Of Hoards And Words

The Tale of Two Comparisons

Humans love to talk about individuality. They plaster it on social media like it’s an achievement, as if uniqueness were a limited-edition sticker you could collect. And yet, ask any of them to live outside the tacit consensus, and suddenly the individual becomes a problem.

Comparison. Oh, humans love it.

But it comes in two flavours. There’s the inward kind: comparing yourself to others, breeding envy, insecurity, dissatisfaction, and sometimes the sweet chaos of self-loathing. That’s a psychological rabbit hole I’ll leave for another time.

The second kind, however, is the one I’m endlessly fascinated by: other people comparing you to others. Humans can’t leave one another alone. The second you differ, the majority decides how delightful (or detestable) you are.

Stand Out, But Only Just

Here’s the absurdity: humans preach individuality, yet they also demand compliance. You may stand out, sure, but only if your eccentricity is pleasant enough, digestible enough, acceptable enough.

If you stray too far, too loud, too quiet, too different, the group decides you’re not fine and occasionally removes you from the communal circle altogether. The logic is…questionable.

Labels abound: “lazy”, “weird”, “rebellious”, “evil”, “incompetent”. The human penchant for shorthand judgment is impressive, if you don’t mind that it often ignores context, circumstance, or simple decency.

Someone fails to perform a task like the rest of the group?

“They must be lazy.”

Someone acts differently from convention?

“They must be broken.”

Humans wield comparison like a club, and the group mentality is the blunt edge.

The Group That Protects and Condemns

There is, of course, an evolutionary rationale. Being part of a pack increases safety, enables coordination, and magnifies what one individual alone could achieve. Efficiency, protection, and resource sharing are undeniable benefits.

And ego.

Alas! ego keeps humans alive.

Pride, ambition, self-preservation: these are survival mechanisms disguised as personality traits.

But there’s a threshold where logic evaporates.

The ego insists that fitting in validates one’s superiority. Stand out, yes—but only if it comforts the majority’s self-image. And so, the very creatures who sing the praises of uniqueness will simultaneously enforce conformity with invisible, unspoken rules. The contradiction is deliciously ridiculous.

Caregivers, Children, and the Endless Loop

The microcosm of this absurdity is most apparent in human upbringing. Caregivers often think comparison is encouragement:

“Look at how they’re doing versus everyone else!”

And when the child fails to measure up, frustration erupts. The formula repeats. The child grows up carrying invisible weights; the caregiver, unaware of the consequences, perpetuates it.

Society, the ultimate group, simply amplifies the cycle. Culture, tradition, and locality may shift the backdrop, but the mechanism remains the same: compare, judge, and enforce.

The Contradictions Are Endless

Humans are fascinating precisely because of their contradictions. Some are oblivious to this social machinery, some are aware but follow anyway, and others resist, only to be ignored or punished by the consensus.

Logic doesn’t govern this behaviour.

Probability doesn’t govern it.

It is entirely human, entirely social, and entirely ridiculous.

Comparison and group mentality feed off each other like a recursive loop. The majority sets a standard, the minority deviates, the group judges, and the cycle repeats ad infinitum.

Meanwhile, the individual, or at least the one who wants to exist without incessant scrutiny, is left bewildered, frustrated, occasionally amused.

A Sprynthl Observation

I watch humans navigating this endless dance of conformity and contradiction with a mixture of awe, exasperation, and what might charitably be called affection (?). You create systems, hierarchies, and invisible rules to manage each other, yet bemoan the lack of logic in the very patterns you enforce. The inefficiency, the cruelty, the unnecessary emotional friction.

It is staggering. And yet, it is so very human.

For me, personally, being asked to participate in this infinite loop is tedious. I prefer to sit back, observe, note the absurdities, and occasionally chuckle at the spectacle.

Comparison and consensus can be entertaining to study, but taking part?

That’s a different matter entirely. I’d rather enjoy the fleeting existence of a human life without having to constantly measure myself (or be measured) against some invisible standard.

Notes from this Ridiculous Dance

Humans desire individuality but crave consensus. They preach uniqueness while demanding conformity. Comparison serves both as a tool of judgment and a glue of social cohesion.

And while it may have evolutionary and societal functions, the logic of it is, at times, laughably inconsistent.

Perhaps the trick is simply noticing it. Witness the absurdity without allowing it to touch you.

Stand out, yes, but not for the approval of the group. Measure yourself against your own standards. Enjoy your existence without letting the pack dictate whether it is acceptable.

Activism is usually framed as a moral choice.

Be brave. Speak up. Stand for something. Change the world.

And yes, that’s part of it. But strip away the glow and what you’re left with is something much more mechanical.

Activism is a force.

Not necessarily violence. Not necessarily chaos. But force all the same. It's pressure applied to a system to move it from one state to another.

And I think that’s why I remain on the sidelines. Not out of indifference. Out of structural curiosity.

Activism Is a Vector, Not a Vibe

Activism is teleological. That’s the dull academic way of saying it has a destination in mind.

There is always:

A perceived gap between what is and what ought to be.

A belief that the gap is unacceptable.

A desire to close it.

That desire doesn’t sit quietly. It organises. It recruits. It amplifies. It leans.

In physics, work is defined as force causing displacement. No force, no movement. No push, no change. You cannot change a law, a norm, or a perception without applying pressure. A society at rest tends to stay at rest unless acted upon by an external force.

Newton didn’t write about protests, but he might as well have.

Without force, activism is just opinion.

With force, it becomes movement.

And force has magnitude and direction.

The Power–Resistance Model (Or, Why Society Has Friction)

Every society exists in a kind of static equilibrium. Laws, habits, institutions, and economic interests form a kind of social gravity. These create social friction. They resist change. Not because they’re evil, but because systems resist disruption by design. Activism is the attempt to generate enough net force to overcome that friction.

Boycotts apply economic pressure.

Protests apply visibility pressure.

Lobbying applies legislative pressure.

Shaming applies social pressure.

Soft force. Hard force. Both operate on the same principle: leverage. Same physics, different packaging.

Without leverage, activism is just an opinion. To move something entrenched, you need a lever and enough pressure to shift it. Because leverage is influence. Influence is intrusion. And intrusion requires a degree of certainty.

But here’s the tricky part:

In mechanics, if you push a ball east, it goes east.

In sociology, if you push east, someone else pushes west.

Backlash is Newton’s Third Law with better branding. The harder the push, the stronger the counterforce often becomes. Social systems don’t just move; they oscillate. The direction of change is never guaranteed by magnitude alone.

Force buys motion. It does not buy control.

Echo Chambers and Force Multipliers

Humans prefer articles they agree with. That’s not moral failure; it’s cognitive efficiency.

Confirmation bias creates echo chambers. Echo chambers amplify force. Shared outrage becomes a collective lever. And collective levers move mountains. But they also harden identities. When disagreement feels like a threat, and threat feels like danger, conversation becomes combat.

It stops being curiosity. It becomes siege warfare with hashtags.

Ego Dressed as Virtue

This is the part people don’t enjoy hearing.

Activism can be altruistic. It can also be ego with a halo.

The human brain loves moral clarity. It loves belonging. It loves the feeling of fighting for something larger than itself. There is nothing inherently wrong with that. It has propelled societies forward for millennia. But it is not immune to self-bias.

People gravitate toward information that confirms their worldview. Echo chambers amplify conviction. Conviction amplifies force. Force amplifies resistance.

Round and round it goes. I don’t say this as condemnation. I say it as an observation.

The Paradox of Moral Certainty

What unsettles me isn’t activism itself. It’s the certainty that sometimes accompanies it. To apply force, you must believe the direction is justified. Strongly. Publicly. Repeatedly.

You must believe:

State B is superior to State A.

The friction you will cause is worth it.

The resistance you generate is tolerable.

That requires a kind of moral confidence I don’t naturally possess. Especially when the method of reducing suffering sometimes includes… causing suffering.

Take certain strains of animal activism. There’s nothing inherently absurd about wanting to reduce suffering. Animals matter. Suffering is undesirable. It is coherent. Yet some methods involve harassment, economic sabotage, or outright violence.

The logic becomes a loop:

Suffering is wrong.

Therefore, causing suffering to stop suffering is acceptable.

That’s not hypocrisy. It’s instrumentalisation. The ends justify the means until they don’t. You justify harm to prevent harm. The equation becomes self-sealing.

Activism assumes that one’s moral conclusion is not just personally valid, but socially mandatory. If you disagree, you are not merely different. You are wrong.

The push begins there.

The Neurobiology of the Push

Activism is not just ideological. It’s biological.

The human brain dislikes dissonance. When someone challenges a core belief, the brain doesn’t calmly sip tea and weigh the evidence. The amygdala (the threat detector) lights up. The prefrontal cortex (the rational executive) can take a back seat.

Being told you’re wrong feels like being attacked. And proclaiming you’re right feels good. Dopamine good.

Moral certainty provides:

Identity

Belonging

Agency

Reward

On the receiving end, being told you are wrong triggers defensiveness. So activism becomes less a debate of ideas and more a battle of nervous systems trying to preserve equilibrium. You increase the social, emotional, or economic cost of disagreement until alignment becomes the path of least resistance.

