Clarity

Rats in a Maze

I’ve come to realize that I have a very reactive mind. From the moment I wake up, I have to consciously try to turn down the volume. It’s like stepping into a world already in motion, full of noise and drama. And for as long as I can remember, reacting to that noise has been my default setting. There’s no shortage of things to react to.

For years, I was an emotional over-thinker—caught in loops of thought that never led anywhere helpful. But recently, through a lot of reflection and inner work, that pattern has begun to shift. My mind has grown quieter, more grounded. It's like a calmer voice moved in—maybe an inner sibling, or a wise friend—offering perspective rather than panic. A stabilizing presence helping me through the chaos.

Funny enough, I had actually set out to write something about AI—how developing a more logical, structured thought process can be a powerful antidote to stress and anxiety. And maybe it still is.

I remember a conversation I had years ago, one of those rare, real talks where you feel like someone gets it. We both expressed the same strange sense of alienation—that even in a crowded room, we felt alone. As if we were surrounded by zombies. People seemed to talk in soundbites, media-driven narratives on loop. Conversations felt more like scripted dialogue than real exchange. Like we were trapped inside a simulation, watching programs run, not people live.

And that’s the strange part—how close we are to AI already.

Sure, we have emotions. But from an early age, many of us are punished or shamed for showing them. So we learn to suppress, to hide, to conform. The emotional self gets boxed away, and with it, a vital part of who we are. The result? Anxiety, depression, and a persistent sense of disconnection.

We become hollow. We fill that hollowness with borrowed beliefs—ideas handed to us, not discovered by us. We learn how to behave, how to react, how to judge. We’re constantly triggered: into fear, into anger, into division. And all of it keeps us from asking the deeper questions.

I've also been thinking about the rise of fantasy and fiction—how the biggest films now are Marvel superheroes and worlds filled with special powers. These stories, while entertaining, feel like part of the programming too. They feed obsession, they sell escapism, and they quietly discourage us from engaging with our own creative reality. Why explore your inner world when someone else's fantasy is easier to consume?

It feels deliberate. Like a system designed not just for profit, but for control.

We are taught not to think too deeply, not to feel too freely. And with each new generation, the grip tightens. People are nudged away from meaningful exploration and steered into distraction. The more disconnected we are, the easier we are to guide, to manage, to mold.

And yet—we live in a time when the technology exists to end suffering on a massive scale. We could give everyone the means to thrive, to be healthy, to grow. But that potential is held back. Instead, we’re kept in loops. Conditioned to chase status, consume endlessly, stay distracted. We’re funneled through life like rats in a maze.

And the saddest part? Most people don’t even know they’re running in circles.