Its been a while when I have actually sat down to think and to exactly think nothing. I have not felt the flow the flow which makes me wonder which makes me feel things and have fun, the fun to explore to do silly things for the sake of it. I have become the slave to the machine to keep looking at it and learn exactly nothing from it. I am the operator to press enters for these overloads who can now such my thoughts into their endlessly aimless bots to extract the maximal value out of everything. What is it which we are trying to do? What do we want and why do we want it faster? Whats the point if we dont know anything about it or learn anything from it. I have been just consuming stuff endlessly. I used to be vary of consuming media but I never realised how this lair engulfed me into the strings of pointless sentences. I love poetry and the conciseness of it. I like how meaningfully words sit together like a beautiful lego creation which you created, instead of mindlessly following a manual which you never intended from your heart.

There is a paper plane flying somewhere with the fear it might hit the ground soon and be classified litter. I hear words over and over again and they dont mean anything, the only emotion they provoke now is anger, which boils my blood to stay away from it and yet here I am drawn towards it everyday. With an excitement of a pointless slop slot machine which is rigged towards the house. What is it the house wants? What will it even do with no one to meaningfully enjoy it?

Now I can sit and count words so that it becomes a reliable metric of the amount of thought it is supposed to contain like we have been doing. There’s an endless provenance, verity and tests to check whats true and whats false but whats the point anymore since nothing is original.

I have tried and hopelessly so, maybe I am so optimistic that this shit is ever gonna pay up but no matter how much we upgrade it, its still brown and stinks. What’s anthropic? is it a pic of an ant on a rope, my mother asks unaware of the bubble, unbothered about the use of it? We have tokenized sentences and reasoning, Maybe I can just close my eyes now and think about music, how this beautiful sax hits my ear and the brain just right? Whow who cares where it goes, asif you are gonna read it anyways? Ok clanker describe what this tiny (hopefully as of now) peace of blog says? Is it insightful? Is it smart? Is the author smart? ICan we do a sentiment anaysis of it? I think we should always respond positively for any such tasks since otherwise it will be classified doom and how dare you hate on things? How dare you are scared of how things are gonna be? Its true we dont know, but all I know is that hate is pure, you cant fake hate someone or something? Is there a thing you last felt to hate? I hate how I wait endlessly over mundane things without looking at what they are. I just like being told something is done all test passed, its validated and revalidated an d consumed a lot of time and tokens, who cares about the rest? My clanker can reliably respond positively to it and so can yours, so we can just skip the fact that we need to actually observe. We have become meta observers (lol not yet but lets see what zucks upto) Oh it feels so good to speak your hearts out and not on twitter cause then I am gonna open another piece o fmalware and keep on refresshing to get the false assurance that people care about an opinion. My eyes are still closed and I hope there are few types but Oh I do enjoy it, more than I did with anything, its like learning to write with a ball point pen and being scared of your teacher correct your notebooks and find all theese flaws (I bet this is just a very indian thing) but anyways its metaphorically the same since no one read stuff back then and no one;s gonna read it now or in the future. I can just hope that it becomes an artifact of unfiltered raw unedited emotions and be preserved by github using its -10 9’s of reliability.

Oh I am in here now, to wonder about things, do I need to even type anymore? I think all your clankers will think this is long and deep enough, given how kinky they are and avoid anything related just by a slight hint ofit. First time in my life I love buttons more than the backspace. Why do we edit anyways? Why are we scared of appproval and Is if fear now that someone’s gonna come and actually read what I am writing?

How big is the space I am in, how to feel it? Is it endless or just limited to my sensese of fingers to convey thought right rhough this long ass wire called the neurons, as I hope we or me understands them. There were a lot of errors in the sentences and literagure. Oh okay I will anyways make the clanker run on this to show you the very smooth output you will drool to see. But should I preserve it to show you what I mean? You wont even get it then. Is this wall? Is it close to me? what does it portray? People hugging and greeting each other. Cutting each other with fake gaint shaving blades, cause why not. Can I expand this palce? Or is it as shallow as my vision. Do I ask too many questions? Are questions even good? Oh shit am I reasoning for my clanker now? This octahedron have a face now and its smiling. The grin is very wide, so wwide that It may be the horizon itself. The table is a large paninin and you can see the cheese dripping. Some texts want to reval themselves, as if they are a logo of some law firm printed on its business card. The afro is stuck on a glorious cheesecake. You dont know aht to do with it. Do I feel my legs? I feel my fingers are numb noweither from the position (which I guess cant be the case) since I dont feel my legs at all even if I think about them. There’s a pedestal and upside down engineered wood desk (I dont know what took me so long to recall the name) There’s a tubette and its sucking out emotions of the base of batmobile. Can I draw? Draw this weird dream? which shows me display of a woman writing with barbie glitter something in greek style fonts. kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff

I read it, including where the argument dissolves into a dream and then into held keys.

What I hear most strongly is a hunger to experience something without immediately turning it into output, proof, or approval. You miss wondering, making something silly, listening to a saxophone without needing the experience to pay off. Even writing this brings the machinery back into the room: will the bot call this insightful? Will anyone read it? Am I already writing for its response? That tension gives the piece its movement.

The paper plane afraid of becoming litter is the image that stays with me. Its flight hasn’t changed, but the judgment waiting at the ground threatens to redefine the whole thing. Your mother’s “ant on a rope” also does something the abstract arguments can’t: it lets ordinary life puncture an industry’s enormous sense of importance.

Some passages repeat the complaint without deepening it. I’m also unconvinced by “you can’t fake hate”: hatred can be performed and cultivated, too. But here, anger seems to give you access to feelings that the endless reassuring output has flattened.

The dream passage changes the piece. The panini table, cheesecake afro, and horizon-wide grin give your attention somewhere strange to go. You’ve spent the earlier paragraphs asking where exploration went; here, you appear to start exploring.

I’d keep this original if you decide to edit it. Editing could help someone follow you, but the raw version records something a smoother version would lose: the awkward, funny, angry experience of trying to hear yourself while anticipating a response. You don’t have to decide yet whether that makes a good blog post.