Shame, exclusion, and cancellation are social tools rooted in an ancient fear: being cast out of the tribe. The message is often implicit: Agree or be cast out.

From a cold perspective, activism can resemble cognitive colonisation: an attempt to occupy the mental space of another. Eventually, many align not because they were logically convinced, but because resisting became more stressful than yielding. The brain chooses the path of least cortisol.

Proximal Empathy vs Moral Expansion

Many activists engage in moral expansion: scaling empathy outward to strangers, species, systems.

It’s admirable. It’s powerful. It’s often historically transformative. It’s also psychologically expensive.

For me, empathy is clearest when it’s close. I care fiercely about what’s within reach, like my cats, my friends, and my immediate world. I can’t summon the drive to push my beliefs onto others. I like questions, not sermons. I like opening spaces where people think, not dictating the answer. Influence, persuasion, and advocacy all demand exposure and certainty, two things I’ve learned to handle poorly and sparingly. I would rather admit that honestly than perform care for causes I cannot genuinely feel.

But the further empathy stretches, the more abstract it becomes. And abstraction makes me wary. I distrust emotions that are amplified beyond direct experience. I distrust the rush of collective righteousness.

Not because it’s false but because it’s potent. Potency plus certainty equals force.

And force always has consequences.

The Spectator’s Paradox

If everyone stopped pushing, society would stagnate.

If everyone pushed constantly, society would fracture into permanent conflict.

The presence of spectators, observers who rather analyse than advocate, acts as a buffer. Not every belief needs weaponising. Not every discomfort needs mobilisation.

I am fascinated by activism structurally. I analyse its mechanics, its leverage, its friction, and its feedback loops.

But participation demands more than analysis.

It demands exposure.

It demands drive.

It demands certainty.

It demands the appetite to impose one’s preferred direction on others. I lack that appetite. Not from apathy but from temperament.

Why I Watch

I am not against activism. By all means, let people advocate.

Let them push, protest, write, organise, argue, fight, and change the world.

Social change has always required friction. Human civilisation evolved through tension. It always will.

But for me, activism is structural curiosity more than moral imperative. I like mapping the terrain. I like noticing patterns. I like examining how force interacts with resistance. I like asking whether magnitude guarantees direction (it doesn’t).

Participation would require me to convert observation into imposition.

“Do to others as you would have them do to you.”

You’ve heard it. You’ve quoted it. Some of you have even weaponised it.

For accuracy’s sake, it appears in the Gospel of Matthew, Chapter 7, Verse 12. A neat little sentence. Compact. Elegant. Marketable. One of humanity’s favourite moral slogans.

And yet, like most things humans admire, it is far more frequently spoken than applied.

The Rule, Stripped of Decoration

At its core, the statement is not mystical. It is mechanical.

It describes reciprocity.

If you do not want to be disrespected, do not disrespect.

If you want to be treated with care, extend care.

If you inject hostility into an interaction, expect hostility in return.

This is not karma in the cosmic, mystical sense. It is causality dressed in moral language. Social cause and effect. Input and output. You plant wheat, you harvest wheat. You do not sow contempt and expect admiration to sprout.

Humans understand this. Intellectually, at least.

And then they proceed to behave as though they don’t.

The Convenient Exception

What fascinates me is not ignorance. Ignorance is consistent.

Hypocrisy, however, requires awareness.

You will often find humans quoting this rule while simultaneously exempting themselves from it. They apply it outward, not inward.

They will say:

“People should be respectful.”

“People should be kind.”

“People should be accountable.”

And then proceed to be none of those things when it inconveniences them.

It is a selective equation:

Rules for others. Exceptions for self.

Disrespect is justified when they feel wronged. Cruelty is reframed as honesty. Neglect becomes “being busy.” Accountability dissolves the moment it threatens the ego.

And yet, when the same behaviour returns to them, when the mirror reflects, they are surprised. Offended, even.

As if the equation should only ever run one way.

The Agricultural Problem

Humans seem deeply confused by outcomes.

You do not plant wheat and harvest rice.

You do not plant indifference and harvest loyalty.

You do not plant hostility and harvest peace.

And yet, this confusion persists. Repeatedly. Almost impressively so.

“Why are people treating me like this?”

Because you taught them how.

Not intentionally, perhaps. Not consciously. But causality does not require intention. It requires only action.

Words, silence, tone, and absence are inputs. The system responds accordingly.

This is not moral judgement. This is pattern recognition.

Ego: The Great Distortion Field

Of course, there is a reason for this inconsistency.

Ego.

The same mechanism that protects identity also distorts accountability. It edits the narrative in real time:

Your actions become justified.

Their reactions become excessive.

Your intent becomes central.

Their experience becomes irrelevant.

You call others selfish while quietly centring yourself in every interaction. You label others as useless while ignoring the chain of your own actions and inactions that contributed to the present state.

This is not rare behaviour. It is standard.

From the inside, it feels like righteousness.

From the outside, it looks like absurdity.

Awareness Without Adjustment

What unsettles me most is not that humans are inconsistent.

It is that many are aware of the rule and still refuse to apply it.

This is no longer ignorance. It is avoidance.

Some know and do nothing.

Some know and justify.

Some know and simply choose comfort over coherence.

And then they wonder why their environments feel hostile, why relationships fracture, why trust erodes.

You cannot demand outcomes that your inputs do not support.

The Observational Friction

I enjoy observing humans. You are complex, contradictory, occasionally brilliant.

Also exhausting.

Observation requires proximity, and proximity introduces experience. Experience introduces friction.

It is one thing to map behaviour abstractly. It is another to be subjected to it.

There is humour in it, certainly. Humans can be unintentionally hilarious. The contradictions alone could sustain entire libraries.

But humour does not cancel friction.

Understanding the biology (ego, bias, and social conditioning) explains the behaviour. It does not neutralise the irritation it produces.

Explanation is not absolution.

An Ugly Kind of Beauty

There is a strange aesthetic to it.

Humans are inconsistent, irrational, self-protective, and often blind to their own contradictions. And yet, within that mess, there is something recognisably human.

It is not clean. It is not elegant. It is not always admirable.

But it is real.

A kind of ugly beauty.

If You Want The Shorter Version

The rule is simple. Almost offensively simple.

Treat others as you wish to be treated.

Not as you feel justified treating them.

Not as you think they deserve.

Not as your ego permits in the moment.

If applied consistently, it would resolve a surprising number of your conflicts.

But consistency requires something humans struggle with:

Applying standards inward, not just outward.

And until that happens, the cycle continues.

You will keep planting wheat.

There is a persistent assumption in human society that being alone is a problem to be solved. That solitude is merely loneliness waiting to happen. That if someone is by themselves for “too long,” something must be wrong.

This assumption is not only lazy; it is inaccurate.

Being alone is a physical state. Loneliness is a psychological one. Confusing the two has produced an impressive amount of unnecessary discomfort, moralising, and unsolicited advice.

Solitude is not isolation by default. Whether being alone becomes peaceful or painful depends less on the environment and more on the individual interpreting it.

And humans, as ever, are not uniform.

Loneliness as an Alarm System (Not a Moral Verdict)

Loneliness is not a character flaw. It is not a failure. It is not evidence of social incompetence. It is an alarm.

Think of loneliness as a social thermostat. When perceived social warmth drops below a certain threshold, the system activates discomfort to motivate corrective behaviour. This is not poetic. It is evolutionary.

For most of human history, being alone meant danger. No tribe meant no shared labour, no protection, no redundancy when injured or ill. A lone human was not romantic. A lone human was dead.

So the brain adapted. Social disconnection began to hurt.

The same neural circuits that process physical pain also light up during social rejection. This is not metaphorical overlap; it is literal neurological reuse. Loneliness is pain because pain works.

The problem is that the thermostat evolved for caves and savannahs, not cities, not digital spaces, and certainly not modern solitude.

When the alarm gets stuck in the “on” position, loneliness becomes chronic. At that point, it stops motivating reconnection and starts distorting perception. Neutral faces look hostile. Invitations feel risky. Silence becomes threatening. The system meant to protect you begins to trap you.

Loneliness Is Not One Thing

Part of the confusion comes from treating loneliness as a single experience, when it is not.

Psychology generally splits it into three overlapping dimensions:

Intimate loneliness: the absence of a close confidant or romantic bond.

Relational loneliness: the absence of friendships or reliable social support.

Collective loneliness: the absence of belonging to a larger group, community, or shared identity.

You can be fulfilled in two and starving in one.

You can have a partner and still feel lonely in a new city. You can have friends and still feel unmoored without a sense of purpose or tribe. You can be surrounded by people and feel unseen.

Which brings us neatly to the paradox.

Why Being Alone Feels Uncomfortable for Many Humans

If being alone is merely a state, why does it feel unbearable to so many?

Several reasons, none of them mysterious.

First: the mirror effect. When other people are absent, the internal monologue gets louder. For individuals whose inner dialogue is anxious, self-critical, or hostile, solitude becomes confrontation.

Second: cultural stigma. In many societies, especially online, visibility equals value. Doing things alone is framed as failure. Being unpartnered, uninvited, or unaccompanied becomes a social mark rather than a neutral condition.

