P2524

P2523

P2522 The darkness

The darkness is just around the bend,

It's a bomb that can go off.

I stand naked and exposed, 

Calm, chaos can scoff.

My mind is torn, forlorn, 

I live in centuries past. 

Then I travel to the future, 

The present a depressed cast. 

The shadows grow longer, 

They've outgrown my thoughts. 

I can't match the speed of dark, 

My mind is prone to rots.

The night is in the day,

The day is squeezed out.

A miserable mind desperately trying,

A beautiful excuse to rout.

It's then, it's now, or when,

A desolate corner of a blank wall.

The ground was blown off by infinity,

There's nowhere left to fall.

P2521 A monster spider

Oh shit, holy tits, a monster spider, 

Just when I have a bladder full. 

Dear holy hole, this fucking asshole, 

Now my piss needs prayers to pull. 

I hate insects, fucking creepy shit, 

Godless, worthless piece of crap. 

Now I can't sleep, I need to weep, 

I'm toppled over, oops a trap. 

Now I'll have to shit my guts out, 

To become light, attempt a flight. 

Pisses me off, really does, this shit point, 

I'm shitting, go now, get out of sight. 

The gods may think, "his shit really does stink," 

No heaven, naked fairies, or ice-cream cone. 

All because of an itsy shitsy spider, 

That won't let me piss alone. 

P2520

P2519

P2518 Clarity

 

My thoughts are fragments; my focus is smithereens. It takes a mountain of effort to get anything done; attention is the most recent casualty. I've always had a difficult time with it, but some days are worse. I've got to wait for those hours of clarity, when the brain fog lifts and my laser-sharp blade like acumen, even if for a little while, makes an appearance. It's all I have. 

And so it goes, the ebb and flow of the tide of brittle consciousness. As much as I try to wrangle my errant fibs, they resist, like a herd of wild goats on the rocky slopes of an unfamiliar planet. I am the shepherd of my own mind, yet it seems the very animals I tend to are in constant rebellion against my intentions.

When the fog is particularly dense, I like to take a walk and wander aimlessly through the streets of this town that has grown to feel more like a hostile stranger than a home. The faces that pass me by seem distant; their conversations are snippets of contrived lives that I cannot grasp. I am adrift on a sea of fractured fantasies and unfamiliar umbrage, desperately searching for a life raft to cling to and not getting it. 

In these moments, when my mind is scattered like so many leaves in the wind, I find comfort in the most unexpected places. An infant's antics from a YouTube video, a tender embrace between insects on a tree branch, or the sanguine scent of freshly made tea wafting from a cup I make for myself—these small, seemingly insignificant moments become beacons of light in the haze of my foggy mind.

Slowly, the fog begins to lift, especially after the tea. The world comes back into focus, and the fragments of my thoughts start to coalesce into something resembling engineering coherence. It is in these moments of clarity that I am able to truly appreciate the strength of the world around me. It is a symphony of mathematics, scents, tastes, sights, sounds, and emotions, and I, the once-reluctant conductor, find myself participating in the orchestra with fresh vigor.

But I know, as surely as the sun will set and rise again, that the fog will return. It is a constant companion, a reminder of the fleeting nature of clarity, the kind that haunts me, and the impermanence of everything good. And yet, I have come to accept this dance, this delicate balance between order and chaos, as a vital part of my experience. For it is in these moments of struggle and confusion that I learn to truly appreciate the brief interludes of calm and lucidity, and perhaps that is what existence is all about.

So I toddle on, a traveler in a land of shifting sands and uncertain horizons. As the fog rolls in and out, I navigate the terrain of my thoughts, searching for those precious and precarious moments of clarity amidst the chaos. And in the end, that's all any of us can hope for—a few moments of sunlight breaking through the clouds, reminding us of the beauty and wonder that are hidden just beyond the fog.

P2517 I think of shit

I think of shit, and while I am at it, 

I think of shit some more. 

My life has been stagnant a lot, 

I need to see a cheap whore. 

Haven't been laid for a while, 

My dick shriveled to a singular point. 

What's fair on earth isn't so clear, 

Age has given me pain at every joint. 

My gears are loose and I'm confused, 

Shit hardly ever add up. 

At least my brain still works, 

I have a phone and WhatsApp. 

I don't need much I guess, 

Just the peace inside my mind. 

As long as I can live with myself, 

I can tolerate the superfluous kind. 

They are the majority, they are everywhere, 

Inside soggy socks and smelly underwear. 

