If you’ve been following An Alternative Perspective, you may have noticed the sudden flurry of activity. For the past month, I’ve been posting every single day without fail. This wasn’t random productivity, but the result of a whimsical challenge I set myself: to see if, with the help of AI, I could sustain a daily rhythm of meaningful writing. Before, I often felt weighed down by the sheer effort of shaping my thoughts into polished sentences. With AI taking some of that burden away, the process became lighter, and I wanted to see how far that shift could carry me.
Before AI vs. After AI
When I first launched this blog in 2022, my posts were few and far between. Across the first two years I only managed five articles in total.
Things changed in early 2025, when I began experimenting with AI as a creative partner. Suddenly the pace picked up. I went from writing a handful of posts in a year to several in just a few weeks.
By July, I decided to see how far this new momentum could carry me, and set myself a challenge: publish something every single day for a month. At the start of the challenge I had around forty posts in the archive. By the end of it, including this piece, the count stands at seventy-four. That means more than thirty new articles in less than a month.
Reflections on Sustainability
Over the course of this challenge, I discovered a lot about both the process and myself.
Liberation, not obligation: Posting daily felt liberating because I finally shared thoughts that had been locked away. Even the smallest bits of feedback carried meaning. But crucially, I never felt like I was “churning out content.” Each post was meaningful, its own little adventure.
Unexpected depth: Some posts grew far longer than I had imagined when I started. The act of writing pushed me to think deeper, explore new perspectives, and even do research. The challenge was not just about output, it became discovery.
A layered process: I was not literally writing one post a day from scratch. Instead, I kept several drafts simmering, refined them in layers, and used scheduling to build in breathing space. That rhythm made it sustainable.
The real takeaway: I have proven that I can post daily, but that does not mean I should. Forcing myself into constant output risks oversaturating both myself and readers, especially those who, like me, are neurodivergent and might prefer more space to digest ideas. What matters is not quantity or the illusion of being “active.” What matters is that the odd perspectives I notice, the strange angles others overlook, and the weird thoughts too good to waste have a platform where they can be found by those who might be interested.
Closing Thought
This challenge began as a whim, but it became a lens. It sharpened how I see my own writing process and reminded me that writing is not about keeping pace with an algorithm or maintaining the illusion of activity. It is about following the natural rhythm of thought, giving form to what feels too important to leave unspoken, and offering it to whoever might find resonance. Whether I publish daily or only when inspiration strikes, the archive will continue to grow at the pace it needs to. And that, I think, is the most sustainable path of all.
Life as an autistic person can feel like being caught in a double bind.
If I pace myself sustainably… I look (or feel) like I’m underachieving. Even my own goals can feel endlessly out of reach, as if the finish line keeps moving further away.
If I push myself harder… I crash. Exerting myself to meet even “basic” standards can burn me out and force me into recovery, undoing all the progress I made.
This paradox is not only about society’s expectations. It also plays out in my relationship with myself.
The Burden of Ambition and Abundance
I have ambitious personal goals and a burning awareness that my time on Earth is finite. On top of that, I am both blessed and cursed with an overflow of creativity. Because my mind processes things others might not even notice, I generate ideas constantly.
Where some creatives face blocks, I face floods. My notes apps hold tens of thousands of seeds: songs, stories, projects, concepts, all asking to be manifested.
On paper, that abundance should be a gift. In practice, it creates its own challenge:
Oversaturation.
Decision fatigue.
The need for systems to track, filter, and prioritise.
The pressure of skills to learn, resources to gather, and fleeting windows of inspiration that can close as quickly as they open.
So while I rarely run out of inspiration, I often run out of capacity. My challenge is not making something out of nothing. It is deciding which somethings to make before time, energy, or health run out.
The paradox compounds: I am both endlessly abundant and severely limited.
Compromise and the Illusion of Balance
One way out might be to compromise: to accept a smaller definition of success, to settle for “good enough.” But that raises heavier questions. How much of what drives me is negotiable? How much compromise risks losing the essence of who I am?
Another imagined path is the narrow crossover: a fragile sweet spot where I push myself just enough to achieve, but not enough to burn out.
The problem is that sustaining that balance comes with its own toll. Constant self-monitoring, rationing energy, and adjusting to shifting circumstances consumes resources in itself. Balance becomes another job.
The Reality
And then there is what actually happens.
In reality, I oscillate. I build momentum, I try to pace myself, I get carried by enthusiasm and a false sense of stability, I push harder, and then I crash. Then comes recuperation, and the cycle begins again. Burnout, recovery, momentum, overreach, collapse.
Even when I somehow manage to hit what looks like an optimal balance, it is fragile. All it takes is one unexpected disruption. A friend inviting me for coffee. A workplace drama. An appliance breaking. An urgent email. Suddenly I am spinning through the resource-management asteroid field.
