Burning Beneath

I’m tired.

Inside, outside, left, right—every direction feels the same.

I keep searching for something solid, something real, but the moment I reach out, it splits into old and new, fake and real, and I’m left holding nothing but questions.

Who can say what’s true anymore?

History contradicts itself.

The present is distorted.

Facts collide, theories unravel, and every answer only opens another door to confusion. I’m not trying to sound like a philosopher—I’m just exhausted. Exhausted from chasing things that pretend to be real.

My autistic son once told me he sees the world as a game.

Sometimes, I think he’s right.

Life feels like a strange video game with characters, rules, and shortcuts no one explains. And it’s not about conspiracy theories or the Matrix—it’s simply the reality that everything we know was created, shaped, or rewritten by people.

History was written by people.

The present is controlled by people.

Research is done by people—and manipulated by people.

Technology, medicine, politics, race, relationships—it’s always one side against the other. Always noise. Always confusion. And sometimes it feels like confusion is the point, like something wants us lost and wandering, unable to find who we really are.

Why is it so hard to know our roots?

Why is truth something we chase instead of something we live?

Even something as simple as identifying an illness becomes a battle of egos, profits, and control. New discoveries get hidden, twisted, or slowed down—not to help the sick, but to keep systems alive.

It all circles back to one thing:

human nature.

And that leads me to the question that won’t leave me alone:

Who are we, really?

What is this creature called a human?

Why were we made—and by whom?

Are we part of an experiment? And if we are… what would the results say?

Some days, I’m afraid the answer would be simple:

We failed. Miserably.