Nothing Is Making Sense Here

Nothing is making sense here, and pretending otherwise is exhausting.

We are born without being asked. One day we wake up inside a body that wants things, fears things, reacts before we can think. Almost immediately, we are told to give this situation a shape. Call it purpose. Call it ambition. Call it a life.

But the instructions are vague, and the pressure is real.

J. Krishnamurti warned that a mind trained to accept authority stops seeing for itself. That feels accurate. Most of us inherit explanations long before we are capable of questioning them. We are handed ideas about success, morality, happiness, and responsibility, and told that confusion is a personal failure.

It isn’t.
It is the first honest response.

When nothing makes sense, it usually means two things are colliding: what we are told to value, and what actually moves us.

At the most basic level, what moves us is not mystery. It is biology. Richard Dawkins was blunt about it. We are vehicles for genes that want to continue. Survival, reproduction, belonging, status — these are not philosophical preferences. They are evolutionary instructions written deep in the nervous system.

This explains more than we like to admit.

Desire feels personal, but it is patterned. Fear feels spiritual, but it is ancient. Even morality starts to look less sacred when viewed closely. Cooperation worked better than violence. Fairness reduced retaliation. Empathy stabilized groups. What we call “right” is often what kept groups intact long enough to pass their genes on.

This doesn’t make morality fake.
It makes it situational.

Society, however, treats it as absolute. That’s where the tension begins.

Life is not only difficult — it is uneven. The game does not begin at the same line for everyone, and pretending otherwise is a form of cruelty.

Some people are born into bodies that cooperate. Others begin life negotiating with pain. Some grow up hearing calm voices; others learn early that silence is safer than honesty. One child is encouraged to speak. Another is corrected into shrinking. One nervous system learns safety. Another learns vigilance.

None of this is earned.
None of it is chosen.

By the time we call it “character” or “discipline,” the shape is already there. What looks like confidence is often safety repeated. What looks like laziness is often exhaustion that never got permission to rest. What we admire as resilience is sometimes just a body that never learned another option.

Compare lives long enough and advantage is everywhere — quiet, cumulative, invisible. A teacher who noticed. A mistake that didn’t follow you forever. A home where anger wasn’t random.

This isn’t injustice in a courtroom sense.
It’s structure.

Suffering is not distributed by merit. Some people carry weights they never chose, and others move lightly without noticing the slope beneath their feet. The lie is not that life is hard. The lie is that it is fair.

Osho used to say that society wants obedience, not intelligence. Look around. We reward conformity with security and punish clarity with isolation. Schools train memory, not perception. Work rewards speed, not understanding. Stillness is suspicious. Questioning is inefficient.

Capitalism didn’t create these instincts.
It simply learned how to monetize them.

I’m not outside this system. I’m inside it, reacting in real time.

My attention is traded.
My insecurity is targeted.
My dopamine is scheduled.

I’m told to “be myself,” but only within purchasable boundaries. This creates a strange exhaustion. I stay busy, yet nothing feels finished. I’m stimulated, yet rarely satisfied. Naval Ravikant is right about this: if you keep searching for happiness as an object, you will miss it entirely.

Because the search itself is the problem.

Happiness is not a reward state. It is not a chemical high or a moral achievement. It is what remains when you stop fighting what is. When resistance drops, even briefly, there is relief.

Not excitement.
Relief.

Suffering, then, is not the opposite of happiness. It is the cost of awareness. Animals feel pain and move on. Humans feel pain and ask why. Consciousness lets us imagine permanence in a world designed to decay. We want things to last — bodies, love, meaning — and are surprised when they don’t.

We treat decay as betrayal.
It isn’t.
It is structure.

Once you see this — the biology, the unevenness, the extraction — something shifts. You stop demanding that life justify itself. You stop expecting systems built for survival to deliver fulfillment. You stop blaming yourself for not winning a game that was never neutral.

Krishnamurti said truth is a pathless land. No belief system can walk it for you. When borrowed ideas fall away, what remains is not despair.

It is clarity.
Quiet.
Unromantic.
Stable.

You see that nothing making sense does not mean nothing matters. It means meaning is local, temporary, and human. You make it, use it, and let it go. Lightly.

We are genes making copies of themselves.
We are nervous systems reacting to patterns.
We are stories told by biology trying to stay alive.

And still — within those limits — we can act without illusion.

Kindness without moral performance.
Work without identity worship.
Love without ownership.

Nothing is making sense here.
That is not a problem to solve.
It is a fact to stand with.

If I can stand here without panic, without belief, without escape —
I’m already free in the only way that matters.