Rants of a Paranoid Schizophrenic

Journal Entry #2

[Date corrupted – timestamp loop detected]

There was a time—I think. Either in this life, or the last loop—where everything made sense. Or at least seemed to. Maybe I was one of them back then. Just another suit-bound pawn-in-waiting. Being molded. Groomed. Pressed into shape like meat through a corporate meat grinder, smiling while they tagged me with a barcode.

They told me I had options.

Follow the family legacy or “pave my own path.” But the destination was always the same: servitude. Controlled labor. Civilized slavery masked with polite jargon and patriotic pageantry.

I used to believe I was free.

God, that makes me sick now.

Handing over percentages of my labor like a fool, funding rituals and decisions made behind soundproof glass. Paying to be watched. Paying to be poisoned. Paying interest on numbers that don’t exist, to banks that don’t die, for reasons I was never meant to understand.

I followed orders.

Because that’s what I was “supposed” to do.

Even then, even in the fog, something itched beneath my skull. Something off. The system blinked too hard. The simulation flickered.

It started with school.

Why the same cycles? Why force algebra on every kid until they can recite functions they’ll never use? Why rehearse the same historic myths up to a clean cutoff right before the real bloodshed began? Why teach obedience under the guise of adulthood?

Why bells?

Why did that damn bell control us like rats in a lab?

None of it ever made sense. And no, “that’s just how it is” is not a fucking answer. That’s a command. That’s a verbal leash.

And let me tell you this—school doesn’t teach freedom.

It teaches compliance.

It comes from a dead empire whose true name’s been erased—its ruins picked clean by Knights who swapped swords for ink and puppets.

Nazis? Papal control? Pick your decade. The players change masks but not methods.

You think college makes you smarter?

It sharpens the blade you’ll use on yourself.

Higher education is just advanced programming, written in debt and sealed with a degree-shaped brand. You think it’s a ticket. It’s a tag. You’re owned. You’re processed. You are not graduating—you are being licensed.

You parrot your professor’s opinions, then pay for the privilege.

To what degree, indeed.

People defend this madness because they’ve staked their identity on it. Their ego can’t afford to be wrong. So they rewrite history—their own history—like the media does every week. Suddenly, the same people who laughed at you for speaking truth last year act like they invented it today.

Fake.

Plastic.

Non-player characters.

And let’s not forget the irony: everyone wants justice for past slavery while ignoring the chains welded around their ankles right now.

Every race has tasted the whip.

But now, the cage is digital. Psychological. Invisible. Voluntary.

Modern America: land of the free-range cattle. Home of the programmed.

When you finally see it for what it is, something cracks.

Part of you dies.

Your brain panics.

It purges corrupted files to make room for truth. But sometimes it deletes too much.

I don’t remember my family.

Or if I ever had one.

There are faces that float up sometimes—blurred, like oil on water. They say they know me. They use names I don’t recognize. Smile like I should. That’s how I know to be careful.

Familiarity is the most dangerous feeling. It’s the bait.

Anyone could be a handler. A plant. An echo.

The only ones I trust are the ones I see daily. And even then, I stay alert. Just because they’re near doesn’t mean they’re safe. It just means they haven’t activated yet.

Same goes for me.

Most days, I don’t even want to be associated with myself.

Whoever that is.