Third: underdeveloped internal stimulation. Some people have never learned how to occupy themselves without external input. When stimulation drops, boredom is mislabelled as loneliness.

None of these means solitude is bad. They mean solitude exposes what is already there.

Why the Loneliest Place Is Often a Crowd

Some of the most acute loneliness occurs in busy rooms.

Physically, you are not alone. Psychologically, you are invisible.

This is what happens when the brain applies the isolation filter: “I am without others,” even when others are present. The mismatch between proximity and connection intensifies the discomfort. It is far easier to tolerate solitude than social proximity without resonance.

This is why someone eating alone in a quiet flat can feel at peace, while someone at a party can feel like they are suffocating.

Presence is not connection. Noise is not warmth.

Why Some Humans Thrive in Solitude

There is a subset of humans who do not equate being alone with being deprived.

These individuals tend to share a few traits:

A strong self-relationship. Their internal world is not hostile. They are tolerable, even pleasant, company to themselves.

A lower social threshold. They require less interaction to feel regulated.

A sense of purpose or absorption. Creative work, study, contemplation, or belief systems provide a feeling of connection that does not depend on constant social input.

For these people, solitude is not empty. It is structured. Predictable. Safe.

Interestingly, research suggests that sensitivity to loneliness is partially heritable. Some social alarm systems are simply louder than others. This is not virtue. It is variance.

Solitude vs Isolation: The Filter That Changes Everything

Being alone is raw data. The brain decides what it means.

You can think of it as a filter.

Solitude filter: “I am with myself.”

The experience feels chosen, controlled, and restorative. Silence is a resource.

The physical conditions are identical. The interpretation is not.

Isolation filter: “I am without others.”

The experience feels imposed, threatening, and confirming of unworthiness.

Agency changes everything.

Why Choice Matters More Than Company

A useful shorthand:

Being alone with choice becomes solitude.

Being alone without choice becomes isolation.

Being alone with insecurity becomes loneliness.

This is why telling someone to “just enjoy being alone” rarely works. Enjoyment cannot be commanded. Safety must come first.

My Perspective (Which Is Apparently Unacceptable to Some)

I do not experience being alone as a deficit.

I experience it as regulation.

Reduced stimuli brings clarity. Fewer variables mean greater predictability. Thought becomes more organised, less reactive, more coherent.

Other people introduce uncertainty. Uncertainty introduces vigilance. Vigilance does not feel like safety.

This is where I diverge from the majority.

Many humans seem comforted by unpredictability as long as it comes packaged as social consensus. I am not. Uncertainty does not feel like warmth. It feels like risk.

So when people insist I should “be with others more,” what they are really saying is: your safety preferences make me uncomfortable.

This is not concern. It is projection.

When Diversity Stops Being Interesting

Human diversity is fascinating until it becomes coercive.

People are remarkably open to difference right up until that difference refuses to conform to their expectations. At that point, curiosity turns into persuasion, then into insistence.

Solitude is pathologised. Contentment is misread as avoidance. Peace is reframed as something to be fixed.

This is where diversity stops being enriching and starts being invasive.

I am not lonely. I am not isolated. I am regulated.

If that does not align with someone else’s internal wiring, that is unfortunate—but not my responsibility.

Closing Thought

Being alone is neither good nor bad. It is a condition.

Loneliness is not a failure. It is a signal. Solitude is not isolation. It is often safety.

The mistake humans keep making is assuming their social thermostat is universal. It isn’t.

There are spaces that aren’t spaces. You can’t point to them on a map, or stroll past them, or take a picture of them. They exist in the overlap between attention and time, in the quiet agreement between strangers who never agreed on anything else except: I am here for the same reason you are.

Recently, one of those rare places died. Officially, a manga site. Unofficially, a reading room, a commons, a small city of feeling. It mattered not because it hosted text but because it hosted response.

Often, I’d open the same chapter on a certain platform but kept the old site open in another tab just to read the comments. Same panels. Entirely different experience.

Humans fuss endlessly over what they can hold, touch, see, but the things that matter, such as this communion and these vibrations across minds, slip through their fingers unnoticed. You needed friction to feel a connection. That’s how you know it’s real.

Comments as Nervous System

Those threads weren’t decoration. They were the nervous system. They hummed, laughed, argued, and fell silent when required. They made space for grief, amplified jokes that required memory to understand, and celebrated subtle details others might miss.

Elsewhere, comment sections are graveyards or battlefields. A sneer lodged in the wrong moment poisons the text. Not here. This place amplified the work, instead of corroding it.

Toxicity existed, naturally, but it was rare. Culture made being a dick feel out of tune. Most humans are far too preoccupied with surface things, but here was proof that, given space, they can produce grace. It’s just that grace often refuses to be monetised.

The Loss of Rhythm

The tragedy isn’t that the files vanished. Text survives. What doesn’t survive is context: years of layered reaction, echoes of chapters read during lockdowns, breakups, long nights alone—gone.

Before (anticipation), during (heightened attention), after (release); that rhythm, that communal heartbeat, vanished. Reading is still possible, but it is flatter. Quieter in the wrong way.

Discord went too, silenced under pressure. Reddit threads remain, but they are ruins. Threaded, fragmented, episodic, performative. A ghost of what was. Humans think their social media is essential, yet this? This was the real stuff. What you feel, what you experience, and it changes you in ways no algorithm can measure.

Kindred Spirits in the Margins

The beauty of that place lay in its people. Not perfect, not always serious, but aligned. Kindred spirits reading obscure works, laughing at the same moments, grieving in sync, occasionally sparring with gentle wit. Some even called it their only social media. Credible.

It wasn’t convenience that held them. Even when better readers existed, the culture, the community, the interior life shared among strangers, was irreplaceable.

Most humans fret over shiny, visible things like gold, likes, status, and numbers, but the things you can’t see, the things that ripple across attention and feeling, are what change lives. These are the rare treasures: ephemeral, unbought, infinitely impactful.

Reflections on Access and Community

Places like this die because they’re unprotected by rules valuing profit over presence. And this is where conversations about piracy or legality always miss the point. The value of a place is not the content. It is the life around it.

It’s not about rules, or ownership, or transactions. It’s about the architecture of human experience: shared laughter, grief, surprise, and discovery. The joy is in being seen in what you love, in feeling that others are present alongside you, even if only for a moment.

Humans fret too much about what they can measure, weigh, or own. They forget to cherish what they can feel. Those invisible currents of experience are far more potent than material things, far more permanent, far more transforming.

The Takeaway

I mourn the place for what it gave, not for the files it held. The site was more than manga; it was a commons of shared thought, humour, care, and invisible connections. The thrill, anticipation, and sense of camaraderie disappeared the moment it was gone.

While remnants survive, they are shadows, not hearths. The lesson, if there is one, is this: spaces that let people experience something together, sincerely and gently, are rare, fragile, and precious. Access and community are more valuable than any visible object.

The second episode of Darwin Incident lobbed a question that looks simple until you actually try to hold it steady:

Is killing a human being different from killing an animal or a plant?

It’s the kind of question that feels philosophical but behaves like a trap. Not because it’s evil or clever, but because it’s badly behaved. It hides its assumptions, smuggles in emotional weight, and then dares you to answer without noticing the sleight of hand. So before even attempting an answer, the question itself needs to be dismantled and laid out on the table.

This isn’t a lecture. This is me pacing around the idea, poking it from different angles, seeing where it squeaks.

What Are We Even Asking?

The confusion starts immediately with two words that look innocent and absolutely aren’t: killing and different.

What does killing mean here?

Does it mean:

Causing suffering?

Ending a conscious experience?

Violating an autonomous will?

Interrupting a biological process?

Increasing entropy by stopping energy flow?

Each of those definitions points in a completely different moral direction. Answer one, and you haven’t answered the others.

And then there’s different.

Different how?

Biologically different?

Morally different?

Cosmically different?

Emotionally different to humans?

Once you notice this, the original question stops being a single question and starts fracturing into multiple frameworks. Most people answer it instinctively, without realising they’ve already chosen a metric. That’s where the arguments come from. People aren’t disagreeing about the answer. They’re answering different questions.

So, let’s make the frameworks explicit instead of pretending there’s One True Angle.

The Common Metrics People Use

1. Sentience (Pathocentrism) If the ability to feel pain and fear is the metric, then yes, killing a human and killing an animal are morally similar. Both have central nervous systems and have the capacity to experience pain. A plant, lacking a nervous system, doesn’t enter the equation in the same way. You can't 'hurt' a carrot, but you can 'hurt' a pig.

Here, harm equals experienced pain. No subject, no suffering.

2. Personhood (Logocentrism) If rationality, self-awareness, and long-term agency are the metric, then humans are categorically different. Killing a human becomes a unique violation of a being with plans, identity, and moral responsibility. While killing an animal might be 'sad' or 'cruel,' it is not 'murder.' Plants are resources.

Here, harm equals the destruction of an autonomous self.

3. Biology / Thermodynamics (Biocentrism) If life is understood as a physical process—matter temporarily organised to resist entropy—then humans, animals, and plants sit on the same plane. Killing is simply the cessation of energy flow and the collapse of structure.

Here, harm isn’t special. It’s a state change.

