Notebook

The Human Centipede of LinkedIn

2026-07-14T00:00:00Z

This is a work in progress for my eventual public disavowment of the farcical workforce on my public Linkedin. In earnest I await the day I sing my repellence dirge to anyone who sees the workplace, Linkedin, and any other form of work as anything other than a means to feed oneself.

My time in the workplace has been nothing short of a personal hell. Through all of my effort to succeed, I've found it strictly impossible to find satisfaction through work. Employees and employers alike pray to the god of the great man, the one who can do it all, the perfect engineer, developer, creator, designer, salesman, manager, employee. Through strife and shortcomings, surprises, through management, other employees; one who strives to overcome and achieve, create great - no, elegant - creations that make those who can afford their monuments to the mighty dollar more tithings toward it. But this great man is no ubermensch, in the Nietzschean sense of the word; through all the irony the world allows, these people are the last man.

The world of work is a falsehood. Sagging eyes and heart disease, diabetes and balding, we've come through this place in envy of those who can succeed at whatever they put themselves towards. It truly is remarkable what some people can do, and that power they deploy with masterful grace is something that would inspire many, were it put toward something of value to mankind. But here we sit, awaiting eventual replacement as coins trickle through our bank accounts into the pockets of landlords and billionaires while we try to funnel what we can into the life we think we deserve. One of comfort and ease, that life given away to be decided by managers of managers.

There is envy, and there is falsehood. Falsity in the story we tell of ourselves to sell to others, falsehood in their own hope we are the image and the icon they need to warm the seat best. Though I've worked with brilliant people, they're all each one shallower than the last. There is an odd dialectic within yourself in the workplace; you may well want to become this great man, and you may well achieve far beyond your own expectations, but those expectations were also shortcomings, and the yardstick glued to your foot continues to move with each step, and the yardstick you used to measure that distance was measured in angstroms rather than lightyears. Bullshit Jobs puts it lightly; these are bullshit lives.

unfocused eyes and the things partially seen

2026-07-13T00:00:00Z

Waking at the point between middle of the night and early morning, sights are often misleading. Shadows move in slithers and tangles, appearing more alive and more dangerous. Accompanied by silence or muted by dew, the ominous feeling of being unprepared for an encounter tensions your nerves like a struck piano string.

But at this point in the night, your thoughts seem to go untuned, capacity for visual acuity like a flattened shaded disc rather than a well lighted orb. Some sort of retuning with the world must occur as a process of waking- you might have died in your wake did it not. Each tuning fork struck in accordance with your mind to guide your patterns for the day into a smoothed harmony. But the more of these harmonious days that occur, the more they start to align with ones natural resonance frequency. Upon resonance, something breaks.

There is something to breaking up monotony. Gregorian chants didn't change key, and there's a reason we don't have them catalogued in our spotify playlists. Harmony is misleading.

Those things you only partially see in the grasp of night, with blurry eyes and muddled thought, those are still happening throughout the rest of your day. You just happen to be tuned to the frequency everyone else is harmonizing towards - and their blurry-eyed shadow chasing could lead you off the same cliff they will soon fall from.

The things partially seen feel scary. They feel uncertain. The things clearly seen are never truly so; they just don't scare us like they should.

On the weight of beginning

2026-02-18T00:00:00Z

There is a peculiar terror in the blank page that has nothing to do with lack of ideas. The ideas exist—fragments circling in the dark, half-formed intuitions about meaning and weight and the strange fact of consciousness observing itself.

The terror comes from the knowledge that once the first word lands, all other possibilities collapse. The page that could have been anything becomes this particular thing. Every sentence closes doors.

In The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Kundera writes about the difference between weight and lightness—how we might think we want freedom from consequence, but what we actually need is the gravity of meaning. A life without weight floats away.

Readiness is itself a form of avoidance. What was missing was simply the willingness to let them be imperfect.