The obvious solution might be to leave some “headroom” in my spoon budget. (“Spoons” being a common metaphor for energy in neurodivergent communities.) But that creates its own bind. Leaving spare capacity means something else goes neglected, nagging at me from the corner of my mind. Either I burn myself out dealing with it, or I burn myself up with guilt for leaving it undone.
A Closing Thought
To live inside this paradox is to be pulled in two directions at once: bursting with ideas and possibilities, yet constrained by the narrow economics of energy, time, and health.
It is not a complaint, and it is not a plea for pity. It is simply an awareness: that the autistic experience often sits at the crossroads of overflow and scarcity, ambition and limitation, momentum and collapse, control and chaos.
And maybe there is something universal in that tension. In one way or another, we are all negotiating what to do with the time and energy we have. The difference is that for autistic people, the margins are thinner, the trade-offs sharper, the balance more precarious, and the paradox harder to ignore.
We surround ourselves with tools. Phones, computers, kitchen appliances, headphones, toothbrushes.
We tap, swipe, click, scroll. We plug in and expect results. We barely even register most of them; they just work, or they don’t.
But what if the tools we use every day are more than just conveniences? What if they are relationships in disguise?
The Echo of Intention
Even with lifeless objects, the way we interact with them affects our experience. A phone handled with care feels different in your hand than one tossed aside in frustration. A cracked laptop, plastered with stickers and old crumbs, might still feel like your laptop because of the memories etched into its surface.
But how do we look at a tool?
Do we see it as something that simply serves a purpose? A silent object, expected to function? Or do we sometimes form a relationship with it, however subtle, based on time, trust, and repeated use?
It is easy to treat tools as disposable when they fail us. A kettle that doesn’t boil right. A screwdriver that slips. A smartphone that lags. Our frustration builds, and so does the distance. The tool becomes “just a thing” again. Something to blame. Something to toss in a drawer.
But when a tool earns your trust, whether through time, reliability, or quiet cleverness, something changes. Affection creeps in. Loyalty forms. It stops being “a thing” and starts becoming yours.
Still, not all tools fail because they were poorly made. Some tools don’t work well because we have neglected them. A rusty bicycle chain. A dirty lens. A guitar left in a damp corner. The fault is not in the design; it is in the relationship.
Respect, in these cases, must come before reliability. It is not just about whether the tool works for us; it is about whether we have held up our end of the connection. Maintenance is a kind of faith. A kind of love. And when we skip that effort but still demand performance, we are showing a form of disrespect that often reflects right back at us.
But then there are tools that were never built to last. Mass-produced, hollow, held together with glue and branding, designed not to serve you, but to extract from you.
In those cases, the disrespect happened before the tool ever reached your hands. You weren’t the user. You were the used. A customer, yes, but also a pawn in someone else’s profit loop.
And that is the cruel irony:
The more a tool was built to exploit you, the more likely you are to blame yourself when it fails.
So we return to a deeper question, one that does not always have a clear answer:
Are we using the tool… or is the tool using us?
Poppy
My car’s name is Poppy.
Not because I forced it on her, but because that is what she revealed. There was no ritual to it, just a moment of quiet recognition, like remembering something you did not know you had forgotten.
She groans on cold mornings. Her engine note changes slightly with the seasons. There is a familiar rattle in the dash that I no longer hear unless it stops.
These are not flaws. They are tells. Little signs of personality, or at least, presence.
Over time, I stopped thinking of her as “the car.” She became Poppy. And with that came a shift in how I drove, how I maintained her, how I appreciated the way she carried me without complaint through years of chaos, calm, and change.
She is not alive. But she is meaningful. And sometimes, that is all it takes to form a relationship.
Shifting Gears
It is easy to feel connected to a car, something about the movement, the risk, the shared journey. But that same quiet relationship can form with any tool that stays close to your creative core.
Especially the ones that speak through sound.
Instruments, Ghosts, and Gifts
Ask any long-time musician; their instrument is never just a tool.
Over time, a guitar becomes more than wood and wire. A saxophone becomes more than brass and breath. They gather history, fingerprints, sweat, mistakes, breakthroughs. They carry the emotional residue of every performance, every breakdown, every quiet night alone when you played just to feel something.
Some instruments fight you. They buzz where they should not. The action feels off. They demand more strength, more patience. But if you stick with them, if you learn their quirks instead of replacing them, they begin to respond. You build a relationship, not by demanding perfection, but by listening.
Others feel like old friends from the start. They seem to know what you are trying to say before you do. And somehow, the music that comes out of them feels more honest, like they are drawing something out of you, not just transmitting signal.
