Welcome to the shallow end of the gene pool, where institutions creak, experts preen, and common sense has been labeled extremist. This is the domain of credentialed clowns, procedural necromancers, and moral toddlers in charge of fire exits.
Here I document the slow-motion implosion of governance, education, media, and culture — not with outrage, but with the grim satisfaction of someone who saw it coming and packed snacks. No reform fantasies. No hand-wringing. Just a front-row seat to the theater of the absurd, with the occasional sharp object thrown from the balcony.
We tell ourselves we need peace and quiet — but the real noise is internal. You can retreat to a mountaintop or delete every app, and still hear the echo of your own unresolved idiocy. Solitude doesn’t save you from fools; it merely introduces you to the loudest one — yourself.
Applause is sugar water for the soul — sweet, empty, and fattening. It feels like food but feeds nothing. The more you taste it, the more it owns you. Build for yourself, not for the crowd. Because when the theater goes dark and the cheering stops, you’ll face one audience only: the mirror.
When Orwell warned us about totalitarian control, he imagined boots and banners. What he missed was the spreadsheet. The tyranny arrived in ergonomic chairs, bearing KPIs and ESG reports. Our new Inner Party doesn’t torture dissidents; it audits them. The manager has replaced the priest, the king, and the tyrant—and we call it professionalism.
We haven’t outgrown witch hunts—we’ve digitized them. The bonfires are online, the sermons televised, the priests replaced by experts clutching data instead of crosses. The liturgy is unchanged: fear the unseen, obey the herd, trust the medicine. And in that obedience, we trade our last wild freedom for the comfort of calm.
We’ve mistaken movement for meaning. The world twitches, scrolls, reacts—convinced that perpetual motion equals life. But the quiet, the pause, the refusal to dance to the algorithm’s drum—these are now acts of rebellion. To stop moving is to start seeing, and nothing terrifies the modern mind more than the possibility of stillness.
We built a world allergic to pain and surprised when it festers. My parents’ generation learned through hunger and war; mine through bruises and burnt fingers. Today’s children learn through hashtags and safety slogans. Consequences—those unarguable teachers—have gone missing. And without them, truth, sanity, and civilization begin to rot from the inside out.
Solitude is never fashionable. The world worships noise—likes, followers, group chats, endless parties where the music is bad and the conversations worse. Yet here’s the secret: if you can endure silence without mistaking it for rejection, you forge an iron frame. To be alone and not collapse—that’s the first taste of freedom.
The state doesn’t need to break your legs; it just fattens you until you can’t run. Own too much, stay too still, and you’ll be plucked clean. Survival means mobility, lean pockets, and the stubborn refusal to pay more than law demands. Never naked—just cleverly threadbare.
We are all inventory in someone’s ledger: soldiers drilled to obey, citizens trained to comply, rebels marching in ragged formation. The anarchist alone refuses the whistle. He is dangerous not because he breaks rules, but because he demonstrates they can be ignored. That is the unforgivable sin in a world addicted to hierarchy.
We were promised utopia—fusion in a bottle, cities on Mars, salvation by solar panel. What we got instead were subsidies, sermons, and disappointment. Progress is no shining staircase but a drunk stumbling through a swamp: crooked, halting, and blind. We dream in straight lines, yet reality forever drags us sideways.
We all live inside frames—cages of habit, obedience, and borrowed conviction. Some decorate theirs with flags, others with slogans, most with silence. But the anarchist scratches at the bars, not out of hope, but hunger: to taste a sliver of raw existence unfiltered by hierarchy, unblessed by authority, unowned by anyone.
Academia does not traffic in truth; it barters in narratives, polished like relics for a congregation desperate for certainty. Professors genuflect before consensus, mistaking repetition for rigor, while reality stands outside the lecture hall, uninvited and unmoved. The cathedral of scholarship is built not on stone, but on paper—and termites are feasting.