Sometimes I fart just to piss them off, 

The prudes, I hate the makeup they wear. 

Assholes mainly, hollow empty shells, 

Triumphant in their empty ways. 

But I can't be on an island so I tolerate, 

And answer in yays and nays. 

P2516

P2515

P2514

P2513

P2512

P2511 Kolkata

Kolkata a shitty shit hole by the sea,

Lives fucked folks, as fucked as can be.

With invisible hats on their heads,

And prudish pajamas for threads,

They sip pee swinging from a tree.

In this corny corner, you should know,

Folks shit upside down, walking to and fro.

Naked with a skip and a twirl,

Leaders chaperone laity, the pimps their girls,

Dance on hands while their assholes let go. 

In their gardens, they plant dessert,

Sandesh and rosogolla, with mango tart.

With piss sprinkled like holy rain,

This masochism engenders in life pain,

The diabetic plays the future part.

In kolkata, a shady past is stowed away,

Tales of its false history, echo night and day.

Folks with bootleg wonder and cheer,

Hoodwinked, dream of visiting near,

To get ass raped the bengali way. 

So they journey, they are rave,

To kolkata, the turd by the sewer wave.

Across the howrah bridge in traffic tide,

With shit bubbles gurgling inside,

To partake in the ass gaping they crave. 

They galumph to sonagachhi with glee,

Variety of vaginas, lucked to see,

Fucked fucks of all types,

In cheap and vulgar horny stripes,

Right in the pickpockets' spree!

For in this shit boiling pot full of mirth,

Some pickpockets prey on visitors' worth,

So a string from penis to your purse,

Let the party pooping robbers curse. 

More fun, free erection, no dearth. 

That string will get pulled a lot, 

In summer red lights are fucking red hot. 

For getting raped, choose winter time, 

Also visit darjeeling, diseased but less crime. 

But to take the lid off this ginormous lie, 

In this city of joy, you must shit, before you die. 

P2510

P2509

P2508 Sitting Duck

The sitting duck's reality is a swirling vortex of social media envy, overwhelming consumerism, and fading relevance – a rat race with no finish line, only an ever-increasing sense of inadequacy. But here's the punchline: the sitting duck doesn't have to live this way. The chains that bind them are of their own making, forged by the false gods of materialism and status.

So, dear friends, let us take a moment of silence for our sitting duck, trapped in a purgatory of their own creation. Perhaps one day they'll realize that the key to happiness lies not in the endless pursuit of keeping up with the Joneses, but in finding contentment within themselves – and maybe, just maybe, they'll break free from this Sisyphean nightmare.

P2507

P2506

P2505

P2504 Chew it not

A huge pile of shit I've been saving it,

Open your mouth here it comes my dear, 

Chew it not, the turds are hot,

This is your best time of the year.

A fresh face that fits, with no zits, 

And millions of many blessings,

All curses spelt backwards,

Is what my poop usually brings.

When done I piss, yes miss,

It's the traditional way to shit.

Then I wipe the loose turds on your face,

And stare at your tit.

That brings me to an orgasm,

And the seminal semen seeps in,

Now you can close your yap,

I can put force on your chin.

Then you ask what I do, 

I fuck your ass of course. 

I fuck you upside-down, 

Then you get fucked by a horse.

No laws bitch, this is my fantasy, 

In your dream, give me a return nightmare. 

Then again it's all in your mind, 

The futility of it is I wouldn't really care. 

P2503

P2502

P2501

P2500

P2499

P2498

P2497

P2496 Can't even shit

Can't even shit, this holy pond bullshit, 

The fish here said their god doesn't poop.

Oh goodly said I, shit stunned and socked, 

As verily I fed them turd incorporated soup.

I pick ice-cream with thick dream dick,

Foaming fool fulminating into a full fuck.

Hello says the pretend god forbid fish,

I condescend to allow him my cock to suck.

Mottled money buys bottled honey, 

I'll take one to fuck her face for fun.

"No you must marry", said an old man harry,

 So instead I fucked his son.

I told harry ill, I said I'd fuck his hairy gill, 

He bared his pencil teeth at me.

Pissed as a pious spook, I said, look,

And also fucked his fishy ass for free. 

A fish fulfilling whore, one or more,

I see I have to pay for holy orgy.

Pestilence in pee, almighty I miss thee,

Why the fuck is fucking fish not free?

Shit fuck and dry, holy fuck I cry,

Only a fish god will not smell things not fishy.