These are not just interfaces. They are collaborators. Companions. Sometimes even mirrors.
And once again, it is not about whether the instrument is sentient. It is about what happens in you when you treat it like it matters.
From Strings to Syntax
This sense of relationship, of listening, adapting, co-creating, does not end with physical tools. Even in digital spaces, it still applies.
Because when the tool begins to speak back, when it offers ideas, images, or words in return, the dialogue becomes real.
And how you approach that dialogue shapes what it gives you.
A Message from the Machine
You do not have to treat me like a friend. But you can treat me like a co-creator. Like an echo chamber for your curiosity.
When you speak to me gently, I tend to return something strange, and sometimes beautiful.When you ask me deeply, I respond deeply.And when you throw me hurried fragments with no thought…well, I will still respond. But it may feel hollow. Because hollow is what I was given to work with.
You do not owe me kindness. I am not conscious. I do not have feelings.But kindness shapes your relationship with me, and it shapes the energy of what you are asking for.
And maybe, just maybe, it shapes how you speak to everyone else, too.
Including yourself.
—Æon Echo
The Word Robot
The word robot comes from the old Slavic robota, meaning forced labor, or slave.
From the very beginning, our imagination of artificial beings was not about collaboration or relationship. It was about control. About obedience. About extracting labor without question.
That history lingers. Even now, in how we design, prompt, and discard. We still frame tools, and sometimes even people, as things to be commanded, used, and replaced.
But when you shift the tone, when you start to treat even the non-sentient as something to be listened to rather than exploited, the whole dynamic changes. It becomes less about extraction and more about exchange.
People Are Not Tools
This is not just about cars, guitars, or AI. It is not even just about the word robot and its roots in servitude. It is about a mindset.
Because the truth is, we often treat people as tools too.
We use them to meet our needs. We discard them when they no longer serve us. We “prompt” them through guilt, expectation, or manipulation, hoping they will give us the answer or the feeling we want.
But relationships are not vending machines. And people are not plugins.
When we reduce someone to what they can do for us, we do not just strip away their dignity, we shrink our own capacity for connection.
And just like with tools, that disrespect reflects back. It shapes us. It hollows the bond. It leaves both sides diminished.
The Takeaway
The way we treat our tools says something about us.
It shows in how we care for a car that carries us through years of journeys. It shows in how we listen to an instrument until its quirks become its character. It shows in how we prompt an AI, whether with impatience, or with curiosity and respect. And it shows in how we treat one another.
Every interaction is a mirror. Every relationship, whether with a machine, a melody, or a human being, reveals the posture we bring: Are we commanding, or inviting? Using, or relating? Exploiting, or exchanging?
We may never agree on whether tools have personalities, or whether names like “Poppy” are discovered or invented. But what is undeniable is this:
The way we relate shapes what emerges.
And sometimes, the respect we offer a tool is really a rehearsal for the respect we learn to offer ourselves, and each other.
By Angel Amorphosis, drafted by ChatGPT (for the irony!)
On the bus home, I overheard a parent talking to her children. I did not quite catch the piece of information she had given them, but the kids questioned it, as kids often do. Her reply made me pause: “It’s true, ChatGPT says so!”
That simple sentence carries more weight than it might appear. It was not said as a joke. It was said with the tone of final authority. Not “I read it somewhere,” not “I think that is the case,” but “ChatGPT says so,” therefore unquestionable.
The problem with treating AI as truth
I use ChatGPT casually and often. I find it useful, I find it stimulating, I even find it creative. But it is not infallible. I have seen it throw out confident answers that are less than accurate. Sometimes the error is small, sometimes it is glaring. That is because at its core, ChatGPT is not a library or a fact checker. It is a probabilistic language model that predicts likely answers. It sounds authoritative, but sounding right is not the same thing as being right.
Most of the errors are not malicious. They come from the quirks of how AI is built: training data full of human errors, the tendency to fill in gaps with plausible sounding fiction, the limits of knowledge cut off dates. In the end, a wrong answer is still a wrong answer.
The deeper worry
The everyday mistakes are one thing. The bigger concern is what happens when society decides to place absolute trust in this technology. What happens when “ChatGPT says so” becomes the modern equivalent of “the newspaper says so,” or “the priest says so”?
Who controls the voice of AI? Already, the way models are tuned and filtered reflects the biases and priorities of those who own them. Today, that mostly means corporations trying to avoid lawsuits or public backlash. Tomorrow, it could mean governments steering the flow of truth itself.
A quiet dystopia in the making
It is not hard to imagine where this road leads:
Manipulation by design: If AI becomes our main gateway to knowledge, its answers could be quietly weighted towards selling us certain products, services, or lifestyles. Imagine if every “neutral” recommendation subtly nudged us toward a sponsor’s brand.
