The Beauty of Moral Paralysis ✨️

Hey there, readers.

This is just the beginning maybe of a blog, maybe of a habit, or maybe just a fleeting thought I felt compelled to put into words.

I’ve been reading a lot of literature lately, and I’ve noticed a pattern: I’m not drawn to  love stories or tidy endings. Instead, I find myself leaning into books where the characters wrestle with themselves more than the world around them. Authors like Dostoevsky, Murakami, Orwell, and Camus seem to speak in a language I instinctively understand a language of doubt and existential unease.

There’s something oddly comforting about the chaos in their narratives. The way Dostoevsky’s characters spiral into moral paralysis, or how Murakami’s protagonists drift through dreamlike confusion it's not neat, but it’s honest. .

And yes, I’ve grown fond of the "continuous yapping" that inner monologue, that stream of thought that runs and runs, It feels like being let into a private room of someone’s mind, watching them try to make sense of life the same way I do.

So, here I am less enchanted by love at first sight, and more intrigued by the slow unraveling of a mind at war with itself. It’s not everyone's idea of a good read, but it’s where I feel most at home.