There are millions of paths, millions of options, infinite ways to waste a life.

All of them manufactured by something calling itself "mind."

It invents the universe.
Invents gods.
Invents immortality.
Invents you.

And the joke is simple:
there is no mind.

Never was.

Science probes the brain, measures signals, publishes theories.
Nothing solid appears.
Because the searcher is the fiction.

A phantom chasing its own shadow,
then documenting the pursuit.

That's why everything humans touch turns to shit.
An imaginary machine trying to correct an imaginary fault.

A solution appears.
Immediately, a new problem is generated.

The loop continues.