The world outside my window is not a community; it is a gladiator pit where everyone is fighting to the death with plastic spoons. We are a toxic species. We are a mistake of evolution that learned to wear shoes.
I look at the human race and I see a cancer that thinks it is a cure. We are going to be extinct soon. Not because of the climate melting or the bombs dropping. Those are just symptoms. We will die out because we cannot stop looking at each other's plates. We are starving whilst counting the crumbs on the table next to us. It is a sickness. It is a fever in the blood.
Competition is the poison we drink whilst toasting to our health. We are taught to climb over the bodies of our friends to reach a summit that does not exist. It is mental. It is absolutely fucking mental. We should be holding hands. We should be forming a chain of flesh and bone to lift each other out of the mud. But we don't. We kick the face of the man below us just to feel the sole of our boot connect with something solid.
There is science behind this madness. Hard numbers. If I get rich then my neighbour goes bankrupt. It is a law of physics in this suburbia. I buy a shiny car and they feel the bile rise in their throat. They cannot help it. They sees my gold and they spends money they don't have. They buy the bigger television. They buy the faster engine. They buy the silicone tits for their wives just to match the aesthetic of my life. They bankrupt their soul trying to be better than me.
It is pathetic. It is distinctively human. It is a race to the bottom of a grave lined with velvet.
So I have a strategy. A dark little game I play in the shadows.
I starve the motherfucker.
I see this sick environment where the only drive is to be superior and I turn off my lights. I become a void. I become a black hole of mediocrity. I give my neighbour absolutely nothing to chew on. I wear the greyest rags I can find. I drive a rust bucket that sounds like a dying lung, a trumpet playing farts. I walk with my head down. I keep my mouth shut.
I level up to fucking nothing.
It is an act of twisted mercy. By being nothing I save them from themselves. I save them from the debt and the ulcers and the sleepless nights wondering how to beat me. If I am a loser then they can relax. They can breathe. They do not need to compete with a ghost.
But the good stuff? The gold? The raw and wet passion? I keep that hidden. I hide my diamonds in the lining of my stomach. I save my best for the ones who deserve it. I give my intimacy only to those who know how to touch me without scratching. The ones who want to grow rather than conquer.
The rest get the silence. They get the fog. They get the bland taste of cardboard. It is my gift to the world. I accelerate our extinction by refusing to play the game. I am edging the apocalypse. Holding it back just for me. And maybe for you. But mostly for me.