Seeing the world how it truly is, without myth, without filter, without purpose, is not awakening. It’s mutilation. It’s like scraping the cornea of the soul against the edge of every street, every face, every billboard that still pretends there’s something worth hoping for. I’ve looked too long. I’ve stared into the mechanics of daily life, into the rituals and performances, into the forced laughter and practiced grief, and all I see is a species too aware to be innocent, too broken to be divine. And I am punished for seeing. Punished with memory. Punished with awareness. Punished with a tongue that still moves in a world that’s already gone sour.

Clarity doesn’t elevate. It erodes. It strips you of the polite lies you once needed to keep moving. It shows you that kindness is currency. That joy is branding. That everything you were told to strive for smells of metal, piss, and performance the closer you get to it. Love is a market. Morality a costume. Even silence has been monetized. Even death feels performative now. To feel all of this is to rot before your body does.
To truly perceive the world is to carry an infection of knowing slow, invisible, terminal. And so we turn to numbness, because we know. We take the pills. We scroll. We stare at glowing rectangles. We pretend to care about what others eat, fuck, fear. We let the noise in, because the noise muffles the edge. Numbness is a tourniquet on the soul. Numbness is the seatbelt for the crash we call waking up. Numbness is survival, bitter and barely working, but more honest than hope.

We shouldn’t be feeling this much.

Only man, this atrocity of cognition, stares into the raw pulp of the real and dares to name it meaningful. I reject that, i choose the static, the blindfold, i choose whatever the drug dulls shriek of knowing. Because to feel everything is to die screaming. And I’ve already screamed too much