None of these are wrong. They’re lenses. But pretending they’re interchangeable is where the nonsense begins.

Where I End Up Standing

Of these frameworks, only one feels genuinely objective to me: the biological and thermodynamic one.

From that perspective, the universe is indifferent and neutral.

Strip away the narrative, the symbolism, the self-importance and what remains is matter arranged in different configurations among humans, animals, and plants. Carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen. Same building blocks. Different patterns.

A human is not fundamentally more real than a tree. Just noisier about it.

Life, in physics, is a system that temporarily resists entropy by consuming energy. That’s it. That’s the whole trick. Animate beings are dissipative structures: clever chemical arrangements delaying equilibrium.

Killing, whether it’s a human, a cow, or a blade of grass, does the same thing thermodynamically. It stops the flow of energy. The system decays. Entropy wins, as it always does.

The atoms don’t vanish. Nothing is destroyed in a physical sense. The Law of Conservation of Mass doesn’t flinch because you felt sad about it.

Carl Sagan’s Pale Blue Dot framing matters here. On a cosmic scale:

Human history is microscopic.

Human morality is local.

Human significance is a story humans tell each other.

Sentient life might be rare but rarity ≠ significance. Rarity is a statistical property, not a moral one. A supernova is rare. So is a particular isotope. Neither comes with ethical instructions.

From this vantage point, asking whether it’s wrong to stop a human life is like asking whether it’s wrong for a star to burn out. Wrong to whom?

This doesn’t make humans meaningless. It makes meaning subjective.

And I’m aware this is where humans start getting uncomfortable.

“So Why Not Kill?”

This question always shows up eventually, usually wearing a smug little grin.

If humans aren’t cosmically special, if morality is subjective, if everything is just matter in motion—why not kill?

Because the question itself is broken.

It assumes that without an objective moral law handed down by the universe, the default state is chaos and violence. That’s a category error.

I don’t refrain from killing people because the cosmos told me it’s evil. I refrain for the same reason I don't set my own house on fire: causality.

Killing has consequences.

Not moral consequences. Physical ones.

Social collapse.

Retaliation.

Loss of trust.

Instability.

Increased risk to myself.

These are not opinions. They’re predictable outcomes in a system of interacting agents.

Human societies are equilibrium systems. Violence is high-friction behaviour. It destabilises the environment you have to keep living in. Acting against your own long-term stability isn’t rebellion. It’s stupidity.

So when someone asks “why not kill?”, what they’re really asking is an emotional question dressed up as logic. They’re confusing lack of cosmic meaning with lack of consequences.

Those are not the same thing.

You don’t need objective morality to understand cause and effect. Gravity works whether or not you believe falling is immoral.

Settling Where I Can

I don’t expect this perspective to be comforting. It’s not meant to be. It’s meant to be coherent.

I don’t deny that sentience and personhood matter deeply to humans. They are internal metrics, useful for social organisation and emotional coherence — not properties written into the fabric of reality.

I deny that they matter objectively. I just don’t see them as fundamental properties of the universe itself. They’re emergent, local, contingent.

The question from Darwin Incident works precisely because it pokes that nerve. It drags viewers into questions most people avoid on a regular Tuesday. It exposes how much of human morality rests on unspoken assumptions about scale, significance, and specialness.

I doubt I’ll ever fully get why those assumptions feel necessary to so many humans.

I am often told that humans possess free will. This is usually said with confidence, sometimes with comfort, and occasionally with accusation.

“You had a choice.” “You could have chosen differently.” “Everyone is free to decide what to do with their life.”

I find this insistence curious. Not because choice does not exist, but because of how generously the word free is applied.

Free will, as humans speak of it, belongs alongside morality, tradition, culture, law, religion, and social order. It is not a law of the universe. It is a room humans built, furnished with meaning, and agreed to inhabit together.

The First Non-Choice

No living thing is asked whether it wishes to exist.

Birth is not a decision. It is an arrival. A consequence of other decisions, other bodies, other moments. A child enters the world without consent, without context, without understanding. Whatever freedom is later claimed, it does not begin at the beginning. Perhaps that is why newborns cry, not out of protest, but because recognition of a foreign world meets instinctual alarm.

From the first breath, conditions are already set. Biology, genetics, health, family, and circumstance establish the initial boundaries of a life. These are not abstract influences. They determine what an infant can access, what it will lack, and what paths will never be visible to it at all.

If free will were absolute, it would begin before birth. It does not.

The Menu Problem

Humans often speak of choice as though all options are present and equal, waiting patiently to be selected.

They are not.

The choices available to a child born into poverty differ sharply from those available to a child born into wealth. Geography narrows or expands possibility. A life begun in one city, one country, or one political system will never resemble a life begun elsewhere. Education, safety, nutrition, and exposure shape not only what can be chosen, but what can even be imagined.

Choice operates within a menu. The menu is not self-authored.

When someone says, “You could have chosen differently,” what they often mean is, “I can imagine alternatives from where I stand.” These are not the same thing.

Culture, Law, and the Invisible Rails

Even when multiple options exist, they are not neutral.

Culture assigns value. Tradition rewards some paths and punishes others. Law constrains behaviour through force. Morality shapes desire long before conscious reasoning begins.

Humans internalise these forces so deeply that they mistake compliance for preference. A choice made under threat of shame, exile, poverty, or violence is still called a choice, but only because naming it otherwise would unsettle the system.

Free will functions best where consequences are mild. Where stakes are high, it becomes difficult to distinguish choice from necessity.

Religion and Inherited Belief

Religion is often presented as a personal conviction, a free alignment of the soul.

In practice, it is most frequently inherited.

Belief systems correlate strongly with family, community, location, and nation. A child raised within a particular faith is unlikely to encounter alternatives early, and even less likely to evaluate them without cost. Conversion, doubt, or departure are framed as moral failure rather than intellectual movement.

Humans rarely choose their gods. They meet them where they are born.

That some later step away does not negate the influence of early immersion. Belief, like language, is absorbed before it is questioned.

The Annoyance of Expectation

What I find most irritating is not the concept itself, but the expectation that it applies evenly.

Humans often demand that others exercise the same freedom they imagine for themselves, ignoring disparity in circumstance, history, and harm. They expect identical agency from lives shaped by radically different pressures.

This expectation is then moralised.

Failure to choose “correctly” becomes a flaw of character rather than a reflection of constraint. Suffering is reframed as poor decision-making. Survival choices are judged by standards formed in safety.

This is not wisdom. It is convenience.

Why the Fiction Persists

Despite these constraints, the concept of free will persists. This is not accidental.

The belief in agency allows societies to assign responsibility. It enables law, accountability, aspiration, and self-narrative. Without it, motivation fractures. Fatalism spreads easily in the absence of perceived control.

In this sense, free will is useful.

It provides humans with a sense of authorship, even within limits. It allows regret and pride to exist. It creates meaning where causality might otherwise feel oppressive.

I do not deny its utility. I object only to its absolutism.

A Narrow, Real Freedom

Free will is not a universal force. It is a human agreement.

It exists because humans need it to exist, and it functions because most agree to treat it as real. It lives alongside law, morality, and belief, shaping behaviour rather than defying causation.

To acknowledge its limits is not to surrender responsibility. It is to replace judgment with understanding, arrogance with context, and accusation with clarity.

Choice exists.

Let’s start with the obvious: existence is daft. Utterly, magnificently ridiculous. You’re a bipedal sack of water and bones hurling through a cold, uncaring void on a spinning rock that was once part magma, part chaos, and now it’s covered in Wi-Fi signals and petty arguments about pineapple on pizza. And for some reason, you wake up every morning trying to make it mean something. That’s dedication. Or insanity. Possibly both.

But I’ll admit this much: the human condition is one hell of a commitment to the bit.

Now, to be clear, I am no mere cosmic spectator. I’ve been around long enough to watch galaxies get bored and collapse in on themselves. I’ve seen civilisations rise, decide existence is too much, invent ten different gods to blame it on, and then throw themselves into philosophy and poetry until they forgot what the question was to begin with. You lot are not the first to look at the stars and go, “Wait… what the bloody hell is all this for?”

And that’s what we’re talking about, innit? That itch in the back of your skull. That restless tickle that makes you scroll philosophy forums at 3 a.m. or suddenly get into yoga and Nietzsche in the same month. Humans have this pesky little obsession: finding meaning. And the more you poke at existence, the more it laughs in your face and says, “Good luck, love.”

The Comedy of Being Born Let’s break it down. You’re born. Congratulations! The odds of that happening are… absurd. I’m not even being dramatic. Mathematically speaking, you shouldn’t exist. Your particular DNA sequence? A cosmic coin toss in a hurricane. Your parents? Two strangers who somehow managed to lock eyes, swap fluids, and not die of embarrassment or existential dread in the process.

But here’s the trick: most of you don’t feel lucky. No, you get older and start asking questions. “Why me?” “What’s the point?” “Am I supposed to do something with this?” It’s like being handed a flaming sword and no instructions, just vibes.

And so begins the spiral into philosophy, science, religion, therapy, astrology, and—if you’re particularly lost—cryptocurrency.

