You are a collection of impeccable, elaborate masks, in orbit of a stunted heart; it rattles inside your chest like a dried pea in an empty tin can. I knock on your ribs and nobody answers; it is just a hollow room with the lights left on to trick the neighbours.
There I am, bloody determined to join the enlightened masses, downloading this meditation app like some convert at the altar of digital wellness. Pastel animations of serene bastards floating through manufactured tranquility. Yes, I'm gonna be a guru!
Embrace the monster I've become at this altitude, where oxygen deprivation meets social claustrophobia and creates something beautiful and terrible and completely unhinged. Monster.
Real change is not a morning routine or a mindset hack, it is controlled demolition. Self-shock is the choice to destroy the parts that keep you safe and small, so a truer self can form. Do not wait for crisis, become the author of your own rupture and rebirth.
Smart people love quoting, with a smug smile, “The best argument against democracy is a five minute conversation with the average voter.” They always claim Churchill said it, as if dropping profound wisdom. Try reading it in a British accent, it hits harder.
Uniformity is a mask for fear. Across a world flirting with tyranny, truth is drowned and obedience sold as strength. I argue the opposite. Diversity, disagreement and the courage to think are not our weakness, they are the only path to survival and renewal.
There's something profoundly fucked about the way we've sanitised death through technology, transformed it into something manageable, scrollable, likeable.
She haunts the frequencies now, compressed into pixels that bear no resemblance to her weight against my ribs. One thousand miles collapse into glass, yet expand infinite when I press my palm to the screen at three am, willing warmth from cold circuitry.
There is something deeply, stubbornly human about the need to believe. Not necessarily in truth or proof, but in comfort. Religion, in that sense, is less about God and more about us.
This is a true story. Or true enough, which is all truth ever manages to be. I watched it unfold like a slow-motion car crash filmed through vaseline, beautiful and grotesque in equal measure
You're a masterpiece sculpted by cosmic sarcasm, blessed by existence's eternal practical joke, crowned victor in a competition nobody understood whilst everyone else drowned in biological obscurity.
Survival is not his aim. He wishes dispersion, atomisation, the kind of ending that leaves nothing for mourners to gather around.