You’re a beautiful fckg mess.

“At best, you’re the wind
That sculpts the Earth’s map
At worst, you’re a brain in a vat.”
— Don’t Trust a Thought

Growing up, I learned words from books that had plots that made sense.
From films where screenplay moved the action forward, motives were legible, and meaning — even when tragic — obeyed an internal logic.

Words felt reliable, contained. Honest.

 

Of course, even with contempt, there is a time when books aren’t enough to feed your hunger and you’re thrown into life. With no rulebook, it shouldn’t be hard, no one seems to have issues. But apparently, Life is different.

In life, words are rarely what they appear to be. They function less as meaning than as movement. A polite “how are you?” is not a question but a signal — and answering it sincerely is often a misstep.

I took language seriously. Literally. I believed words pointed somewhere stable. Discovering how casually they are used — how often they are meant to pass rather than land — was less a revelation than a derailment.

Some people, though, know how to use words with surgical precision. They place them carefully enough to bypass interpretation and register directly in the body. In those moments, language reveals its real power: not in explaining, but wounding… or clarify in a single stroke.

I wanted to be that, some time ago — a user of words meant to be clear rather than kind. I mistook precision for virtue, and honesty for immunity.

I didn’t understand that this game, when played alone, costs you friendships. Not because clarity is cruel, but because it refuses the small fictions that allow relationships to breathe. Most people are not equipped to treat language as an instrument; they need it to remain a cushion.

That took time to learn. And by the time I did, some distances had already become permanent.