You’ve spent eight hours (or more) staring at screens, sitting in ergonomic chairs that feel like medieval torture devices, answering emails that could have been a one-word reply, and attending meetings that could have been emails.
Your soul is tired. Your will to live? Questionable.
They didn’t silence you with chains. They silenced you with comfort. With shame disguised as love. With rules dressed as virtue. With gods that whispered, “Don’t ask.”
But deep inside you, something refused. A flicker. A pulse. A whisper:
“This isn’t the whole story.” “Something about this feels… off.” “There’s more—and I was made to remember it.”
That whisper wasn’t defiance. It was remembrance. The soul, awakening.
They want you numb. Grateful for scraps. Addicted to noise. Terrified of silence.
Because a curious soul is dangerous. It can’t be programmed. It won’t obey.
It begins to ask:
Why am I here? Who benefits from my silence? What was I taught to kill in myself just to belong?
And once you start asking—really asking— you begin to wake the parts of you they tried to bury in obedience.
Most people don’t lose their freedom in one violent moment. They lose it in small agreements— one “yes” that meant “no,” one silence that swallowed truth, one apology for simply existing.
But curiosity doesn’t die easily. It lingers. It waits. It asks the forbidden.
Curiosity is not a personality trait. It’s a survival instinct of the soul. It’s how we fight back against the lie.
If you’re reading this, you’ve felt it too. The static behind the screen. The ache beneath the surface. The knowing that this isn’t it.
You were never broken. You were awake in a world built for sleep.
Let them call you heretic. Let them call you difficult.
You are not here to behave. You are here to remember.
This is a flare in the dark. A signal for the ones who still feel. The ones who still ask.
