Blip

This is an endless journey of endless opportunities, all of them fake, all of them screaming for attention like drunken idiots in a street that never sleeps. Noise. Hype. Hustle. Promises. None of it means anything. It is a parade of meaninglessness, a carnival of nothing pretending to be something.

It batters my tired brain, demanding belief, demanding hope, demanding participation—while offering absolutely nothing in return.

It is a farce.

The kitten is trying to climb onto the writing table. It doesn’t know why. It just wants. It imagines something up there—victory, importance, maybe transcendence. But there is nothing. Just height. Just surface. Just another useless conquest.

That’s me.

I build dams. I raise towers. I make monuments and call them achievements. I clap for myself like a trained animal. I say: Look what I did. Look how big I am.

But in the long run, it means nothing.

Time erases me.
Memory dissolves me.
The universe does not care.

I am not special.
I am not necessary.
I am not permanent.

I am a flicker.
A glitch.
A blip.

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