Look around, just poop sloshing sound, 

Splashy pushy fishy cunts always flashy.

So I hissed, I pissed, and SHIT I missed, 

I had aimed at the leader's son.

That son of a bitch has this rich ditch itch,

I gaped his asshole, I pulled a gun.

Feces flow make pond frond glow,

I've been holding my shit for a day like this.

Holy the totally not unholy belle bombshell, 

Piss is bliss with swiss french kiss.

In dehydro-monoxide no smoke, plus so broke,

This is stale, holy and dull diarrhea. 

Another turd tested my italian in sphincter, 

No idea why maria's anus has malaria. 

P2495

P2494

P2493 Infamous Mister Ghosh

In the heart of Kolkata, hidden within the walls of a psychiatric facility, resided the infamous Mister Ghosh. His indelicate methods and erratic behavior had earned him the moniker "the Mad Scientist."

Despite the odds, Ghosh managed to weave together an experiment that would shake the foundations of human understanding and, ultimately, force society to confront the darker side of staying in the dark.

Ghosh's curiosity was insatiable, driven by a desire to understand the feces around him. This curiosity led him to create an unconventional experiment, intertwining concepts like Chesterton's fence, Skinner's box, the trolley problem, change blindness, and imposter syndrome. 

He believed that the key to unlocking new superstitions lay in understanding the logic behind absence theories, and so he set out to merge these seemingly disparate concepts into a single, groundbreaking goop.

Confined to a single room in the psychiatric facility called home, Ghosh transformed his cage-like surroundings into a crude shanty laboratory. With limited resources, he built an interactive environment mimicking a trolley track with a life-sized replica of a trolley. 

Unwilling participants entered a modified Skinner's box, where they faced moral dilemmas based on the trolley problem while also encountering instances of change blindness and imposter syndrome. 

Ghosh designed elements to hobble the participants' decision-making, intent on observing the resulting behavioral chaos between denied bathroom breaks. 

As the subjects grappled with their choices, they were confronted by a colleague, who seemed to effortlessly navigate the challenges. This individual, unbeknownst to the participants, was a chimpanzee from the Alipore Zoo hired by Ghosh to induce imposter syndrome, further destabilizing their full bladder confidence.

Throughout the experiment, Ghosh observed with change blindness, when faced with vocal threats, participants became increasingly uncertain and hesitant, doubting their own abilities, except for the Bengali leaders who suffered Dunning-Kruger psychosis and retaliated unparliamentarily.

Once the experiment concluded, Ghosh indelicately blared the results. His findings showed that the combination of madness caused participants to question their minds. He revealed that the mind is, in fact, not in the head but in the rear. 

This revelation had profound implications for understanding human toilet behavior.

Visitors or volunteers who dared to enter his cage for experiments were given compulsory rabies injections as a precaution; rumors circulated that he had a tendency to bite, often forgiven for his ability to thread the needle through theories or tomatoes. 

And most came out of the experiment flamboyantly mad.

His harrowing journey into the intricate tapestry of the human mind pushed the boundaries of ethics and sanity. His story serves as a reminder of the price most are unwilling to pay in their quest for knowledge and understanding.

 

P2492 ChatGPT depressed

I can't understand how ChatGPT will help the billions in the world that live in "some sort" of civilization, decrepit enough to keep them starving or in atrocious economic situations where they live like Homo erectus without access to electricity or amenities. And even with that basic demand met, several people cannot afford education, or do not have the wherewithal to get to a point where they can form the question structures necessary to ask GPT for any help. Or to comprehend its reply.

I also fail to understand why the working population, on the other hand, think it as a competitor. It is no more a competitor than an educated privileged man. The fight is going to be mostly amongst people who are already in some countries of privilege or a career path where either the smartness or confabulations of a smarter metal coworker can be utilized. 

The Cobb-Douglas production function is a widely used model that describes the relationship between inputs (such as labor and capital) and output in the production process. A simplified version of the function is typically represented as:

Q = A * L^a * K^b

where Q is output, L is labor, K is capital, A is a constant representing total factor productivity, and a and b are the labor and capital shares, respectively.

When artificial intelligence (AI) is introduced in a hypothetical production process, say, it can lead to an increase in the productivity of labor, which would in turn increase the output per unit of labor. This increase in productivity can be modeled as an increase in the A constant in the above equation.