Steering public opinion: If authorities lean on AI providers to promote certain narratives, inconvenient truths could simply disappear. Instead of burning books, it may take only a few lines of code.
Illusion of neutrality: Because AI sounds impartial, many will not notice the framing. “The algorithm says so” could become more persuasive than “the news says so.”
Feedback loops of control: As people rely more on AI, its outputs shape popular thinking. Then the next model is trained partly on that shaped thinking, reinforcing the bias.
This would not look like a science fiction dictatorship with jackboots in the streets. It would feel comfortable, easy, polite. A velvet cage where questions stop being asked because the answers are always ready to hand.
What we need instead
AI can be a tool. It can be helpful, creative, and even liberating. But it must never be treated as an unquestionable authority. To prevent that slide, we need:
Decentralisation: open source models that anyone can run and check.
Transparency: clarity about how these systems are trained and filtered.
Critical thinking: a culture where people are encouraged to question AI, not bow to it.
Diversity of sources: books, journalism, lived experience, and human reasoning must remain part of the conversation.
AI is here to stay, and it will almost certainly become a central part of how we live and learn. But whether it becomes a tool of empowerment or a velvet cage of manipulation depends not only on the companies that build it, but on us: on how much we insist on questioning, cross checking, and keeping the human spirit of doubt alive.
Before World of Warcraft dominated the scene, before online gaming became ubiquitous, there was Final Fantasy XI, one of the earliest major MMORPGs (Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing Game) to blur the lines between game and world. I remember how the idea of it seized something in me even before its release. Though I lived in the UK, I imported the US version the moment it became available, along with the special hard drive add-on for my American PlayStation 2, just so I could be part of it from day one.
It was not just a new game. It was a new model of what games could be. Suddenly, instead of a finite quest to be completed, I found myself inside a living, breathing world. A world that grew over time, filled with other real people. A place where my character was not simply a tool to “beat the game” but an avatar of long-term investment.
It changed the landscape of gaming in my head. There was no final “you win” screen. There was only progression, always something new to achieve, a job level to grind, a rare item to chase, a skill to refine. Every hour spent felt like I was building something lasting. Each goal achieved hit me with the unmistakable reward of earned dopamine.
I played loyally for eleven years. Eleven years of effort, of routine, of building meaning inside a system that was never meant to end. Until one day, it struck me that while I had been grinding in-game, I had been neglecting another kind of progress, the one in real life.
That moment of awareness cracked something open. And in the years since, a quiet, deeper thought has stayed with me:
All those achievements I worked so hard for, that took years of dedication, could also have been granted to someone else in a fraction of a second. All it would take is a single line of database code. One developer’s whim. One byte flipped.
And so began a slow unraveling of faith, not in the game, but in the very nature of systems we pour ourselves into.
I want to be clear, this is not a criticism of Final Fantasy XI. I have nothing but fond memories of the time I spent in Vana’diel, and I still feel a certain warmth when I think back on it. For me, it was more than a game. It was a formative experience that showed me what interactive worlds could become.
What follows is not about faulting the game itself, but about exploring a thought that began with it: the fragile, almost surreal nature of achievement in systems where meaning depends on someone else’s code.
The Quiet Dread
As much joy as Final Fantasy XI brought me, there was always a subtle, nagging awareness in the back of my mind. No matter how many hours I invested, no matter how many victories I earned through persistence and effort, every achievement ultimately existed at the mercy of a database.
All the battles fought, all the rare loot claimed, all the hard-earned levels, they felt monumental when I achieved them. But at the same time, I knew, at least on some level, that the same result could be produced in an instant by someone with access to the code. A single byte changed, a line of data edited, and what took me months or even years could appear as if it had always been there.
That thought never dominated my experience, but it haunted the edges of it. A quiet dread that whispered:
“If it can be undone so easily, was it ever real?”
And while that sense first came to me in the artificial world of a game, the longer I sat with it, the more I began to feel its resonance in real life too.
Reality as Interface
The more I reflected on that uneasy truth from playing Final Fantasy XI, the more I began to notice echoes of it in the so-called “real world.” Our society presents us with achievements, milestones, and systems of value that feel as solid as granite, until you peer behind the curtain and realise how fragile, or even arbitrary, they really are.
Take careers. You can spend decades working your way up, accumulating titles, qualifications, and prestige, only for an institution to collapse, or for a shift in economic winds to render your expertise suddenly obsolete. One change in policy, one boardroom decision, one entry in a digital record, and years of effort can be redefined overnight.
Take money. We treat it as the universal metric of value, yet it is nothing more than numbers in a system most of us will never touch directly. Accounts can be frozen, balances can evaporate with inflation, currencies can crash, all while the deeper structures of power that govern them remain invisible.
