Missing the point

It seams this world is inside-out.

We’ve been exhaling for so long that we forgot who we are - asphyxiated to the point where we are completely out of touch with our inner worlds, and looking for that sense of self in things that come and go, making it seem as if life is eternally ending. What a hilarious circumstance.

So laugh, dear reader. Laugh at the absurdity of it all. The cosmic joke. Here’s the kicker: the pen’s in our hands. We’re not just characters—we’re the bastards writing this thing, together, whether we know it or not.

And “reality”? It’s a mirror. A sometimes cruel, currently cracked one. It throws back at us exactly what we put in—every thought, every whisper. The universe doesn’t care; it’s all mind, grinding away like a scientist with a scalpel, slicing everything to pieces. But cutting’s not just destruction—it’s creation. That’s where art comes from. You cut, you bleed, and something worth keeping crawls out of the mess.

The world? It’s whatever the hell we think it is. Our beliefs, our words—they’re the blades we use to carve out our existence. If you draw them, draw them beautifully.

C. S. Lewis got one thing right: “The doors of hell are locked from the inside.” We’re the ones holding the keys, fumbling around in our own damn pockets. Only when we accept that, when the light of awareness flickers on, can we unlock our own cages.

Yeah, it’s a climb. No doubt. Dark, steep, lonely as hell. But what else are you gonna do? Sit there and rot? Darkness is a canvas for fire, and you’ve found your torch.

All else fails, that’s what I’m here for. To shine a light where it’s needed. To pull a few strings, spark a few fires, hand you a moment of clarity—a satori, they call it. Don’t get too hung up on my pointing finger; it’s just aimed at the only place that matters: the heart. That’s where the real fight is. That’s where the story begins.