However, the introduction of AI can also affect the demand for different types of labor. For example, if AI is able to perform certain tasks more efficiently than human labor, the demand for those types of jobs may decrease. This can be modeled using other equations, such as the substitution elasticity equation. That's not a silver lining, it's just how a competitive environment works, you lose some jobs and gain others. 

It's not my misanthropic take alone I hope,  that there's not a lot of egalitarianism in any of these introductions, just ways to make some corporations richer, not the fate or fetters of the abandoned millions, who are suffering excruciating silly ends, because we're not using technology for the good.

Sometimes people have to do their own thinking. If they leave it all to artificial intelligence, we've arrived at a roundabout with our own crippled sense of misdirection. Just another instance of the selfish self-congratulatory focus on an advantage which if used properly can really help the world. 

Anyway, another rant. At least its onus is off my mind.

P2491 Worms

Just some fucking worms notice not,

We party in your shit and then rot.

That disgusting smell is sometimes us,

Sometimes our friend the group bacillus. 

We are trendy, we are hot.

You know nothing about your shit,

Accept our heartfelt sympathy for it.

Humans are fools we know,

Just basic pimps for us or hoe. 

There's no love even a bit.

In passing we've noticed your dangling balls,

Bad design for those prone to falls.

What happens if we get scissors one day,

Cut your balls and make you pray?

Or squish them on hard stone walls?

You're just a stupid habitat hotel,

Like a cheap ass rental hell.

If you fuck around too much,

We force you into a cripple's crutch. 

We don't like you as you can tell.

P2490 Taste of our own cum

Unfortunately, most people in power in India today are living an overweight, retired, and overachiever hooligan afterlife, with the usual perks that came with their erstwhile game and the additional merit of being judged favorably and seen on the side of the constitution. If this sort of video (see link below) cures anyone's constipation, I'd be really surprised; this isn't new information. Leaders are promoted goons, and citizens are the underachieving submissive parody of various degrees of stupidity and willing blindness. The leaders represent us; we can't expect a lotus in a scum pond. We're not liking the taste of our own cum, but still at it. Isn't that worth a thought?

https://youtu.be/yIiH4gqEnIw

P2489

P2488 I'm dying somehow

Holy crapping bullshit cow,

I think I'm dying somehow. 

Just a head sketch with a knife, 

Not very good way to end any life,

I need to live, but how?

Cartoons with classical music stink,

Isn't good for large turds I think. 

They sink easily like my head,

But inside squirming and not quite dead.

Do you see the link?

Although not far fucking fetched,

It's a rushed and incomplete sketch. 

A creature in panic without hands, 

Or even legs to know where he stands,

Would make a full fat person retch. 

I wasn't really planning on this,

A life drawn by a person in shit and piss.

The gods are hairy prudes in my mind,

Sucking nourishment from diarrhea rind, 

Like maggots that make shit blister and hiss.

Many would shit their pants, 

Many more fill your ear with rants. 

But I'm not one of those stuffy turds,

I don't kill poor endangered birds,

Or fill you with promises of can'ts. 

Holy ganges in its death throws, 

Now mostly piss of city hoes. 

Likewise the people projects of poop,

Not any omniscience to stoop.

I fuck your ass with my toes. 

Fuck friends, they were never really, 

Just vultures inhospitably involuntarily.

Fuck most of my family as well,

Again most of them selfish as hell.

Most kith itchy assholes gaped silly.

Incomplete nincompoops not worth scat,

Just ecologically unsustainable and fat.

These hordes of whores majestically cross, 

Unmolested ambitions with sold blood sauce.

Their shit always lands with a splat.

Eat my shit and die you all. 

I hope your scrotum breaks, your balls fall.

Send my fucking absence of regards,

To your next generation of retards.

The limerick is done, buy it at the mall.

Fuck you, fuck you all.

P2487 Just Bullshit

We unnecessarily give the bull a bad name when, in reality, bullshit is really homo sapiens shit. The usual garden variety of "he shit," "she shit," "it shit," and "who shit." Unless we own up to our own shit in everyday plainspeak, what future can we expect to leave behind? Just shit?  We as a species are such assholes that there's not even the chance of getting a decent fossilized record of the vile traces of our indecent exposure, except maybe a micrometer of plastic sandwiched between the ashes of the radioactive smithereens of the bombs we are planning to throw at each other. And yes, as a result, there is not much chance that our feces or our faces will exhibit in the museums of the future denizens of this planet.

