There are stories; old, unrecorded things that pass between lips in the dark. Not the kind you tell children. The kind you whisper to yourself when sleep won’t come. About people who made pacts; not with gods, but with creatures that existed before gods had names. Things that live in corners of the world that maps deliberately forget.

They say some people once worshipped a chaathan. A demon, yes, but not the loud, theatrical ones from movies. This one is quiet. Patient. It follows. It waits. It promises favors in a voice like still water. A job, a lover, a lucky number on a lottery. You’d think it’s a coincidence. You think you’re clever. You think you made it happen. And the chaathan laughs; a dry, brittle sound like burning hair.

The deal is simple: it gives while you live; it takes when you die. Your eternal soul for a few worldly favors.

But what they don’t tell you is that sometimes, if the contract is especially rotten, it doesn’t wait that long. It begins early; with small things.

Your focus starts slipping. No big deal. Just forgot your keys. Just missed a deadline. Just misplaced a sentence halfway through saying it.

Then the carnival kicks into high gear.

Your mind becomes a tent with the flaps open during a storm; thoughts fly in and out; none stay long enough to be useful. There’s noise, constant noise; like ten TVs screaming in different languages. There’s static, like your brain is stuck between channels. You try to read a page and your eyes crawl off it. You try to listen and your own thoughts interrupt. There’s always a next thing; and a next thing; and a next thing. And you chase them all like a fool; hands full of nothing.

You forget people’s names. Then faces. Then birthdays. Then yourself.

Whatever happened to the smartest man in the room, the multi-talented artist, the one who had promise? You ask yourself as you’re being ridiculed trying to cling on something that never was.

And the worst part? You won’t even remember making the deal.

You just live in the punishment; a sentence served without knowing the crime. You wake up every day in a body that is somehow yours and not. A brain that you pilot like a bad shopping cart; pulling violently to one side, resisting every turn. You try to fix it; with apps and journals and willpower. It’s like trying to cage fog.

You think: maybe I’m just lazy. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe I deserve this. And the chaathan, always walking just behind you, rests its chin on your shoulder and says, “exactly.”

And this; this soul-eviction, this fractured loop of shame and noise and forgetting; this is what they call adhd.

Why is the opposite of hope despair and not indifference, and why is it is easier to hate when you no longer love?

Back before the brain was addled, I was a fan of Nietzsche who explained this perfectly. The oppressed never seek emancipation, it’s not in their nature. They seek a role-reversal. That’s how we get an Israel after a Holocaust, a Stalin after the Tsar, a Spanish Inquisition post-Roman repression. It’s a cycle that just keeps turning.

This pattern isn’t just confined to the history books, either. It’s present in the here-and-now. It’s in the way we are tempted to fight racism with reverse racism, respond to misogyny with misandry, meet terrorism with islamophobia, and answer crime with tribal vengeance. These reactions aren’t intentional, they’re just us, listening to our deepest, most primal instincts. It is a bug in our kernel. Tribalism, we are born with it.

This seemingly involuntary action, when continued with reckless abandon, drives a deeper wedge between a man and his hope for a solution. Yesterday’s oppressed becomes today’s oppressor, while today’s oppressed is being primed to become tomorrow’s oppressor.

The cycle didn’t start with him, and it certainly won’t end with him.

Inking my thoughts onto the page no longer holds the same innate fluidity it once did. This might be a fruitless endeavor at pattern interrupt, or possibly, it could be the dawn of an unconventional series—one of slippery banana peels and whimsical unicorn dreams.

So, here we are.

“Yes, here we are”

Tell me about the new stories.

“There is one about an average guy pretending to be a millionaire to seduce a rich girl.”

That sounds clichéd

“He offers to provide her with financial support when she gets herself into a spot of trouble, in return she should do sexual stuff”

He turns her into a prostitute?

“No, just for him”

How is that any different?

“It is an ongoing arrangement they have”

And then they fall in love?

“Something like that”

Still sounds clichéd.

“I didn’t finish it yet, premise might seem usual”

Did you start writing it ?

“No”

Why is that?

“She blocked him all over social media.”

I see, what else are you working on?

“I have one where a guy is in a dilemma when his best friend cheats on his wife.”

Is the guy friends with the wife?

“He is, but he doesn’t like her all that much”

Was he friends with her before they got together?

“No.”

Then guy shouldn’t say anything. We don’t exactly know what is going on, and ‘bro code’ and all that. Do you have any proper stories?

“A super smart guy who is used to getting his way finds himself in trouble..”

When he meets a girl ?

“Yes, something like that. Do you have to ruin everything?”

I don’t. It sounded like a movie blurb in Netflix. What about comedies? Anything funny?

“No”

That’s a shame; you must have something?

“How about an annoying co-worker who dabbed his married colleague in ladies’ perfume which leads to the said colleague’s divorce.”

Is the annoying co-worker female?

“No, just annoying.”

That sounds funny. Do you have to take it as far as a divorce? Can’t the colleague just get in trouble with his wife?

“I could, then you’d call it a cliché again”

You know, it doesn’t matter what I call it, it’s what you believe.

“Get outta my head, I have to wake up now”

It is getting toasty outside, I think you overslept again, good morning.

There’s one thing you gotta love about being a coder, it teaches you how to think. The more you code, the more rational and linear your thought process becomes. Pretty soon you find yourself applying code optimization techniques to your thought process. Give it a couple of years, one fine evening while you’re sitting in your room, reading a random book and you suddenly realize that you can do multivariable calculus in your head. Gotta love that.

 – The rational, linear, no-mistakes, perfect me (c. 2013).

The great thing about writing down your most abstract thoughts is that you get to go back and read it after a few years and wonder how much you’ve changed since then. I no longer love being rational and linear. I love mistakes, failures, the defining imperfections. I have made my peace with irrationally impulsive decisions. I feel that I am filled with an overwhelming sense of self awareness and understanding when I look at you, and I see your imperfections and I realize that I love you for it.

Mumble cunt. (Adj.) – one who mumbles under their breath instead of saying something out loud. Often used as a term of endearment when fighting with your significant other. Phrase coined by his excellency Sir. Nicholas, The Pennyless Gentleman.