In brief

I never felt like writing anything fictional. Contemplating the whats and whys of what's happening around me has always been a far more amusing playground. Must be a byproduct of spending so much time in my own head.

Now, more often than not, I get drained by the abundance. The abundance of information, content, and all the inputs that evolution hasn't had enough time to prepare our brains for. Worse yet, it's all becoming increasingly too much of the same.

I'm not fooled, though. Originality is indeed a myth. Everything is, and has always been, a copy of a copy. Or, more precisely, a recombination of the preexisting. That's just the natural evolutive state of things.

But what happens when that copy itself becomes homogeneous? When we outsource and thus transfer our thinking and curiosity - the very core of what got us here?

Why? It's tempting. Why would you refuse soma, after all?

But I don't want uniformity. I want differences. I want nuances. I want complexities. I want edges. I want rawness. I want the output of our imperfect neural networks and decoders. I want more of what makes us human. And all the discomfort that comes with it.

At least for now, I've found my anchors in this chaos - a kind of stability in motion, built on the eternal pursuit of control, even if illusory. Writing feels a lot like solving problems. Photography feels more like experiencing perceived reality as is.

I don't need to choose. I'm fine with both.

If anything, I wish to hurry through life a little less blindly, to experience it all a little bit more. To notice more. To share some of it with others, knowing that what we produce is just another way of assembling and decoding what's around us. To argue. To disagree. To interpret things differently. To develop through struggle rather than succumb to comfortable cognitive numbness.

I claim them all.