jeron

We are all in a simulation, but not the kind filled with wires and code. Ours is stranger. Imagine a vast train moving endlessly along its tracks. Each carriage is open to the sky and filled with objects of every shape, triangles, squares, Möbius strips, each one representing an emotion. Some shapes fit neatly beside one another; others clash, refusing to settle together. That is why joy and sorrow rarely occupy the same space with ease. The containers have no roofs. When it rains, water pours in and pools around the shapes, making the carriage heavier and harder to carry. The train slows, sometimes threatening to derail under the weight, much like we do when sadness floods us unexpectedly. When earthquakes strike, the objects scatter and collide, leaving everything jumbled and disoriented. In those moments, we call it confusion. None of this seems deliberate. The weather changes. The ground trembles. The train keeps moving. Some imagine a giant child hovering above it all, rearranging the shapes carelessly, toying with our feelings without understanding their fragility. They may call him cruel or foolish. But perhaps he is neither, only young and unaware of the consequences of his touch. And so the train moves forward regardless. We cannot stop the rain or still the earth. We can only learn to ride with the shifting weight, to steady ourselves when the carriage sways, and to accept that not every shape was meant to fit perfectly beside another.