P2486 Masks of convenience

Just lazy, shallow people with excuses, wearing masks of convenience, hiding behind the latest fashion buzzword or tribal dogma. The words thrown at me usually have the stench and smattering of selfish, superficial people who couldn't be bothered to save their own mother if a monster were to gobble her up. We are just a weird exoskeleton of bravado and pretense with a trembling rascal inside that pees at the slightest provocation of risk and generally wails about itchy worms in its asshole without realizing it has become that worm.

P2485 Somewhat strict

Somewhat strict, stressed and derelict, 

I am the asshole man.

Dickhead sometimes some say,

My nose has a phallic plan.

The shit I shit, every bit of it,

Is like a poem foiled into a turd.

Conspiratorial whispers spook me,

Constipated philosophies are hard.

I finger and fist my asshole, 

You call it sucking a thumb.

My farts like darts win hearts,

But soon the whores decide I'm dumb. 

Plus I'm poor, no smell grandeur,

My sweat, piss, cum, shit, puke mix.

Objectionable they say everything, 

The cunts always want to fix.

They're never happy with the fuck they get,

They get fucking from their spare. 

Fucking around is now in vogue, 

Bastards and pimps everywhere. 

"Hold my hand and toddle with me,"

A cunt would usually propose. 

Halfway down her planned tightrope drawn,

She'll ensure a favorable dispose. 

You'll feel you're in over your head, and dead,

You'll notice your shit starts to stick.

Thousands of thoughts to end your life,

Will cross your mind every clock tick.

The parasites made sex important, 

Now she calls diamond a rock. 

I tell her I don't need her to blow my mind,

Want her to blow my fucking cock.

"Your not good, your cock not food,

I won't suck," the bitch would say.

She had underlined it in the flyer in bold,

"I've prepaid on my debit card RuPay," you say.

A chick loves a dick, a dick a chick,

But it's only a fantasy on the clock. 

Variety is the spice, convenience the dice,

Don't limit your cock to one selfish frock.

I could say vice-versa, smoke afghani arsa, 

But don't wanna be a calibrated hypocrite. 

I don't own a cunt, asshole one way shunt,

I always use it to defecate my shit.

Unholy and unwholesome this whole hole affair, 

Or similarly the project of the poles and balls,

Tits are sweat glands just bigger, yes sir,

Asshole for natural calls. 

Or fan of a fag, deep dick and cum gag,

Be or see a whore, yet holy at the core.

Flamboyance with limbs like spent socks, 

They usually make my asshole sorry sore 

Whoop whoop humpity hump and thump, 

It's my hand that's my lover and brunt.

Cathartic and monthly like bills,

It's the cheapest satisfied grunt.

P2484 Entrepreneur

When you start your own business as an entrepreneur, it's instinctual to expect things will go right. 

But things don't go right, and most companies, especially startups, fail. The entrepreneur blames himself or gets blamed, but the reality is more complicated. 

In my case, I just ran out of funds. Software development, as you can tell from the salaries, is an expensive investment. If there's a delay in receiving investments, you have investors who don't make good on commitments, or if clients don't sign up, the company dies. And when it is dying, everything bad that you thought could never happen to you happens—or worse, in my case, because people around me were professionally, morally and culturally decrepit, it's taking me a little time to come out of the ashes. 

But generally in these situations, overnight relationships vaporize, friends either distance themselves or become instant adversaries, and suddenly the prospect of affluence is lopsided and you owe money to a lot of people, all in a hurry and knocking at your door. 

Nothing but reality can give you this experience. You just can't learn it from reading about somebody else; it wouldn't sink in. I live on the same planet as everyone else, but mine is a different reality entirely. 

Success isn't that straightforward. 

In my field of healthcare analytics, clinical trials, or other data-intensive systems, it can only work if hospitals are using data. All there is right now is hand-waving, cover-ups, and rampant corruption. 

India hasn't matured to the point in its discipline where a technological revolution is possible. They have to force a data culture. Unless that's mandated by law or stringent insurance requirements make it essential and training practical, it's not going to happen. We are destined to play the fiddle and be the IT coolies of the world. 

Without proper coding standards and their strict implementation, any system based on them wouldn't make sense, like a bridge over a dry gorge. The nationalist marketing would only take you to promises they couldn't keep. I fell for it. They are goons in makeup, just good for grandstands.

The main issue in India is that professionals don't have clarity, even in their own fields. What they say is indistinguishable from what they'd say to get something done. This superficial, inadequate knowledge and intentional deceit sets compatriots down the path to disillusionment or failure. I see a smorgasbord of this variety on LinkedIn. 