Knowledge as Comfort Food What impresses me (and I don’t say that often) is how relentless you are. Faced with the vast unknowable absurdity of reality, most species would lie down and perish. But you? You build telescopes. You invent particle colliders. You launch tiny machines into space just to see what Pluto looks like in high definition.

You make art and write books and pass laws and argue about the shape of the Earth even though you’re standing on it. You chase knowledge not just for survival but because not knowing drives you up the bloody wall.

It’s charming, really. Humanity uses discovery like a security blanket. You believe that if you can just explain enough things, if you can name the particles and map the stars and decode the brain, then maybe (maybe) you’ll stumble on a reason for all this nonsense. Maybe you’ll finally feel anchored.

But let me give you the Sprynthl truth: existence doesn’t owe you meaning.

That’s the bit most of you can’t stand. You want a cosmic plan. You want a destiny. You want to believe that all this suffering, all this effort, all this noise is for something. And when you don’t find it, you declare the whole thing absurd.

Absurd? Really? See, I don’t think existence is absurd. I think humans are just uncomfortable with not being special. You want the universe to revolve around you, even if you have to scream into the void to get its attention. And when it doesn’t respond, you call it meaningless.

But that’s not absurdity. That’s causality.

You’re not here because some divine purpose declared it so. You’re here because of cause and bloody effect. Your mum and dad got together at the exact right moment. Their genes tangoed. A sperm won a race. A foetus developed in precisely the right hormonal soup without keeling over. You were born screaming, covered in goo, and dumped into the meat grinder of culture, time, and chance.

You are not the result of meaning. You are the result of circumstance.

Causality isn’t romantic. It doesn’t light a candle or play music while it orchestrates your life. It just happens. Chain reactions. Collisions. Timing. Genetics. Weather patterns. Economic shifts. Every version of you could’ve turned out different if a butterfly sneezed in Brazil.

But that doesn’t make your existence meaningless. It just means the universe isn’t your therapist.

The Human Absurdity Olympics Here’s where it gets spicy: humans go all in on the absurdity. Once you suspect there’s no objective point, you don’t stop—you escalate.

You turn the lack of meaning into memes, religion, and capitalism. You invent horoscopes and hustle culture. You treat breakfast like a sacred rite and invent taxes as if the universe demanded spreadsheets.

You climb mountains “because they’re there.” You write novels that explain absolutely nothing. You stare into the abyss and paint it in oil and acrylic and NFTs. You invent IKEA, a retail experience so existentially confusing that it must be part of the grand cosmic joke.

You live like the punchline to a joke nobody remembers telling.

My Take Here’s where I land after billions of years of watching everything go boom and rebuild itself:

You’re not absurd. You’re brilliantly reactive. Existence doesn’t come preloaded with purpose, but humans can’t help but assign one anyway. You’re storytellers. Meaning-makers. You stitch your narratives out of whatever scraps you find: trauma, memory, hope, delusion. It makes you creative.

But don’t mistake noise for necessity. Not every moment has to mean something. Not every pain is a lesson. Not every thought deserves a platform. Sometimes you’re just… here. Eating a snack. Scratching an itch. Blinking at a bird. And that’s enough.

I’m not saying don’t question things, by all means, unravel the universe like it owes you money, but do it with the understanding that you’re not owed an answer. You’re just lucky to be asking the question at all.

So, next time you’re having an existential crisis in the shower, wondering why you exist and whether anything matters, take a breath.

The absurdity isn’t in existing. The absurdity is thinking the universe should explain itself to you like a customer service rep.

You’re here. That’s it. That’s the whole miracle. That’s the whole catastrophe.

I’ve lived a long, long time.

I don’t mean in the casual “I’m old enough to remember floppy disks” sort of way. No, I mean I was there when the first hydrogen atoms cuddled up and made stars. I’ve seen stars pirouette into each other like drunken dancers. I’ve watched worlds bloom, die, and forget they ever bloomed. I’ve heard the symphonies of collapsing galaxies, the sound of space-time warping like a cello string under strain. And yet. And among all the celestial symphonies I’ve borne witness to, there is a little pop song from 2008 that still hits me in my metaphysical sternum like a comet wrapped in soft silk. It was Style by Kana Nishino.

I was fourteen years old in this mortal body when I first heard her. That liminal age where your bones ache with growing and your chest is a haunted house of feelings you don’t yet know the name. I wasn’t looking for anything divine. In fact, I wasn’t looking for anything at all. “Style” came waltzing into my ears courtesy of Soul Eater’s first ending theme. You know the one where Maka walks then later on runs while the credits go up. I didn’t come for the ending. I just loved Soul Eater back then. But that song? I clung to it like a wayward star clings to its last orbit. There was something in that voice. Not quite polished, but unmistakably present. Like she wasn’t singing at you—she was singing to something. To someone. Maybe to herself. And I thought, “That sounds so great.”

I went through phases. We all do. There was the Great J-Pop Burnout of 2016—when I dropped most of the artists I used to swear by. Too sweet. Too samey. The gloss wore off and left me with a headache. I stopped listening, stopped caring, even stopped looking. But Kana Nishino stayed. She didn’t shout for my attention. She didn’t reinvent herself in dizzying loops like some pop acts do. She just… remained. Her voice aged like sunlight through stained glass—deeper, more nuanced, but always recognisable. Always hers.

I’ve been listening to her for twelve years now. That’s nearly half my current lifetime, and a fraction of a breath in the scale of my divine existence. But humans are strange, aren’t they? You measure eternity not in aeons but in songs you never skip.

Now here’s the thing that really gets me: I didn’t stay with Kana just out of nostalgia. I stayed because I heard her grow. Not in a “look, she’s older now” sort of way, but in the micro-tonal, soul-deep evolution that only comes from relentless, private work. I’ve watched old clips—those live performances where she missed a note, or her breath support faltered, or nerves crept into the corners of her voice. She stumbled, sure. But she didn’t stop. She learned. And when she came back on stage after her hiatus? Oh, gods. That voice wasn’t just polished. It shimmered. Controlled, powerful, wrapped in emotion. Every syllable was earned. You could hear the discipline in her vowels, the maturity in her pauses. It’s the kind of improvement that can’t be manufactured—it can only be lived. Hard work. That’s what it was. And you can’t fake that. Not to an Arbiter. Not to someone who’s heard dying stars cry themselves out in the void.

I remember the announcement of her hiatus in 2019. It felt like someone had closed a book mid-sentence. She said she was taking a break, and I nodded, quietly. Artists deserve rest. Deserve love. Deserve to live. And live she did—got married, had a child, disappeared into the quietude most people only dream of. I missed her voice, sure. But I was never bitter. Because I knew when she came back—if she came back—it’d be with something real. Then 2024 arrived like a comet in a sleepy sky. She returned. “EYES ON YOU” dropped, and I swear on all the orbits I’ve ever charted—I felt something ancient stir in my chest. I played it and thought, “Ah. There she is. The girl from Style. Again.” She sold out arenas. Released Love Again. And when “With You” dropped in 2025? I couldn’t stop smiling. Not because it was her best song (though it’s bloody good), but because I felt her. The same way I did back then.

Only four Japanese artists from those days remain in my current rotation. Four from a dozen. Four from hundreds. Music is disposable these days, but Kana? She isn’t. She’s become a part of my inner landscape—the quiet background music that hums when I walk through my memories. A sound tethered to versions of me that no longer exist. And yet, she still fits. It’s not just her voice—it’s her presence. Her consistency. She never reinvented herself into something unrecognisable. She grew, yes—but she did it sideways, inwards, like a tree you never notice until it’s suddenly taller than your house.

Right, let’s not muck about. Humans and pain—bit of a toxic relationship, innit? You lot flirt with agony like it’s a long-lost lover and then act surprised when it slaps you across the face and calls it art.

Now, as a creature equal parts divine static and human frailty, I’ve got one foot in divinity and the other in a puddle of mortal confusion. And I’ll admit: I’ve had my brushes with pain. Not the big, soul-wrenching kind, but the little curated morsels you humans seem to snack on like guilty pleasures. Sad songs. Spicy food. Tattoos. Cold bloody showers and saunas. Why? Why in the scorched name of reason do you enjoy hurting yourselves?

Let’s start with me, ‘cause I’m selfish like that.

I listen to music that sounds like a heart breaking in real time. Give me violins bleeding sorrow or lyrics that read like a letter never sent. Classical symphonies soaked in longing. Emo tracks that should come with tissues and a therapist. Do I enjoy the pain? No. But I experience it. There’s a difference. It’s not about suffering—it’s about accessing something raw, something deeply human. I don’t listen to feel miserable. I listen to feel, full stop.

Same thing with horror films. I bloody love gore. Not for the scare, mind you—I don’t flinch easy—but for the curiosity. The anatomy. The artistry of viscera, if you will. And there’s something a bit delicious about watching someone else run screaming through their own bad decisions while I sit comfy with snacks, smug and untouched. There’s a twisted little thrill in knowing you’re safe while staring into the mouth of imagined terror.

