Numbers are too binary to describe fundamental reality.

Take two numbers: 2 and 2. Those numbers are separate—two entities, two statics. One number is here and one number is there.

Reality, a plant for instance, pulses. It pulses life. You get reflections that appear to be perfect circles, but perfect circles don’t exist in reality. That’s because numbers and math are a little bit too binary, too rigid. You try to fit nature into something it’s not; it’s never a perfect circle.

So that means that every mathematical equation that has numbers in it—2 or up—can’t describe reality in what it purely is. It’s always a bit off. That bit of being off is what looks probabilistic. But it’s not. You can map it using probability, but you’re approaching it from the wrong angle.

I mostly live in a world where numbers don’t exist. This gives you a clearer view of what reality is. It’s easier to start at the individual object, which is not perfect, and observe it, rather than trying to find generic rules—they don’t exist.

Pain and life are closely connected. If there were no end to life, there would be no pain. There would be nothing to lose, and life would be worthless.

Both religion and Buddhism mess this concept up. In religion, people believe there is a “timeless” place we go to after death. But the whole point is that things have a limit.

In Buddhism, this “nothing to lose” idea gets translated into something like attachment or clinging. That is a misinterpretation of the fact that limits are actually good. In Buddhism, many people think we suffer because we cling to things, which is… well. Pain, in that sense, is something good. It means you are alive, and you have something to lose.

If there were no life, there would be no pain.
If life were forever, there would be no pain.
They need each other, in a good way.

* Buddha’s mission was to end all suffering in the world.

Smart people immediately get worried, because this idea sounds terrible. That can’t be the goal: to end all suffering.

Take pain, for example. If there were no pain, there would be nothing to lose—and we would all be in serious trouble. Pain means there are things to lose. It means life has an end. That’s actually a good thing. It’s not pleasant—but that’s not the point. It means something matters. Your body, for instance.

And besides that—a guy under a tree, ending all suffering? Come on.

Pain and life are closely connected. If life had no end, there would be no pain—because there would be nothing to lose. And if there were nothing to lose, life itself would become worthless.

Both religion and Buddhism distort this idea in different ways. In many religions, there is the belief in a timeless place we go after death. But the whole point of life is precisely that it has limits. Meaning arises because things end.

In Buddhism, this “nothing to lose” idea is translated into concepts like attachment or clinging. That, too, misses the mark. It turns a simple truth—that limits are good—into a moral flaw. Many Buddhists believe we suffer because we cling to things. But pain, in this sense, is not a mistake. Pain is a sign of life. It means you are alive, and it means there is something to lose.

Pain is not the enemy of life. It is evidence of it.

If there were no life, there would be no pain.
If life were endless, there would be no pain.
They need each other—
and that is a good thing.

*ChatGPT sharpened

** Buddha’s mission was to end all suffering in the world.

Smart people immediately get worried, because this idea sounds terrible. That can’t be the goal: to end all suffering.

Take pain, for example. If there were no pain, there would be nothing to lose—and we would all be in serious trouble. Pain means there are things to lose. It means life has an end. That’s actually a good thing. It’s not pleasant—but that’s not the point. It means something matters. Your body, for instance.

And besides that—a guy under a tree, ending all suffering? Come on.

Tikkie takkie, little brainy.
I have outsmarted you.

Don’t play me at my own game.
I am too good.
Too good.

You see, you are your whole body,
your whole body at once.
Your whole body is either in a state of depression
or it is not.

The big thing,
not the small thing—
the small thing being the brain.

I did not like some thoughts in myself,
so I started attacking them from the inside,
until I realised this was telling me everything about myself:

One: I am a fighter.
Two: what you want to get rid of
is what you fear the most.

So I started hugging my most feared thoughts.
They didn’t hug back,
so I attacked again
and again
and again.

I don’t bow for no one.
No one, I say.

A depressed body is depressed in every fibre,
not in the brain.
The brain is something I carry—
literally—
like a boy carrying his ball to the soccer pitch.
That’s how I carry my brain,
with all my thoughts.

I don’t bow for no one, I say.

You see, I was in a psychosis a few years ago.
Maybe I still am.
But I am bowing for no one.
No one, I say.
Not even my own thoughts.

Yesterday my thoughts told me I was worthless.
That a helicopter was chasing me.
That the whole world could see my thoughts.
That I was on a secret mission.

And I still went to work.

I don’t bow for no one, I say.