Peace is a disease

Disclaimer: Strong language

Nothing gets done when you’re satisfied. A full stomach just sits there like a bloated carcass, resting, farting, and soaking in its own stink. Hunger? That’s where the spark is—the raw, primal fuel of life. It’s the chase, the sizzle of burning oil in some godforsaken kitchen, the grind that makes you feel alive. The burn is the whole point, not the bullshit that comes after. Turmoil? That’s where the diamonds are—formed from hard, crusted labor and spit.

I need to be empty, hollowed out, to feel that bite. That’s when the real rest hits, when the exhaustion is honest. When I’m full, I’m nothing. Just a bloated lump, stagnant, not expanding. The churn inside me is blocked, buried under layers of fake satisfaction. I need to burn like a wildfire. The fire of my anxieties—my beautiful, precious anxieties. Comfort kills them, and so do those fake-ass smiles and that bullshit peace.

Peace? Peace can kiss my ass. I want to bulldoze through it as fast as I can. There’s eternal peace waiting for us, nicely baked in that deep, dark furnace of death. Ashes and the reek of finality—that’s your peace. The void, the deafening silence—that’s your peace. But why the hell would I want that while I’m still breathing?

I need the pain.

The searing, gut-wrenching pain of every breath, every strained muscle, every crushed hope, every injustice.

You know when I really feel alive? When I’m getting stomped on like a stray dog, beaten down, butchered in broad daylight, and not a soul gives a shit. That’s when I’m in the thick of it, living just like every other sorry bastard out here. Because everyone gets tamed, caged, ground down to dust eventually.

My brothers, my sisters—we’re all fucked together.

The almighty? Yeah, he’s jealous as hell of us. Of our burned flesh and gaping wounds. Our bleeding misfortunes—they’re untouchable by the perfect, out of reach for the divine.

It’s that old, wrinkled skin sagging off our bones that makes us goddamn majestic. Those tired, trembling muscles, barely able to drag us another inch, the years weighing us down until we’re practically rooted to the earth. No taste, no sound, just the shallow breath and broken nails of a body that’s seen too much.

I’m happy I’m not happy. It’s better than great because I don’t know what the fuck the next second holds.

This anxiety, this fleeting sense of time slipping through my fingers, the gnawing doubt of what any of it’s worth—that’s priceless.

I’m grinding today so I’ve still got something to grind when I’m old and decrepit. I don’t want to be some pensioned piece of shit, drooling in a chair, envying the kids of tomorrow. I was nothing compared to them, and I want to stay nothing. I don't give a damn about peace until my bones are nothing but ashes, ready to be scattered in the maa Ganga.

Peace is fucking eternity.

And hell, I don’t even want it then. No manual says I have to settle down. At least none that I got at birth.

So fuck it. Let’s get back to work. Work for the sake of work, for the grind, for the burn, because what the hell else is there?