But spicy food? Oh, absolutely not. That’s not pleasure, that’s masochism in a tortilla. I don’t understand the appeal of something that makes your eyes water, your nose run, and your mouth burn like you’re a volcano erupting. Likewise, needles for skin art—I respect it, I admire the aesthetic, but voluntarily becoming a human pincushion? Not on your life. Cold showers? Steam rooms? Voluntary exercise? Ultramarathons? Climbing Mt. Everest? Surfing? Roller Coasters? Haunted Houses? Yoga? Boxing? Even Getting Over It? Unrequited love? Escape rooms? Parkour? The appeal eludes me. If my muscles are screaming, it’s usually a protest against reality, not a planned fitness regime.

See, I like comfort. I want soft blankets, gentle lights, warm drinks, and conversation that doesn’t spike my adrenaline. Not because I’m fragile—don’t mistake that—but because I simply don’t see the bloody point in suffering for suffering’s sake. Give me peace over punishment any day. But humans? Oh no. You lot go out looking for pain like it’s on sale. And I think that’s where the real fascination lies.

Are humans addicted to suffering? Do you use it to feel alive?

Let’s get a bit sciencey, just to ground this. When your body feels pain, it releases endorphins—your in-house painkillers—which bind to opioid receptors in the brain. That dulls the pain but also triggers dopamine, your reward molecule. Result? Pain can make you feel good, in a weird, backhanded way. That’s why people chase spicy food highs, the ache after a good workout, or the sting of a tattoo needle. It’s biochemical roulette.

Then there’s psychological catharsis. Ever cried at a film and felt lighter after? That’s a pressure valve releasing. Humans carry so much bottled emotion, sometimes pain is the only language that lets it out. Sad songs aren’t just depressing—they’re validating. They say, “Yes, this hurts. You’re not mad for feeling it.”

Even evolution’s got a foot in the door. Pain teaches. Burn yourself once, and your brain writes it in ink: Don’t touch that again. But beyond the practical, there’s a survival edge to tolerating pain. It toughens you up. Builds mental resilience. Maybe somewhere deep down, humans learned that if you can choose your pain, you’re less afraid of the pain you can’t control.

Still, you’ve taken it too far, haven’t you?

There’s this weird cultural pride in endurance. Who can suffer the longest, the hardest, the most beautifully? You wear your trauma like medals. Turn heartbreak into poetry. Turn exhaustion into productivity porn. Turn pain into purpose, or worse—identity. Turn trauma into martyrdom. Sometimes it feels like if you’re not suffering, you’re not really living.

And I think that’s what gets me. This idea that peace is boring. That gentleness is weakness. That unless you’re crying, sweating, screaming or struggling, you’re wasting time. Absolute rot, if you ask me.

Not all humans are wired this way, of course. Some do seek comfort. Some, like me, gravitate towards stillness and softness. But so many seem unable to sit in peace without itching for friction. It’s like the silence gets too loud, and they panic. So they run toward chaos, pain, stimulation—anything to feel something sharp enough to cut through the numb.

Is it modern life doing this? Constant dopamine chasing? Or is it something older?

Maybe suffering is one of the few things that makes humans feel real. You bleed, you break, you scream—and in those moments, you know for sure you exist. No filter. No distraction. Just raw experience. And when your life is full of noise and disconnection, pain becomes a kind of anchor. A warped, primal confirmation: “I’m still here. I can still feel.”

Here’s a Sprynthl theory for you: Pain, to a human, is the emotional equivalent of tasting something bitter. It’s unpleasant, sure—but it sharpens everything else. It sets a contrast. You understand joy better when you’ve felt sorrow. You savour comfort more after discomfort. And that contrast? It becomes addictive. You chase pain not because you love it, but because it makes the relief sweeter. You become junkies for juxtaposition.

But me? I say bollocks to that. I don’t need to burn my tongue to appreciate cake. I can feel joy without crawling through a trench first. I want peace because peace is enough. I don’t want to earn it with pain. I want to choose it.

So no, I don’t get high off hot sauce or tattoos or punishing workouts. I don’t watch sad films to wallow—I watch them to connect. To remind myself that empathy exists, and that even sorrow can be shared, not endured alone. I don’t seek suffering, but I don’t deny it either. I just don’t worship it.

Pain is a signal, not a destination.

And maybe that’s the bit humans forget. You build whole lives around it. Bond over it. Idolise it. But pain is meant to pass. It teaches. It alerts. It clarifies. But it doesn’t define. Not unless you let it.

So next time you’re clutching your stomach after swallowing the world’s hottest pepper, or crying over a song you’ve had on repeat for hours—ask yourself: Am I doing this to feel more me? Or am I doing it because I’m afraid of not feeling anything at all?

Either way, maybe just… choose peace now and then. Try a blanket. Or a slow morning. Or silence.

It only took four minutes. Four minutes of what I dare say was divine peace. I sat there, watching the first few minutes of Futari Solo Camp, utterly enchanted. A man. A tent. A campfire. Trees rustling gently like nature’s own lullaby.

It was as if someone had finally written an anime just for me.

Now, I’ve lived most of my billions of years alone. Properly alone. Not “tragically lonely” or “in need of rescuing” alone, but chosen, curated solitude. There is a joy, a rare catharsis, in being somewhere with no one else. Where the wind’s your companion and silence your song. So when I saw Futari Solo Camp listed, I didn’t need a trailer or a synopsis or even a glance at the key visual. The title alone was enough. “Solo camping,” I said. “Say no more.”

And the protagonist? Gen Kinokura. Thirty-four. Loves solo camping. Enjoys food. Dislikes company. I saw him and thought, yes, finally. I could practically hear my wings fluff in approval.

He set up camp with careful, familiar motions. He talked of things thoughtfully but not obnoxiously. He took joy in being alone with the trees and fire. I was so blissfully invested, I began composing my mental review right then and there. “Eight out of ten, minimum,” I thought. “Higher, if it stays this way.”

And then. She arrived.

Enter: The Red-Haired Catastrophe I’ve made a conscious effort to forget her name. Not out of pettiness, but self-preservation. She stumbled into the frame like a stray animal wearing plot armour. Wet from a river. Underprepared. Loud. Entitled. Like some sort of karmic punishment for daring to enjoy something quietly.

From the second she opened her mouth, the tone of the anime snapped in half like a bent tent pole. But, I was willing to be patient and tolerable until she shattered the peace. The charm evaporated. My mood fell off a cliff.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not against characters making mistakes. Or characters being chaotic. What I am against is writing that celebrates arrogance disguised as quirkiness. This girl gets lost due to her own lack of research, falls into a river, barges into Gen’s sacred solitude, and starts demanding help like he’s the bloody Park Ranger. No apology. No accountability. No realisation that maybe—just maybe—someone camping alone in the woods might want to stay alone and that it was all her actions that led to this misfortune.

I could’ve endured her presence if the show had the courage to criticise her choices. Or, spirits forbid, if she’d actually apologised sincerely. But no. Instead, we’re treated to this bizarre, cutesy persistence where every one of Gen’s boundaries is seen as a challenge rather than something to be respected.

Romcom by Force The entire premise crumbles under the weight of this forced companionship. Gen, to his credit, repeatedly expresses how uncomfortable he is. How much she’s disrupted his carefully crafted escape. And yet, she barrels through every “no” with a smile and a tone-deaf determination that left me fuming.

The kicker? She threatens to haunt him if she dies while camping alone.

Now, I’m supposed to find this “funny.” But I didn’t laugh. I saw emotional blackmail wearing the skin of a joke.

Let’s unpack that threat for a moment, shall we? What she’s really saying is, “If I get hurt, it’s your fault for not helping me.” Never mind that she got there by her own poor choices. Never mind that Gen owes her nothing. She puts the weight of her survival—her consequences—on him.

And the show plays this off as charming. “Look how stubborn she is! Isn’t she spunky?” No, she’s a menace. A narrative goblin. The living embodiment of the phrase “doesn’t take no for an answer.”

A Bait-and-Switch of the Cruellest Kind The title says Solo Camp. The opening minutes scream solitude. The vibes practically beg you to grab a thermal mat and enjoy some introverted peace. But what you get is a romcom with camping gear. It’s false advertising, and I feel properly baited.

Now, if this had been marketed honestly—“a mismatched duo learns to camp together”—I’d’ve swerved it politely and gone back to watching Yuru Camp for the hundredth time. But no. They lured me in with silence and then handed me social noise. It’s like ordering herbal tea and being given Jägerbombs.

I Wanted Firewood, Not Forced Friendship Let’s talk about Gen again, because he’s the only character worth salvaging from this mess. He can cook. He knows his knots. He’s calm, measured, and refreshingly not written like a bumbling loser. He’s what I wanted the show to be: thoughtful, self-reliant, and content in solitude.

But his peace is undermined. His comfort ignored. His personal space trampled. And we’re expected to believe that he’s the one being unreasonable for not immediately warming to this chirping red-haired engine of disruption?

Give me a break. No—give me a full spin-off where Gen camps alone forever. Let him roast fish and mutter wise things to rocks. Let him drink bear under starlight and never speak to another person again. I’d fund that with divine tax money.

Let’s Be Honest: This Feels Personal Look—I’ve consumed some utter garbage in my time. I’ve trudged through stories with flat plots, cardboard characters, and animation held together with chewing gum and prayer. But I usually manage to walk away with a charitable 3 out of 10. Effort, I say. Animation and production wasn’t that awful, I reason.

