ꀯꍩꌅꂑꇘ

Life feels like a story where the author went on autopilot.

It’s a bit unsettling because it strips meaning away from any comforting author or moral order — yet it also gives existence a strange, raw beauty: we’re alive for the game’s sake, and in living, we make the game real.

So maybe the “beneficiary” isn’t a conscious entity at all, but the dynamic of experience itself. The game is the ultimate self-serving organism.

What if the game benefits… itself more than anyone else? Hear me out: The “author” might be indifferent, the “player” (us) might suffer, struggle, or even die — but the game keeps going, evolving, iterating, feeding on the very act of being played..

Our own consciousness is inherently bound by its perspective, it has a kind of bittersweet beauty in that limitation: it’s frustrating, sure, but it’s also what gives depth, surprise, and meaning to “being inside the game.”

Existence is an itch you can’t scratch. Like a character in a book can’t read the author’s full mind. They can only infer patterns from inside the story. If you fully understood it, you wouldn’t be “you” anymore — you’d be outside the game.

I won’t last long on this timeline

“The world doesn’t make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?” ~ Pablo Picasso

I'm not avoiding meaning — I'm just rejecting the idea that meaning has to come in a straight line.

Reality isn’t orderly, logical, or “well-composed,” so forcing art to behave like a neat photograph is kind of dishonest. If life is chaotic, emotional, fractured, absurd… then art that shows that mess might actually be more truthful than realism.

I feel like I am becoming something new again.

Late night thoughts 💭 Do you believe people are brought into your life for a reason… or just passing through? 🤔✨

what is it called when you think about your own thoughts

Death is beautiful, death is peace, death is understanding life.

Back to the void, to face their dark unknown.