User Manual For Dummies

I heard someone say the other day —

they’ve become a strong believer

in something.

Because they read somewhere that

that something meant something.

And when you believe in somethings,

that has to mean quite something,

isn’t it?

Didn’t even matter what.

A belief.

A blueprint.

A borrowed compass

from strangers with clean hands

and curated pain.

People who write from desks,

not detours.

Who preach stillness

but never had to sit

in a storm they didn’t choose.

They speak with conviction

like conviction can be copied.

Like breathing needs citations.

Like living should come

with instructions.

They want life

with subtitles.

Grief

with disclaimers.

Joy

with a table of contents.

Imagine trading your instincts

for someone else’s vocabulary.

Quoting people

you wouldn’t bleed next to.

Worshipping voices

you’ve never had to look in the eye.

You call it wisdom —

but it’s caution in costume.

Detachment in drag.

Sanitized philosophy

sold as salvation.

You highlight paragraphs,

but haven’t underlined

your own spine.

You collect quotes —

but still ghost your own voice.

God forbid

you move without method.

That you feel something

you can’t fact-check.

That you break

without applause.

There’s no sacred verse

for what you’ve buried.

No ritual

to reverse it.

No manual

that makes the mess mean something.

And if you dared —

if you really dared —

to sit with the raw,

the wreckage,

the you beneath the curated you...

No mantras.

No chants.

No ancient words

to baptize the damage.

Just you —

untranslated.

Uncurated.

Unfiltered.

The version that glitches

when told to be calm.

That chokes

on affirmations.

That fractures

without framing it as growth.

But no —

you won’t go there.

You’d rather rent philosophies

than own your ruin.

You’d rather echo

than exist.

Imagine living so programmed,

even rebellion needs a manual.

Even silence checks for approval.

And the thing you keep calling your “soul”?

It’s not missing.

It doesn’t quite exist.

Never did. Never will.

All it ever was —

was a missed call

from a wrong number

you mistook

for meaning.

You are not human.

You’re not even alive.

You're a breathing prop

from that infamous book —

User Manual for Dummies.

And even that might be a stretch.

Because dummies,

at least,

are self-aware.