Ladies and gentlemen— We call him a tragic addict when he takes a pill. We call her unstable when she drinks too much. We call him broken when he cannot sleep. But look around. Look carefully. You are all bending. Slowly. Beautifully. Into your private little screens. A little dopamine here. A little trauma there. A subscription for the soul. Congratulations. You are just a different kind of junkie. Welcome to— THE DOPAMINE CIRCUS! We chase the fix, the squirt, the chemical kiss, a new orgasm, a better pill, a wellness package with complimentary bliss. Something to swallow. Something to stream. Something to photograph. Something to dream. Chicken feet! Carrots! Colonic irrigation! Median pressure— vaginally! Same-same! A biochemical deception we call happiness. Serotonin! Melatonin! Tryptophan! And Jesus Christ— where is the fucking exit? We had medieval bread. It lasted. Now we have selfies. They expire in twenty-four hours. Progress! I think, therefore I am. Fine. But what if— I don't need the fix? What if I sit here without becoming the next version of myself? No upgrade. No healing journey. No fucking subscription. Just— here. EVERYBODY IS AN ADDICT! Welcome to the modern show! Buy your childhood! Upgrade your trauma! Download a personality! EVERYBODY IS AN ADDICT! Look at me! Look at you! You use me as a projection screen— I use you as a fucking mirror! PEACE IS NEVER ON SALE! No discount. No loyalty points. No premium package. PEACE IS NEVER ON SALE! You cannot buy it. You cannot earn it. You cannot subscribe to it. PEACE IS NEVER ON SALE! I once owned a whole wardrobe of personalities. The housewife. The invisible one. The adapted one. The champion. The artist. The athlete. The caregiver. The mother. The helper. The rebel. The queen. The boss. The spiritual seeker. The sexy one. The visionary. I had more. I had fucking everything. The whole wardrobe was packed. Then one morning— I threw the costumes out. Not dramatically. No orchestra. No funeral. Just— fuck this. I own no more than the present moment. No more cups. No more stories. No more carefully curated explanations. I am— a civilized homeless person. Temporarily houseless. With spices. A drying rack. And a mattress topper in the car. I have never felt more professionally unemployed from my own mythology. Identity detected. Archetype detected. Trauma detected. Spiritual growth detected. Unauthorized freedom detected. Please return to your assigned personality. No. Please return. No. Who will make you happy? Oh, sweetheart. It is me. I'm the fucking manager now. When will someone make you happy? I don't know. Maybe— nobody. A name. A coffin. A black marker. A joke nobody should laugh at. And still— I smile. Not because life is beautiful. Because it is so fucking absurd. TOOK—TAK! PEACE IS NOT ON SALE! Burn the catalogue! Burn the fucking catalogue! NO PRICE TAG! No spiritual discount! No trauma bundle! No deluxe edition of childhood suffering! FUCK YOUR BLOCKBOX! FUCK YOUR EMPIRE! FUCK YOUR PERSONAL BRAND! I don't want to be the most interesting person in the room. I want to be— HERE! Somewhere beyond the little courtroom inside our heads— beyond victim, beyond villain, beyond good citizen, beyond spiritual superstar— there is a field. Fine. I'll meet you there. But don't turn it into merchandise. Don't print it on a mug. Don't make a podcast about it. Don't sell me a twelve-step breathing package. Just— stand there. Breathe. Look. Listen. The body is here. The rope is here. The breath is here. The moment is here. And that is already far too fucking much for the algorithm. EVERYBODY IS AN ADDICT! The circus takes a bow! The algorithm knows your desires— but it cannot upload your eyes! Your wrinkles are not a failure. Your scars are not a brand. Your grief is not content. Your peace is not a product. PEACE IS NEVER ON SALE! PEACE IS NEVER ON SALE! PEACE IS NEVER ON SALE! No explanation. No fucking TED Talk. No subscription. No meaning detected. Just— there. Cold water. Meaning detected.