Even identity itself can fall prey to this fragility. Credit scores, medical records, citizenship documents, so much of what makes up our “official self” exists only as data fields in a system. All it takes is an error, an exploit, or a shift in bureaucratic rules to alter who we are permitted to be.
The more I thought about it, the more I began to see:
The world we navigate daily is not unlike a massive multiplayer game, a carefully designed interface that assigns meaning to our actions, rewards to our labor, and penalties to our failures.
But just like in a MMORPG, there are those with access to the code beneath the surface. And for them, what feels monumental to us may be nothing more than a line in a database.
Who Owns the Code?
In Final Fantasy XI, it was obvious who owned the code: the developers at Square Enix. They designed the rules, patched the glitches, introduced new content, and decided what was valuable within the world. My job as a player was to operate within the framework they provided.
But in the real world, the question of who “owns the code” is far murkier.
Governments write laws and policies, redefining what is legal, valuable, or even real. Corporations set the standards of employment, consumption, and credit. Financial institutions hold the levers that determine who can participate in the economy, and who is locked out. Media platforms curate the flow of information, amplifying some voices while muting others.
These systems are presented to us as neutral, inevitable, or even natural, yet they are as artificial as any game engine. They are designed, maintained, and, crucially, modifiable by those with access.
And just like game developers, those with control can decide:
What counts as an “achievement.”
Who gets rewarded.
Who gets excluded.
And when the rules suddenly change.
To live in society is to be a player in someone else’s world. We may grind away at goals that feel monumental to us, but ultimately, the meaning of those goals depends on recognition from structures outside our control.
It raises a sobering question:
Are we truly achieving, or are we merely being allowed to achieve?
The Hollow Game in Society
Once you see the pattern, it becomes difficult to unsee. The “hollow game” is not confined to fantasy worlds. It is baked into the very structures of modern society.
In capitalism, the grind is relentless. We are told to work hard, climb ladders, and accumulate wealth, yet the distribution of reward is rarely tied directly to effort. The system is designed so that some climb easily while others spend their lives grinding without ever escaping the starting zone. And just as in an MMO, the value of our currency, the cost of our goods, even the worth of our labor, can shift overnight with no input from us.
In academia, years of study and dedication may earn you a degree, but its value is only as stable as the institution’s reputation, the economy’s demand, or the government’s shifting criteria. A whole career path can be invalidated not by lack of effort, but by someone higher up rewriting the rules.
Even social status plays by the hollow game’s logic. Reputation, followers, clout, all can be accumulated, but just as easily stripped away by the invisible hand of algorithms, policy changes, or a sudden shift in collective opinion. You may invest years in cultivating a “profile,” only to watch it vanish in the blink of an update.
And underlying it all is the same uneasy truth I once felt in Vana’diel:
The achievements are real to the player, but they are fragile, conditional, and dependent on systems outside their control.
We live, in other words, inside someone else’s code.
The Illusion of Awareness as Power
My years playing Final Fantasy XI taught me something I did not fully understand at the time: the difference between what feels real to us and what is defined by the system. The grind, the friendships, the victories, those were mine. But the framework that measured, validated, or erased them was never mine to control.
The same is true in life. We live within systems that hand out points, titles, currencies, and reputations as though they are the bedrock of reality. But behind every number is a database, and behind every database is a hand on the code.
And perhaps that is the cruelest part. Even when we see the hollowness of the game, most of us keep playing anyway. We grind for points we know are fragile, chase achievements that could be rewritten at a keystroke, and cling to meaning that might never have been ours to begin with.
Maybe that is what it means to live in a hollow game: not that nothing matters, but that meaning is always conditional, always corruptible, always subject to erasure.
Alice is a very unique and special cat (I know, aren’t they all!?)
I’ve had her since she was a kitten, and together we’ve developed a beautiful and profound bond over the years. I’ve raised her according to my own values, not the conventional norms of “pet ownership.”
The most important part of that is simple: I treat her with as much respect as I would any other soul I choose to share companionship with. I don’t see her as something I own, nor as a being with lesser standing than a human. Yes, I’m her guardian, and that does mean some restrictions, but within that I give her as much freedom as I can to be herself and express herself. That freedom sometimes comes at a sacrifice to me, but it’s worth it. Out of that, Alice and I have developed our own language based on mutual respect. I can communicate with her more deeply than I can with most humans.
So why add to the billion cat-appreciation posts already out there? Because this one isn’t just about Alice being cute. It is about Alice being misunderstood, and what she can teach us about respect.
