The Hoax of Original Thought

Originality of thought — is it not another hoax?

I have been told since the beginning to stay away from what is bad, as if it stains the soul forever. Yet I have always found myself leaning toward silence, as if silence itself is a door I am not allowed to knock on, and still I do.

And it opens.

It opens not like mercy, but like something that remembers me too well.

When parents are not home, I listen to music louder than I should. In the dark, I walk without moving, talking to stars that do not answer. In the dark, I read things that were never meant for children — Dostoevsky, Kafka, and then further, beyond permission, into the endless tunnels of the internet where curiosity becomes a kind of exile.

I begin to call this: truth.

Not truth in the holy sense, but truth as a slow descent into what cannot be un-seen.

Journals become my hidden gardens. Reading becomes a lock that clicks open inside the mind. Each page does not answer questions — it multiplies them.

And I find myself strangely tender and strangely broken at the same time.

At night I stay awake looking for escape, and eventually I find one — but it is not escape, it is drift. A drifting into something that feels like understanding and despair at once.

Even the serene joy of heaven, as I once imagined it, feels like a momentary illusion that cannot hold weight inside reality. Religion tries to save me from horror, yet it cannot save me from the slow decay of self that hums underneath thought.

Apathy arrives quietly.

Friends become distant processes, like systems that stop responding. The backend of connection fails. The code of belonging stops compiling.

I begin to suspect that to exist at all, something must keep you running — and when that support disappears, even the self becomes unstable.

Yet I still search.

In code, in books, in broken searches through forbidden corridors of knowledge.

Where do I seek the light, when even light feels simulated?

The thought of originality itself begins to collapse. Maybe nothing is original. Maybe everything is a repetition of a fear we keep rephrasing.

There is no escape in the finite shape of this world.

Pain feels infinite only because we cannot debug it.

I ask Rumi in silence.

I ask religion.

I ask neurology, history, philosophy, even the forbidden corners of thought.

No answer returns clean.

Only echoes.

Only corridors.

Only the feeling that I am walking deeper into something that was already written before I arrived.