Alone again,

sometimes I think my lack of self-belief is my most reliable system. It’s like my internal gravity is slightly off, so every time I approach confidence, I just slingshot around it and end up back at “perhaps I’m not built for this”.

I watch people who move through life certain of their own brilliance, and it feels like observing a strange species: homo affirmativus. They glow like radioactive lab experiments gone right. Yet I wonder if they, too, have late-night malfunctions where the code loops endlessly: who authorised me to exist?

Meanwhile, I tinker. I spend hours adjusting sentences as if they were faulty circuits, hoping one of them will finally light up. I tell myself doubt is part of the design, that skepticism sharpens precision, but sometimes it feels more like corrosion.

Still, I keep building things: sketches, paragraphs, pixel worlds, half-formed useless theories. Even though I don't really believe in me, I do believe in structure, in the quiet miracle of a thought becoming real, the way ink can mimic intention, or how a line of code can pretend to think.

Perhaps that’s enough, to believe in the experiment even when you don’t believe in the scientist. To let the work exist on its own voltage.

And if it fails to impress, I’ll say it was all performance art: just an exploration of creative futility under the absurdity of existence.