Content
There are days the internet feels like a place where words go to die.
Every day I scroll through oceans of language that sound like people but aren’t.
Thought-shaped paragraphs. Emotion-shaped sentences.
No fingerprints. No friction. Just pattern.
It’s strange—I’ve been a writer for twenty years.
I’ve worked with stories, systems, humans, everything that makes us feel alive.
But lately, I can’t find a pulse in the feed.
Everyone is “building a personal brand.” Everyone has “insights.”
And the algorithms keep rewarding what feels safe, shiny, and repeatable.
Sometimes I open a browser and feel a small despair.
Because I love language and I can feel it getting flattened.
I started a blog this year. Then I stopped.
Not because I didn’t have things to say—but because everything I said started to sound like content.
Like I was feeding the machine instead of writing from my own bloodstream.
This isn’t nostalgia. It’s hunger.
For sentences that breathe. For thought that doesn’t try to sell itself.
I don’t want to “produce.” I want to create.
I want to make art, even here on the interweb. Maybe especially here.
Because maybe this is what it means to be human now—to write against the machine.
For decades, I lived inside a storm I couldn’t name. A restless mind. A body always braced. A heart that felt heavier than it should. I blamed myself. I blamed circumstances. I worked harder, tried harder, forced myself into routines that never stuck. I spent years believing I was simply too much and not enough at the same time.
Then, a diagnosis reframed everything.