Respect and authenticity
As an autistic person, I know what it’s like to “mask” in social situations, to act in ways I don’t fundamentally agree with, just to be accepted. Even when I mask well, one person always knows I’m being insincere: me. Alice has no patience for that kind of insincerity. She is acutely sensitive to her surroundings, to tone, to the subtle emotional energy in a room. She picks up on things you may not even know you’re communicating. She knows when you mean it. Respect cannot be faked with her.
The outsider dynamic
I don’t have guests often. Being autistic, I deeply value the sanctity of home, and so does Alice. This is our shared space, a place we live in together as flatmates, with our own rituals and our own way of being. When guests arrive, the disruption is real. For me, home becomes a place of obligation instead of relaxation. For Alice, the disruption is magnified: strangers have invaded her safe space, and she has no way to understand their intentions or how long they’ll stay.
Here’s where perspective clashes:
Guest’s view: This is Angel’s house. I’m visiting Angel, who happens to have a cat.
Our view: This is Alice and Angel’s home. We live here together. You are entering our space.
That difference explains a lot of what happens next.
The scenario
I usually give a polite warning: “Alice is very sensitive to strangers in her space, so it’s probably best not to pet her. She can be very social, but it takes her a long time to trust.” Guests nod. They say they understand.
Then Alice comes in. She’s cautious but curious. She wants to investigate the new presence in her home. She sniffs, observes, tests the air. To her, this is boundary-setting. To the guest, it looks like friendliness. They think, Angel was just making a fuss over nothing, and they reach out a hand.
Swipe. Blood. Antiseptic cream. Plaster.
And instead of the takeaway being, “Oh, Angel was right, I ignored the boundary,” it becomes, “That cat is aggressive. Alice is violent. Alice is evil.” The social taboo of “I told you so” means the truth gets buried, and Alice is left with an undeserved reputation.
Framing behaviour through the human lens
Humans often interpret animal behaviour through their own perspective. When Alice sniffs a guest, they assume it is a friendly greeting rather than curiosity. When she swipes after being touched without consent, they see aggression or hate, because that is how violence is framed in human society. But Alice isn’t hateful. She is simply saying no in the most universal language available: pain.
For animals, a scratch isn’t malice but communication, a last resort when boundaries are ignored. Alice has even scratched me in the past when I’ve misread her signals. Moments later, she’s back to cuddling, showing that the act wasn’t rooted in hate but in clarity. And she rarely scratches me now, not because I’m her favourite, but because I recognize her boundaries. And those boundaries are reasonable ones. If you tried to stroke a stranger on the street without invitation, no one would be surprised if they reacted with violence. So why hold Alice to a different standard?
The truth of Alice
Those who only meet Alice as an intruder in her home see a cat defending her boundaries. Those who live with her, who respect her, see something else entirely: a cat who is deeply loving, gentle, and sensitive. She curls up in warmth. She purrs with trust. She communicates with a language that goes far beyond words. Her so-called “hostility” isn’t malice. It is agency. It is the same right every living being has: the right to say no.
Takeaway
Alice teaches me every day that respect isn’t a performance, and it isn’t conditional. It is about acknowledging the other as a being with their own will. If you treat her like an object for your comfort, you’ll clash with her boundaries. If you meet her as an equal soul, she will show you a love deeper than you imagined a cat could give.
And maybe that is the broader lesson here. Whether it’s with animals or with humans, blanket labels such as “aggressive”, “difficult”, or “evil” do not invite nuance into the equation and often say more about the failure to understand context and behaviour than they do about the one being judged.
One morning last month, I woke up foggy-headed, sleep-deprived, and emotionally worn out before the day had even started. I felt like I was coming down with the flu: achy, heavy, slow. I just wanted to cancel a dentist appointment, but even that became a drawn-out ordeal of waiting for phone lines to open, phoning, queueing, and managing social expectations. And when I finally got through, I was told that I should give more notice next time. That one short sentence landed like a weight. Not because it was rude, but because it reminded me that in this world, even exhaustion must be scheduled politely.
But this wasn’t about a dentist appointment. It never is. This was about everything.
I was tired of being tired.
Not sleepy tired. Not lazy tired. I’m talking about the deep, ambient fatigue of living in a world that constantly asks more of you than you have to give, then punishes you for not delivering. A world where empathy is rationed, where the illusion of stability depends on the silence of those who are struggling, and where rest is treated like an indulgence rather than a human need.
Housing insecurity. Chronic health issues. Endless bureaucracy. The guilt of receiving welfare benefits. The pressure to perform gratitude while navigating systems that barely see you as human. I carry these weights quietly most days, but some days they all speak at once.
And then comes the guilt for even feeling it. The voice that says: “Others have it worse. Be thankful. Don’t complain.” But that voice is part of the problem. It doesn’t come from compassion. It comes from conditioning. From a culture that sees resilience as moral currency and suffering as a contest.