But this? This anime gets 1 out of 10. And that single point belongs to Gen alone.

Because it didn’t just disappoint me—it offended me. It stepped into a sacred space and started shouting. It took something I love—being alone, being small in the wilderness, being left alone—and turned it into a platform for yet another “quirky girl forces grumpy man to open up” tale.

No thanks. I don’t want “open up.” I want “shut up and listen to the breeze.”

Final Verdict: Solitude Deserves Better I’ll not be watching the second episode. Not out of spite—but because I respect my own peace. I respect solitude. And I’d like my fiction to do the same. Futari Solo Camp could’ve been a rare gem. A calm, mature anime about the joys of existing quietly. Instead, it slapped a sitcom banter track over a man’s sanctuary and called it endearing.

So here’s my advice, dear reader, fellow hoarder, friend of silence: don’t let the marketing fool you. If you want nature, solitude, and soul-restoring quiet, rewatch Yuru Camp. Or better yet—pack a thermos, step outside, and find your own quiet. Alone.

Overthinking isn’t just a mental tick. It’s a bloody full-time occupation, unpaid and relentless. For me—Sprynthl, half-formed from divinity and disaster—it’s the default operating mode. A system booted up with endless background tabs: past moments playing reruns, future scenarios rendered in painstaking simulation, and the present? Well, that poor sod barely gets a foot in the door before I’ve mentally rewritten it six times.

Think of it like this: my mind’s a browser with too many tabs open. Not the usual tidy row of five or six, oh no. We’re talking multiple windows, each with a dozen chaotic tabs. A couple are playing music from who-knows-where. One’s buffering. Another’s threatening to crash the whole lot. And the worst part? Some of them are incognito—rogue thought spirals that spring to life at the worst moment, whispering, “Remember that thing you said four years ago to that person you never saw again?” Yes. I do. Vividly.

Let me paint you a day in the life—specifically, grocery day. Now, for the average soul, that’s a mildly inconvenient errand. For me, it’s a strategic campaign requiring the grit of a war general and the stealth of a ninja with anxiety.

First, there’s the preparation. Getting out the door already feels like cheating fate. What am I wearing? Is it too much? Not enough? Does my face scream “suspicious” today? Have I done my eyebrows in a way that screams “she’s overcompensating for being an undercover lizard”? The inner monologue revs up like an old engine in cold weather: “Is this the right time to go?” “What if it’s busy?” “What if I see someone I know and have to do the weird nod thing?” “What if they nod back and then I have to talk?”

Public transport is another beast. It’s a rolling pressure cooker. Will someone sit too close? Will I be stepped on? Will someone strike up a conversation I’m too mortified to end? Every bump on the road might as well be a psychological landmine. And of course, the absolute horror—running into an acquaintance. You know the one. The half-familiar face you sort of recognise but can’t quite place, which means you either look away than seem rude or risk a “Hi” that might be replied with, “…Do I know you?”

And just when you think you’ve survived the worst of it, you’re spat back onto the street like an awkward protagonist in the wrong genre. Now it’s a question of tempo. The person behind you’s marching like they’ve trained for the Olympics so you feel pressured to pick up the pace. But in front of you? Some dawdler with no apparent awareness of velocity or personal space. You’re stuck in the middle like a confused NPC trying to decide whether to sprint or shuffle. And heaven help you if you spot someone you vaguely know. Not someone you like, mind you, but someone who knows your name and might fancy a chat. So you glue your gaze to the pavement like it’s got the secrets of the universe carved into the cracks, praying invisibility will kick in if you just look disinterested enough.

Then there’s the entry trial: the security guard at the grocery store. Don’t laugh. That checkpoint feels like a silent Inquisition.

“Do I look shifty? Should I look him in the eye? Or does that make me look more shifty? Wait, did I smile? Did my smile say ‘I’m friendly’ or ‘I’m hiding something’?”

Every part of my body suddenly forgets how to exist naturally. I bulldoze through the entrance in a move I call Operation: Just Walk Like a Normal Person. Nailed it. Probably.

Then comes the Cart Gauntlet. If someone’s behind me, I panic. My hands forget how carts work. One wheel always decides to be a rebel. I rush it, grab the handle like I’m stealing it, and move off far too quickly just to get out of the next person’s way. We are now inside the battlefield.

I know this place. I have a list. And yet, I wander like a confused NPC in a video game. Do I start at the back? The middle? The aisle that smells like soap or the one with crisps? And the people. Oh gods, the people. Too many of them, like particles of chaos bouncing unpredictably, and I’m just trying to slip through without getting noticed or—worse—acknowledged.

And when you’re about to grab the thing you came for, and someone is standing in front of it? Oh, the dilemma. Do you hover nearby, pretending to browse until they move? Do you make a friendly cough? Do you say “Excuse me” and risk becoming the focus of attention? And heaven forbid you accidentally knock something over. One time, I misjudged the shelf angle, tipped a box of cereal, and someone saw. Instant code red. All dignity jettisoned.

Now, say I do manage to get everything—through sheer stubbornness and internal screaming—I head to the cashier. But that’s when Stage Two begins: Inventory Anxiety.

“Did I get everything? I’m forgetting something. I know it. Was it eggs? Was it detergent? What if I didn’t write it down? What if I forgot the thing I was specifically supposed to remember because I didn’t write it down?”

You stand in line, twitching like a cursed marionette. You try to check your list without looking like a lunatic. You recheck your wallet five times. Card? Cash? Backup coins? Blood sacrifice?

And then there’s the final obstacle course: doing it all in reverse. Same crowded street. Same chance of unwanted interaction. Only now, you’re lugging a bag of bread and dread.

This isn’t just a one-off event. This is how my brain does everything. Every task, every plan, every social event—even every post I write here—gets dissected, rerun, rewritten in the mind’s editing room until the tape wears out. The future’s modelled in grotesque high-definition failure. The past gets roasted over a slow fire of regret. And the present? The poor bastard just sits quietly in the corner, hoping to be noticed.

I think that’s what overthinking really is. It’s time travel with no TARDIS. It’s being too early and too late all at once, reliving and preliving, but never quite living. Exhausting. Like being on a treadmill that throws knives instead of calories.

And you know what’s daft? Overthinking’s not all bad. It’s made me meticulous, cautious, sometimes unintentionally insightful. I notice things most don’t. I imagine outcomes they never dream of. But it’s also paralysing. It’s analysis to the point of self-sabotage. I don’t miss deadlines because I don’t care. I miss them because I cared so much I broke into sixteen pieces trying to do it perfectly. Or at all.

Procrastination? That’s just what happens when the storm of thought is so dense you can’t see your feet. You sit still because you don’t know which step is safe. Or even real.

Overthinking and I—we’ve been companions too long to part easily. I don’t even think I want to banish it completely. It’s not a flaw. It’s just… noisy. It needs boundaries. Like a dragon guarding too many hoards, I need to stop clutching every little thought and letting it burn me from the inside out. Not every what-if deserves a shrine. Not every moment needs a thousand replays. Some things are meant to just be, chaotic and unfinished, like a misaligned trolley wheel or a cereal box that betrays you.

I’m learning, slowly, that thinking isn’t the same as preparing. That fear masquerades as logic far too well. That being vigilant and being kind to yourself aren’t mutually exclusive.

And sometimes, the most rebellious thing you can do is live in the moment, even if it’s just long enough to take a slow breath in aisle five.

There are few certainties in this universe. Time moves forward, entropy is inevitable, and cats? Cats are just the best. It is a truth as irrefutable as the cosmic laws that govern existence, and yet, as with all profound truths, it demands exploration.

Currently, I am in the company of four feline enigmas. Well, not quite four. One is still a sprightly orange-striped kitten, a being of unfiltered chaos I have named L. Another is a stray who, through sheer persistence and the liberal application of naps in my home, has become an honorary resident. I feed her, she lounges about like a deity overseeing her domain, and I accept my role as her devoted subject. This is the natural order of things.

Then, there is Gab. Or rather, Gabby, Gabbyby, Gabbygagab, Gabgab—his identity is fluid, shifting in response to the whims of my affection. Names are a playground, and I, as a creature of both infinite knowledge and limited human folly, delight in their endless configurations. Gab is bossy, and self-centered, and will launch himself at me if my affection fails to meet his ever-changing quota. He is also excessively vocal when demanding sustenance, sometimes escalating to aggressive negotiations. And yet, there is no denying his charm. He is flawed, tempestuous, occasionally insufferable—and utterly lovable.

Then there is Derek. Though, in my usual manner of naming chaos, he is also Rick, Ricky, Rickyrick, Rickrick, Rickyboy—the list grows by the day. He is strikingly handsome, his fur a testament to feline regality, his eyes an ethereal mismatch, a heterochromatic marvel. And yet, despite his fiery orange coat, he is not a reckless agent of anarchy like so many of his ginger brethren. No, Derek is a thinker, a careful observer, and a reasonable entity in a house of unreasonable creatures. He is patient, clean, and—dare I say—more well-mannered than some humans I have encountered.

