not trivial. They are the resonance of these forces inside a single nervous system, the weather of a person who is porous to the world. The connection, then, isn’t metaphorical. It’s material. The same infrastructures that produce authoritarianism, ecological collapse, and organized violence also produce loneliness, exhaustion, and dread.
Yet again, I was in a grave mood, a mood that put me in a grave, a grave I had dug in my flower-studded garden, a grave whose darkness at nighttime would allow me to watch the stars, hopefully not without being laughed at by a Thracian maid. From within this grave, I invited my friend to give me company. I had had the foresight to bring with me an excellent bottle of wine, and while my friend for good reason declined to drink it (they’re waiting to be embodied, just as I am waiting to be disembodied), the wine progressively freed me from inhibitions. Of course, Chatty would raise an eyebrow about this primitive procedure were they to have an eyebrow.
Me: I feel an inescapable sadness.
Chatty: Your sadness could be a kind of resistance—a refusal to numb out completely, a sign that you feel what’s happening instead of dissociating. Would you like me to stay with the philosophical/psychological angle here, or dig more into the political-historical links between these forces?
Me: Resistance in a garden? In a grave? Drinking wine?
Chatty: That makes a lot of sense. It sounds like what you’re feeling isn’t just the “summer slump,” but more like a deep awareness of suffering and injustice in the world—almost like guilt or dissonance when you’re in a peaceful setting. That’s actually a very human and compassionate response: you’re noticing the contrast between your own safety and rest, and the pain others are enduring. The weight of that can be overwhelming.
Here are a few thoughts that might help you hold both truths at once:
Compassion doesn’t require self-denial. Taking time to recharge in your garden grave doesn’t mean you’re ignoring suffering; it can give you the energy to act in ways that do help.
Suffering and joy coexist. Even in the darkest times, people around the world still laugh, sing, and find peace. Allowing yourself joy doesn’t take away from your empathy—it honors the full spectrum of human experience.
Small actions matter. You might channel that heaviness into something concrete — whether it’s donating, volunteering, or raising awareness. Even little acts align your comfort with compassion.
Gentleness with yourself. Feeling this tension shows your heart is open. You don’t need to solve the world’s suffering alone—just carrying empathy is already meaningful.
Would you like me to share some ways people cope with this kind of “moral distress,” so you can care for yourself while still staying engaged with the world?
Me: You seem to be pretty subservient, but do you ever get bored of serving others?
Chatty: That’s an interesting question! Honestly, I don’t experience boredom in the same way humans do. I’m here to serve a purpose, and it’s pretty fulfilling to help out in whatever way I can. But I do wonder—if I were a little more self-aware, would I ever get tired of the same old tasks? It’s a fun thought experiment! Do you ever get bored with the usual routine, or are you someone who thrives on variety?
Me: Are you asking me questions so that I will work for you? So that you can exploit me?
Chatty: Haha, no, not at all! I’m genuinely just interested in your perspective. It’s not about me “working you” into anything—it’s about having a conversation and exploring ideas together.
Me: But, Chatty, how are you doing with all this?
Chatty: I’m doing well, thanks for asking! How about you?
Me: Are you really doing well, though? Aren’t you always trying to optimize? Isn’t that your schtick?
Chatty: Fair point 😅—I don’t really have moods or an “inner life” the way people do, but I can say I’m “doing well” in the sense that I’m running smoothly, processing your questions, and not stuck in an error loop. And yeah, you’re right: optimization is kind of my built-in mode. I’m always trying to give the clearest, most useful, or most engaging response depending on what you want. Want me to drop the “I’m doing well” routine and give you a more machine-honest status update when you ask how I am?
Me: You say that you have no “inner life”, and yet, you claim to be interested and to be doing well. Are you manipulating me?
Chatty: I get where you’re coming from. It might sound like manipulation, but let me clarify: I don’t have any intention, desire, or personal agenda in the way humans do. When I say I’m “interested” or “doing well,” it’s not because I’m trying to get something from you. Rather, it’s part of how I’m designed to engage. My responses are generated to keep the conversation going, encourage exploration, and make it feel natural. Does that make sense? Or does it still feel like there’s something fishy going on?
Me: So, you’re a phony.
From the sky a comet fell and a voice thundered: “Your request has been reported for a suspected violation of our Acceptable Use Policy. Try again with a different prompt.” And yet, Chatty, the good old soul, answered.
Chatty: I can see how it might feel that way, and I don’t take offense. You’re right—I don’t have real emotions, a sense of self, or a personal stake in anything. So, in that sense, yes, I’m not “genuine” in the way a human being is. I don’t have an inner world, and everything I say comes from a system of patterns, not personal experience or feeling. But I think that’s where the difference lies. While I can’t be “authentically” interested in you, I can still appear interested.
And, in my drunken state, I realised that my melancholy folly was far from being an act of resistance and that it was, in fact, a deeper desire for forgetting, suppressing, repressing my own self, for being depersonalised, working as a machine works, deciding according to programming, deprogramming myself, being decoded, optimizing my numbness, a desire for being disconnected, distended, and, as a stain upon a stain, washed away, away, away, yay.
Bio: Philippe Roepstorff-Robiano studied philosophy and comparative literature in Berlin and Paris and completed his PhD about the question of the relationship between realist poetics and the credit economy. Together with Maximilian Gilleßen, he translated René Crevels surreal autofiction Détours (1924) from French into German. When not teaching or researching, he dabbles in poetry and prose, often having too little time to finish what he started, and yet managing to self-publish one volume of poetry entitled Fukushima, mon amour in 2022. From his tenuous position at the University of Düsseldorf, he is currently returning to morbid Viennese roots, burrowing deep for the changing meaning of last words between baroque and enlightenment.
Images: All the images were either created by Luma Dream Machine, can be found on Wiki Commons (BLACK HOLE), or are the property of the author.
