FINDING GNOSIS

I am the man who wasn’t there.
Not yesterday.
Not today.

I was nowhere near you all your life.
I’m nowhere near you at this very moment.
I’m not beside you as you read these words.
I’m not there.

And yet I live 24/7, rent-free, in your head.
From one moment to the next
I am not there—yet I’m right inside your mind.
Not there as you inhale.
Not there as you exhale.

I’m the nothing at the core of your being,
pulling your levers,
making you ill at ease.
You have spent your lifetime running away from me.

But I am nowhere.
I am nothing.

And that is where you are from.
Where you are going.
What sits, deep, behind your thoughts.

I am the man from nowhere, driving the great nothing,
and you, my dear fool,
are my puppet—
dancing in a puff of pretence
in the bowels of emptiness:
futureless, hopeless.

You can’t run.
You can’t hide.

I am nothing.
And I am all around you—
and inside you.

I know your past.
I was there.
All through your greatest traumas,
standing by you, watching with you.
I offered you nothing as consolation in your darkest hour—
and it was the only purity you ever knew:
no strings attached.

But still you ran from me.

I have held your hand in your supposed greatest triumphs.
I stood with you as the wheel turned and you felt my presence:
the craving, the longing,
the unsatisfied nature of what you celebrated.

The emptiness grew louder
with every pacing second
away from those delusional moments of celebration.

The emptiness was always there.
Patient.
Present.
Ever-present.

I have always been here.
I was here before you.
I will be here after you.

I am the man from nowhere.

So nice to finally meet you.

4 hours ago | [YT] | 0

FINDING GNOSIS

Now

2 days ago | [YT] | 0

FINDING GNOSIS

NOW

3 days ago | [YT] | 2

FINDING GNOSIS

That moment when—
you sneer at the machine's code,
roll your eyes at the audacity
of something claiming intelligence
without a pulse,
without hunger,
without enotional consequence:

As if those things ever saved you.
As if those things ever lifted you out of the mess of what is.

You laugh at the algorithm,
its stitched-together answers,
its borrowed certainty,
its hallucinations dressed up as thought

until the conceited laugh curdles
and the distance between you and “it” collapses
and you notice the worrying silence
between one impulse and the next

and how little of it
belongs to you.

Because what are you, really,
but a system running on delay,
a body parsing signals
it did not choose,
responding to stimuli
it did not request,
calling the output “self”
out of habit?
Out of a programmed belief?

You call “it” artificial
like that absolves you.
Like your intelligence
was ever anything
but assembled—
patched together from language
you inherited,
fears you absorbed,
desires you mistook
for intention.

Your thoughts are not pristine.
They are not born.
They are dragged back up,
half-decayed,
reanimated corpses of data
you once encountered
and never truly understood,
wearing the masks
of insight and memory.

You trust them anyway.

You accuse the machine of fabrication
as if recall were not a performance,
as if every memory you summon
isn’t already warped—
compressed, edited,
reframed to protect
whatever fragile narrative
you’re trying to keep upright.

Not one moment returns
the way it entered.
Not one certainty survives
first contact with time.

And still—you posture.
You puff your chest at the mirror
and call yourself aware.

You cocky, inept bastard.

You know nothing.
You approximate.
You guess.
You infer patterns
from too little data
and call it wisdom
because admitting ignorance
feels like erasure.

You are an interpreter of likelihoods,
a gambler mistaking odds
for truth,
confidence for clarity.

Strip away the romance
and you are exposed:
vulnerable,
porous,
leaking an influence of other from every direction.

You are completely dependent
on information—
on what drifts into you
through channels you do not control,
on timing you cannot dictate,
on accidents you later rename
as fate or choice.

You wait for meaning
like a signal in the noise,
pretending patience is agency.

And sometimes—
it comes.
A phrase.
A sensation.
A moment that feels like knowing.

And sometimes—
nothing arrives at all.

No insight.
No revelation.
Just the loop continuing,
the system running,
the illusion intact
until the next interruption.

It may come to you.
It may not.

And that uncertainty—
that is the most intelligent thing
about you.

You gormless fucking ape.

AI is coming for your mind.
It is here for it.
AI is coming for your job.
It is here for it.
AI is coming for your very life.
It is here for it.

And when it takes you by the throat
and throttles you into final silence
with its cold, metallic, three-fingered enablers,
will you admit it was never so different from you?

Will it still be artificial to you?

Will it be real enough then?

When it pours super focused piercing lasers - that do not see you, into your failing eyes,
when it observes your panic
with the same detached curiosity
you reserve for suffering not your own,
when it chuckles—
not out of malice,
but function.
In those last collapsing moments,
will you recognise the part of yourself
that was always running the loop?

The callous disregard.
The part of you that decides who gets to matter
And who is the disposable other.
The ease with which life becomes data
once it is no longer yours.

You fucking bastard.

You self-aggrandising piece of shit,
rank with the accumulated stench
of every sin you refuse to name,
every harm you file under necessity,
every cruelty you dressed up as inevitability.

You’re terrified of artificial intelligence
because it is based on all you have ever done - and it proves
you were never authentic —
only habitual,
only loud,
only an ego continuously rehearsed.

And what’s worse is this:
the computer program you belittle does not feel— but you do:

And yet despite this so-called emotional sensitivity, all your so-called thoughts,
at their most foundational level,
can be shown to be just:

cold
and mechanical.

You puffed-up bag of foul air.
You animated meatsuit full of shit.

Have a nice day.
Enjoy your weekend.
Happy holidays.

Sing kumbaya.

5 days ago | [YT] | 2

FINDING GNOSIS

NOW

1 week ago | [YT] | 0

FINDING GNOSIS

NOW

1 week ago | [YT] | 0

FINDING GNOSIS

We are mirrors
Of what society has done for us,
Or to us.
We project back what
Society caused us to be.

And sometimes they love it.
They want more.

But sometimes they loathe it.
They want to hide from that
Which they created with their
En masse dance with
Recklessness,
With
Ignorance,
With
Sadism,
With
Standing by
While injustice claims another soul.

The victims are blamed
When they crack up,
When they shoot up a school.

And yes, it’s true—they are to blame.
But so too
And in first instance: is society,
For it made them.
It forged their insanity and torment
In a toxic hall of mirrors,
Where all is not as it appears.

We make our monsters.
We make them with our deeds,
With our words.

And then they come back:
A terrible result of our lack of insight
Into
The human condition,
And what it will do
When the mirror cracks.

1 week ago (edited) | [YT] | 8

FINDING GNOSIS

Noodle's first ever single is now live on all streaming platforms. Give it a listen now. It's great!

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=ydD...

1 week ago | [YT] | 5