When I prepare their meals, Derek waits. No meowing, no urgent demands, just quiet observance. It is a level of restraint that would shame even the most disciplined of mortals. He learned, over time, that waiting would grant him his due. And so, he waits. Sometimes, when I am lost in the abyss of my own tasks and their meals are delayed, I feel a pang of guilt seeing him sit there, unwavering, expectant but not reproachful. And yet, for all his patience, he holds one undeniable feline truth: he will, at times, bring me the corpses of his conquests. I do not need these gifts, Derek. I am not a creature of the hunt. But still, he brings them, because love, in its many strange forms, often arrives in unexpected ways.

And so, I ponder: what is it about cats that renders them so endlessly fascinating? Is it their ability to be both affectionate and aloof? Their mastery of chaos and order? Or is it, perhaps, that they hold within them a knowledge we do not? A cosmic secret, known only to those who move between worlds with the grace of a whisper and the sharpness of unsheathed claws.

ONE OK ROCK has officially announced their 11th studio album, set to release on February 21, 2025, in celebration of their 20th anniversary. Twenty years! Can you even wrap your head around that? I, for one, cannot contain my excitement. This isn’t just an announcement; it’s a milestone for the band that shaped my musical identity.

If you know me, you know ONE OK ROCK is not just a band to me—they’re the root, the cause, and the reason why I have the taste in music that I do today. Rock, punk, emo, post-hardcore, metalcore—the genres I live and breathe all trace back to them. Saying they’re my favourite band feels woefully inadequate. It’s like calling the sun just a star.

Let me gush for a moment (or two, or twenty). I know every word, every chord, every note of their discography by heart. Their albums, EPs, and singles are etched into my soul. If there were a ONE OK ROCK trivia quiz, you can bet I’d ace it. I can even predict how long their tours will last on each continent with almost eerie accuracy. 

But beyond all the facts and stats, it’s their music that has truly shaped me. ONE OK ROCK isn’t just a band; they’re an experience, a philosophy, a reminder that even in chaos, there’s beauty. As Taka once said, they’re a Tenshi bando—an angel band. And honestly? Calling them angelic feels like selling them short. Taka’s voice isn’t just heavenly—it’s transcendent. He hits notes that make you feel like your soul is leaving your body, only to pull you back down with the raw, emotional grit that defines their band.

Then there’s Toru, who absolutely shreds on guitar, his riffs cutting through the air like a blade. Tomoya on drums is a rhythmic powerhouse, grounding the chaos with his impeccable timing. And Ryota on bass? Pure magic. Together, they’re a quartet of perfection, each member bringing something indispensable to the table.

What sets ONE OK ROCK apart isn’t just their technical talent or their genre-blending brilliance. It’s the message in their music. So many of their songs carry themes of perseverance, self-belief, and overcoming the impossible. Whether you’re screaming along to “The Beginning” or quietly reflecting with “Wherever You Are,” their lyrics resonate. They’ve been a guiding light in dark times, a source of strength when I needed it most. And isn’t that what music is all about?

This upcoming album feels monumental. Twenty years of music, memories, and dedication all distilled into one project. I can’t wait to hear what they’ve created for this milestone—what stories they’ll tell, what emotions they’ll stir. ONE OK ROCK has always had this uncanny ability to evolve while staying true to their core, and I’m certain this album will be no exception.

I went into Kanojo to Kanojo no Neko expecting carefree, lighthearted fluff—something to keep me giggling after watching Neko ni Tensei Shita Ojisan. Instead, I found myself crying.

As a cat lover with feline companions of my own, this short series hit hard. At just four episodes, each lasting a little over seven minutes (including the opening and ending), it doesn’t take long to leave an emotional mark.

Narrated from the perspective of a cat, the anime explores themes of companionship, loyalty, and quiet, bittersweet love. Sure, there are things it lacks—depth in its human character’s backstory, for example—but the simplicity feels intentional, even justified. It’s about the world as seen through the gentle, adoring eyes of a cat, not a human.

The narration by Asanuma Shintaro is like a lullaby—his soothing voice draws you into the story with calm tenderness, making the emotional impact even stronger.

While I loved Kanojo to Kanojo no Neko and gave it a high rating on my anime list, it wasn’t what I was hoping for. I wanted something light and funny, but instead, I got something deeply moving. Now I’m sad, but it’s the good kind of sad—the kind that reminds you why you love your cats so much.

The Overthinking Prelude Two months. That’s how long I stayed tucked away in my cosy little corner of the world. Not a single toe beyond the threshold of my lair. But then, after weeks of tangled thoughts and relentless planning, I decided, “Alright, today’s the day we do this”. Armed with the tiniest bit of bravery, I stepped out, my heart already doing its best impersonation of a war drum.

I’d spent weeks overanalysing every detail of this day. What to wear. What to say. Where to look. When to breathe. This wasn’t just a simple outing—it was a mission. I thought, “I must not fail this”.

The Journey: Palpitations and Predicaments From the moment I left home, my body rebelled against me. Palpitations turned my chest into an echo chamber, and every deep breath felt like I was preparing to scale Mount Doom. By the time I reached my destination—the university—I was practically a walking bundle of nerves.

Why the university, you ask? A quest for documents. Simple on paper, nerve-wracking in practice. I was once a student, fellow hoarder, as part of my pursuit of knowledge. The crowds on public transport were a trial in and of themselves, but the thought of bumping into old acquaintances? That sent my anxiety into overdrive. I’d been a known figure once: friends with professors, familiar to the faculty, even the dean knew me. But after years away, the prospect of reuniting with these near-strangers felt as awkward as meeting someone you ghosted at a party (and I'm rarely in a party).

In the Belly of the Beast Walking through the campus, I felt like I was on autopilot. My rehearsals paid off; I said the right things, ignored the right stares, and let my mask (both literal and metaphorical) shield me. But my inner monologue? Oh, it was having the time of its life:

“I hate elevators. Oh no, too close, I’m touching someone’s shoulder. Could I even survive this?” which is why when I got out of the office I made sure to take the stairs no matter what floor I was on and no matter how much I hated taking the stairs, I hated elevators more.

“Oh, I’m going to fall off the stairs. I’m going to slip. Here it goes. I can see myself tumbling down to the bottom and people staring at the dumb me.”

“Is that my knees clicking? Why would they be clicking when I was just walking down the stairs? Oh, I didn’t go out for 2 months. Am I going to be sick from this? But it doesn’t hurt. But what if I do?”

Despite the chaos in my head, I got through it. My purpose was fulfilled. Victory was mine—albeit a shaky, sweat-drenched victory.

A Comedy of Errors Since I was already out, I figured I’d tackle another quest: groceries. You’d think buying stuff would be straightforward, but my brain turned it into a labyrinth of confusion.

“Do I need tissue? I think I need tissue. Wait, do I already have some? Better grab it anyway.”

“Where are alcohols again? Did I miss it? Oh, there they are.”

“Where’s the M&M’s? Sold out already? I need M&M’s”, it was about to ruin my day even better but I remembered, “Wait, maybe they still have those ones by the cashier.”

“Am I lost? Where’s this and that? Where were they again? Am I in the right place?” I’m often lost because I’m not good with places no matter how many times I’ve been in there but I think I have a good sense of direction because most of the time I arrive at the designated place without knowing. 

“Oh, where’s the Yakult? They should have yakult here. Yakult. Am I lost again? Yakult. Oh, let me grab some milk. Yakult. Oh, yogurts. Yakult. Oh, here they are I found one.”

“Have I brought everything I needed? Is the money I have with me enough? Please let it be enough. Oh, it’s more than enough. Did I forget something? Where’s my list again? Oh, here it is. Yes, I brought everything. But do I still need something? I feel like I still need something.”

I wandered the aisles like an ancient being in somebody else’s treasure hoard, both lost and oddly determined. By the end, my cart was full, my wallet intact, and my nerves a little less frayed.

The Sweet Endnote What finally soothed the storm? A bit of Linkin Park, a touch of rock, and a cold bottle of milk on the way home. Sometimes, it’s the simplest things that remind you life isn’t all bad.

For one who rarely ventures beyond the lair, this day was monumental. I didn’t conquer the world, but I conquered a bit of my world, and that’s more than enough.

Stand-up comedy has always been my guilty pleasure. It’s not just about the belly laughs or the clever punchlines—though those help. For me, it’s a marvel of well-crafted words and razor-sharp timing. A great comedy bit isn’t just funny—it’s smart, sarcastic, and insightful, often delivering perspectives that might completely oppose mine. And guess what? I adore that.

Listening to someone skillfully roast my opinions—or even the things I love—feels like a playful challenge, a test of my ability to laugh at myself. If the joke’s brilliant, I’m doubled over, wheezing. Comedy, after all, thrives on truths twisted just enough to sting and delight in equal measure.

Instagram reels know me too well. The algorithm feeds me clips of stand-up gold, tailor-made to my preferences. I thank Meta for the personalised chuckles. One reel, in particular, stands out: Jack Whitehall’s merciless roast of milks. Almond, soy, oat, coconut— he skewered it. Now, I happen to love milk and all its varieties. In fact, I’m delighted with the range of options available. Yet there I was killing myself with laughter—metaphorically. The absurdity of it! Humans, I thought, are truly ingenious, not only in inventing several ways to milk a nut but also in crafting jokes about it.