26-01-2026
I’m fundamentally tired of fluff. I’m exhausted of people talking positively. I’m exhausted of what I can only perceive as fake happiness. Roommates who are not friends trying to fluff up each other. Breaking the ice. Being friendly when you clearly aren’t friends.
I believe that people fundamentally believe that their lives are boring, and that they want to fluff it up with “positivity” and “good vibes” and “funky zodiac signs” and “what cool things we did yesterday”. Your bf being more interesting than your own thoughts (even though my bf is amazing, ngl).
Yet, when your life is interestingly disappointing, when the intersections of privilege trap you in their midst, that positivity feels nothing but a midsummer night’s dream. In such a case, life becomes a pursuit of boredom. A pursuit of normality. Or a redefinition of acceptance. And if you lack the idea of accepting and you are always a critic of your own self, then there is nothing in an underprivileged life than the dream of boredom. The dream of assimilation. Something profoundly absurd. Killing yourself (not the body, but the soul) becomes hope. Being yourself is your separation from the societal body.
And in the end, authenticity, something that society likes to praise, eventually is your own death sentence. Ironic, isn’t it?