I might be a blogger

It’s a confusing time to be alive.

When we still haven’t figured out why the hell we came to earth in the first place, we somehow keep making things, and this reality, harder than they need to be.

Meanwhile, buildings are collapsing on children, someone’s sister, someone else’s beloved grandfather. After sitting with the sadness of everyone else’s misery, I shake myself and think, “hey! my life is also hard too! It’s all too much sometimes!” That’s usually when I delete a couple of social media apps, trying to block out the constant stream of suffering just to keep myself sane.

I wonder if, somewhere else in the world, there are people who look at those of us drowning in unprocessed childhood trauma and excess and feel sad for us too. Because I’m in that group, and sometimes I wish for empathy as well, even when others are enduring earth-shattering grief.

How selfish of me.

How human of me.

Sometimes it feels bizarre to be alive at all. Like, why do I even have this particular shape? Why isn’t the organ I use to eat food placed on my right leg instead of in my mouth?

Misery and hardship exist everywhere, and being human, especially in a society that demands too much, feels heavier than it ever has.

Don’t get me wrong, I work hard. And sometimes it even looks like I’m passionate about things. But passion feels fragile when you realize you’re just data in some advanced AI model, your hobbies reduced to metrics.

It feels like collective madness, this illusion that we actually have control over any of it.

And yet… I know I’ll probably forget about all of this, the heaviness, the questions, after a couple of oddly satisfying carpet-cleaning videos on TikTok, before drifting off to dreamland.

Arya M.