What Bothers Me and Why (A Savage Screed from the Edge of the Abyss)

What bothers me? Jesus H. Christ, where do I even start? Everything. Nothing. The whole hideous carnival of existence grinds my teeth down to nubs some days. It’s like trying to sleep in a room full of strobe lights and broken glass while some deranged chimpanzee bangs on a snare drum in the corner.

Let’s start with the obvious: the idiocy of the species. People staggering around with glowing rectangles glued to their faces, scrolling through endless feeds of garbage while the world burns outside their windows. Nobody’s paying attention anymore. The lighthouses are empty. The keepers are gone. The foghorns are silent. And we’re all careening straight into the rocks because nobody can be bothered to look up from their notifications. That bothers me.

It bothers me that we’ve traded curiosity for convenience, wonder for algorithms, raw living for sanitized “content.” I see it in the way people talk, the way they walk, dull-eyed husks chasing dopamine hits like rats in a rigged maze. It’s enough to make you want to scream at the moon or throw your phone into the nearest river and run for the hills with a bag of film and a typewriter.

And then there’s the quiet stuff. The things that creep under your skin late at night. The dreams you abandoned because they didn’t fit the spreadsheet. The voices you silenced because they scared the herd. That’s the slow rot. That’s the one that’ll kill you if you let it.

Why does it bother me? Because I know we’re capable of better. Because I’ve felt those moments, camera in hand, standing in the woods with the light cutting through the trees just right and I know there’s still magic out there if we’re crazy enough to chase it. But chasing it means waking up, and most people would rather stay sedated in the safety of mediocrity.

So yeah, it bothers me. The noise. The apathy. The slow death of wonder. But maybe that’s the fuel. Maybe the only sane response is to get louder, wilder, sharper. To claw at the fabric of this sleepwalking nightmare until the bastards wake up or until you rip a hole big enough to crawl through yourself.

This isn’t about hope or despair. It’s about refusing to go quietly. And that’s enough to keep the fire burning.