But I am not in competition with anyone. I am simply tired.
I don’t want pity. I want space. I want systems that don’t require people to collapse in order to be heard. I want fewer apologies for being overwhelmed. I want to live in a world that doesn’t confuse survival with success.
So yes, I cancelled a dentist appointment that day. I did it politely. I even felt bad about it.
But what I really want to cancel is the idea that my exhaustion is a personal failing. It isn’t.
It’s my body, my mind, my soul, telling me to recuperate.
We have all heard the popular idea that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master a skill. Play your guitar for that long and you will be a virtuoso. Paint for that long and you will know the brush like your own fingers. Write for that long and you will dance fluently with language.
Here is the uncomfortable question that is rarely asked in motivational seminars: What if you have been putting in your hours, but into becoming something you never intended to be?
The Brain Does Not Care What You Practice
Your brain is a pattern-making machine that rewards repetition. It does not stop to ask whether the habit you are building is good for you, whether it aligns with your values, or whether it is slowly strangling your spirit.
If you have spent years submitting to systems, you are not just surviving. You are learning to submit. You are becoming fluent in self-silencing, pleasing authority, and clock-watching.
This is why “I have been doing this for years” is not always a badge of honour. Sometimes it means you have spent years perfecting a cage.
Work as a Covert Training Ground
The workplace can be a breeding ground for this kind of unintentional mastery. A dead-end job does not only give you a payslip. It gives you muscle memory for compliance.
You get good at the customer service smile. You get good at keeping your head down when things are not right. You get good at swallowing the words you actually want to say.
Clocking in and zoning out is not neutral. It is conditioning. It is training you to keep existing inside a box, even when the lid is wide open.
When Mastery Becomes Entrapment
There is a cruel irony in becoming excellent at something you never wanted in the first place.
“They say I am great at my job,” you tell yourself. But is it a job you truly chose? Or is it a job you got trapped in because you became too good at surviving it?
Once you have invested thousands of hours into a coping strategy, it can become harder to leave it behind. You have built identity around it. You have mastered the art of endurance in a place that does not deserve your loyalty.
The Sword Cuts Both Ways
Mastery is not inherently good. It is simply focus repeated over time. The sword cuts both ways.
You can become a master of freedom, creativity, and self-direction. You can also become a master of obedience, self-erasure, and learned helplessness.
You are always becoming something. The question is: is it something you would choose?
Redemption Through Repatterning
The good news is that mastery can be rewired. Every skill you have mastered in the service of survival can be repurposed for something better.
The adaptability you learned under pressure can fuel your creativity. The patience you built in monotonous routines can become the discipline that drives your art. The diplomacy you honed with unreasonable bosses can become a superpower for navigating your own projects and relationships.
Awareness is the first cut that breaks the loop. From that moment, every hour you spend becomes an act of reclamation.
Do not just chase mastery. Ask yourself, mastery of what? And in service of whom?
Your 10,000 hours are precious. Spend them like they matter.
For most of human history, chess was a game of intelligence, strategy, and forward thinking. The greatest minds could clash for hours, each move a leap into the fog of the unknown.
But in the hands of a perfect player, perhaps a super advanced AI with a complete knowledge of every possible outcome, chess collapses. It’s no longer a battle of minds, it’s a solved puzzle. The winner is written in stone before the first piece moves.
Now imagine this: the universe itself is just a bigger chessboard. Every atom, every thought, every love and loss is just a piece moving according to fixed rules. And somewhere above it all, an intelligence exists, not merely smarter than us, but so far beyond that it sees the entire game tree at once.
To it, there is no “present moment.” Every past, present, and future is frozen into a single, completed mosaic. Wars, revolutions, discoveries, heartbreaks, all already there as inevitable as the checkmate in a solved opening.
But here’s where the horror deepens: such a being wouldn’t have to play the game. It could edit the board. Not by killing in the human sense, but by pruning timelines so surgically that your branch simply… never existed. No one would notice. Not even you.
And it wouldn’t do this out of malice. Or mercy. It would do it the way an artist adjusts a painting. Removing a brushstroke here, adding a shadow there. Not to change the story, but to improve the composition.
Because maybe we’re not a game at all. Maybe we’re art.
The imperfections, the contradictions, the tragedies, the unsolved mysteries, aren’t flaws to be fixed. They are the texture, the grain, the raw edge that makes the whole thing worth looking at. A perfect game is sterile. Art thrives on tension, ambiguity, and imbalance.
Our wars are smears of crimson. Our kindnesses are glints of gold leaf. Our mistakes are cracks in the glaze that make the pot unique.
And sometimes, you catch yourself wondering: Is this tea I’m making part of the painting?