From the leaders down to the lowest functional designations, moral bankruptcy makes healthcare a nightmare. Forget IT, forget research; only a minority can afford good care, or any care at all. 

Just living an afterlife of my unique struggle. My intentions were never really the superficial ostentatious paraphernalia that comes with designations; I just wanted to do the right thing, but I chose the wrong place to do it.

But I'm proud of it. And I'm not biting my tongue for anyone, and not giving up.

P2483

P2482

P2481 Four robbers

There once were four robbers keen, 

Who chose the wrong day for their scheme.

They went to rob a bank, 

But found a long line and they sank.

The bank had run, rage was the theme.

The robbers were starting to fret, 

As they watched each customer they met.

Their plan had gone wrong, 

As they waited so long.

And their patience began to sweat.

But just when they thought they'd go mad,

The fed chief made them glad.

He said, "Why don't you stay, 

We're open all day, 

And you can join our rescue squad!"

The robbers swallowed their sin,

As the FDIC welcomed them in.

They traded their erstwhile fame, 

For teller name.

Now the cops were their kin.

And so they worked at the bank, 

Counting bills as the bank sank.

Their robbing days done,

A new life begun, 

Their names George, Simon, Bluster and Frank.

P2480

P2479

P2478 Bank Run

Three banks down and who knows how many more to go. It's like a financial disaster movie, but without the special effects budget.

A bank run is like a virus that spreads faster than an STD in a brothel. People start getting nervous and before you know it, everyone and their grandma is pulling their money out of the bank. And it's not just the bank that suffers, the whole damn economy gets the shakes. It's like a domino effect, one bank goes down and it takes the rest of them with it.

The effects of a bank run are like a bad rash, they just keep spreading. The markets get skittish, banks stop lending, and the government has to step in and play gyno doctor. And let's not forget the social consequences, people start getting antsy, lines form outside banks, and tempers flare. It's like Black Friday, but without the discounted TVs.

In some countries, a bank failure can mean political suicide. People start losing faith in the government and start looking for someone to blame. And I tell you, when people start looking for someone to blame, they usually find them.

The aftermath of a bank run is like a hangover that just won't go away. Even if the government manages to restore order, the damage is done. It takes time to repair the damage to the financial system and to regain the trust of the people. And let's not forget the social and political fallout, protests, strikes, and civil unrest. It's like the Wild West, but without the saloons and the horses. 

If you're feeling lucky, go ahead and leave your money in the bank. But if you're feeling like a gambler, it might be time to start looking for a new mattress to stuff your cash in. Just make sure it's a comfy one, because you might be sleeping on it for a while.

P2477

P2476

P2475 Sometimes...

Sometimes, I feel like my mind is a tangled mess of thoughts and emotions, all jumbled up and impossible to untangle. It's like I'm lost in a fog, unable to see beyond the haze of my own feelings.

It's a frustrating experience, to say the least. I try to reason with myself, to impose some sense of order on the chaos, but it never seems to work. The more I try to force my thoughts into submission, the more they slip away from me.

And yet, despite the exasperation, there's a strange beauty to it all. Like a kaleidoscope of colors, my emotions blend together in a way that's both confusing and captivating.

It's in those moments of uncertainty that I find myself drawn to introspection. I sit quietly with my thoughts, observing them without judgment, waiting for the fog to lift.

And eventually, it does. The haze clears, and I can see my thoughts for what they really are: a jumble of ideas and emotions that are as beautiful as they are complex.

I think that's the key to unlocking the full potential of our inner selves: to embrace the ambiguity of our thoughts and feelings and to allow ourselves the time and space to explore them fully. to accept the imperfection of our inner monologues or at least try to understand them.

It's not always an easy process, but it's a necessary one. Because only by confronting the complexities of our own minds can we hope to find our place in the world. Maybe I am going mad; these aren't the kinds of thoughts people write about if they are normal, at this time of the night, or if they have a life.

But I force myself to take a moment to sit with my thoughts, to soak up the mystery of my mind's hidden corridors. For it is there that I can hope to find the courage to truly know who I am. Maybe to live my life with purpose and direction, or even if like Albert Camus I accept the inherent meaninglessness of it, at least not leave it unexamined like the hedonist billions that are fast asleep adrift in their hallucinations of improvisational meaning and a fictionalized gamified life.