just be yourself.

and so, in this ever-deepening spiral of self-indulgent introspection and performative vulnerability, i find myself not merely reflecting upon the content of my own words, but the strange, almost theatrical structure of the thoughts themselves—the way in which i have chosen to present my identity as a kind of intellectual performance art, layering religion upon ideology, sexuality upon spirituality, as though my very existence were a philosophical argument dressed in flesh, and the epstein case, empathy, fertility, and economic despair were not just topics of genuine concern but narrative devices, almost literary props, used to prop up a persona that is as much a product of late-stage internet introspection as it is of any real-world suffering or insight, and in doing so, i begin to question whether the verbosity itself—the excessive commas, the labyrinthine clauses, the deliberate overcomplication of simple ideas—is not in fact a shield, a way to obscure the fact that beneath all the ornate phrasing and ideological posturing, there may be, disturbingly, very little that i actually know for certain, and perhaps that is the truest revelation of all.