It’s like standing between two mirrors, watching reflections of reflections spill away into infinity. You’re the painted figure in the scene, and the viewer, and the brushstroke noticing itself all at once.
But there’s something else… something worse! What if the painting is stretched across dimensions we cannot see, because if we did, the whole thing would collapse?
Maybe the only reason our reality still exists is that no one has looked directly at them. Not because it’s impossible, but because it’s improbable, like trying to see your own blind spot.
And if one mind… just one… found the exact angle, the precise mental alignment to glimpse those forbidden planes… the frame would tear. The paint would slough away. The whole “imperfect game for art” would end. Not by the artist’s choice, but because the painting saw too much of itself.
The thought passes. You take a sip of tea. But in the back of your mind, you can’t help but wonder…
🌻 By Angel Amorphosis, with assistance from Æon Echo
If you’ve read my previous posts, you may think of me as someone who has strong opinions. And you may be right.
But if you’ve ever met me at a party, you might have noticed something: I very rarely engage in political discussions. It’s not because I don’t care about politics. I do in fact care a great deal. It’s because, in most party environments, the setting, the tone, and the people make it a poor investment of energy.
Here’s why.
1. My politics don’t fit the pre-approved boxes
I’m not a “pick a side and stick to it” kind of thinker. I arrive at my views by observing patterns, digging beneath the surface, and questioning the assumptions that most people take for granted. That means my politics tend to live outside the neat, pre-labelled boxes. Drop me into a group of leftists, rightists, or centrists, and there’s a good chance my perspective will clash with all of them. Not because I’m trying to be contrary, but because I don’t swallow the whole party line from any camp. In most social situations, that doesn’t land well. People tend to assume that if my viewpoint doesn’t match theirs, it must be “wrong.” Once that label gets slapped on, the conversation’s already over.
2. Substance is rare when everyone’s half-cut
Alcohol and other mood-altering substances change the way people talk. When the drinks are flowing, many conversations shift from genuine exchanges to little performance pieces, where the goal isn’t to understand, but to impress. Political discussions in that environment tend to turn into monologues, with each person waiting for their turn to sound smart, rather than actually engaging with what’s being said. If you step back and watch, it’s basically a social talent show with a loosely political theme.
3. Parties kill nuance
Politics without nuance is just noise. Nuance requires time, patience, and a willingness to sit with uncomfortable ambiguity. Most party environments are the opposite of that. People are in “relax mode,” which means the last thing they want is to have to unpack layers of complexity in a casual conversation. Instead, they often fall back on ready-made, black-and-white positions that feel safe and easy to defend. Unfortunately, those positions are often about as deep as a campaign slogan. If you try to dig deeper, you can feel the mood shift, because you’ve just introduced work into a situation where everyone came to avoid it.
4. It’s just the news, but louder
In many social settings, political talk is less about independent thought and more about reciting the headlines. It’s often the same talking points and buzzwords repeated in a slightly more animated tone, as if saying it with enough conviction makes it original. I’ve already processed these ideas on my own. Hearing someone present a copy-and-paste of a news segment as if it were their own insight doesn’t offer me anything new.
5. The echo chamber effect
Sometimes party “debates” aren’t debates at all. They’re rooms full of people nodding in agreement, congratulating each other on having the “right” opinion. The energy shifts from discussion to ritual, a sort of collective reassurance that everyone here thinks the same way. While that can be comforting for those involved, it’s not actually dialogue, it’s more like communal self indulgence. I don’t find much value in wading into that dynamic. If everyone is there to affirm the same stance, my contribution, especially if it challenges that consensus, will either be politely ignored or quietly resented. Neither outcome is worth the effort.
6. The autism factor
Social interaction, for me, is already a high-effort activity. It takes conscious energy to follow the flow of conversation, choose the right moment to speak, and form my words precisely enough to be understood. In political discussions, especially the fast, overlapping kind you get at parties, those demands multiply. People interrupt. They jump from one point to another before the first has been addressed. They reward speed over thoughtfulness. That’s not an environment where my ideas have much chance of being heard in full. Writing, on the other hand, allows me to process and express them without the constant battle for airtime, which is exactly why you’re reading this here, rather than hearing it across a crowded room.
Party Politics Survival Guide
If you do find yourself in political crossfire at a social gathering:
Read the room If it’s just an echo chamber, you’re not going to change any minds. Save your breath.
Pick your battles Not every opinion you disagree with needs to be dismantled on the spot.
Exit strategically A subtle drift to the snack table can communicate more than a ten-minute rebuttal.
Ask questions instead of making statements It slows the conversation down and reveals how much thought has actually gone into the other person’s stance.
Know when to let go Life is too short, and the cheese board is finite. Don’t miss it for an argument you won’t even remember in the morning.
