You wake up inside a monologue that already decided who you are. It’s been running all night—replaying failed conversations, drafting new ones, projecting an ending to a story no one else is reading. The voice is you, but it’s also not. It’s something older. Something desperate. Something that thinks it’s a prophet.

Spoiler: it’s not.

Welcome. The future has been imagined for you, with zero budget and infinite confidence. The plotlines are wild: She leaves. You lose your job. You die alone. Or maybe—you become a god, a legend, a martyr. But you don’t need facts for fiction. You need fear. Or longing. Or caffeine. Or drugs.

It whispers: "They hate you." It hisses: "You’re being watched." It sings: "They’re all faking it but you’re the only one who’s real." This voice is part screenwriter, part psychic parasite, part late-night informercial for anxiety. And every thought is broadcast in hi-def, complete with cinematic soundtrack and terrible lighting.

You think you’re living in the present? No. You’re running simulations. You're forecasting storms that never arrive, drafting breakup texts for relationships that haven't started. You are deep in genre fiction—speculative, dystopian, post-apocalyptic thoughtscapes that masquerade as preparation.

And preparation feels like control. But it’s not. It’s just rehearsal for a play that may never open.

It all feels real. That’s the hook. The monologue doesn’t sound like fiction. It sounds like truth. Like memory. Like instinct. It says, “This is just how it is.” But it’s not. It’s just how it feels. Until proven otherwise.

That’s the thing. Unless confirmed, unless tested, unless verified, unless lived, your inner monologue is science fiction.

You are an unreliable narrator. And so is everyone else.

Sometimes you need a second character to break the loop. A friend, a lover, a therapist, a stranger in a bar who says, “Wait, that’s not what happened.” Suddenly, the timeline splits. A different version emerges. You’re not alone in your head anymore.

It doesn’t mean the monologue is evil. It just means it’s a writer with no editor.

That voice isn’t going away. But maybe you don’t have to believe every word. Maybe you can switch genres. Turn the sci-fi to satire. Add laugh tracks. Break the fourth wall. Talk back.

Because sometimes the most radical act is asking:

Is this true?

Until then? It’s fiction. And you’re watching reruns.

*Inspired by the looping paranoias and shadow-boxing inner monologues.

You wake up inside a monologue that already decided who you are. It’s been running all night—replaying failed conversations, drafting new ones, projecting an ending to a story no one else is reading. The voice is you, but it’s also not. It’s something older. Something desperate. Something that thinks it’s a prophet.

Spoiler: it’s not.

Welcome. The future has been imagined for you, with zero budget and infinite confidence. The plotlines are wild: She leaves. You lose your job. You die alone. Or maybe—you become a god, a legend, a martyr. But you don’t need facts for fiction. You need fear. Or longing. Or caffeine. Or drugs.

It whispers: "They hate you." It hisses: "You’re being watched." It sings: "They’re all faking it but you’re the only one who’s real." This voice is part screenwriter, part psychic parasite, part late-night informercial for anxiety. And every thought is broadcast in hi-def, complete with cinematic soundtrack and terrible lighting.

You think you’re living in the present? No. You’re running simulations. You're forecasting storms that never arrive, drafting breakup texts for relationships that haven't started. You are deep in genre fiction—speculative, dystopian, post-apocalyptic thoughtscapes that masquerade as preparation.

And preparation feels like control. But it’s not. It’s just rehearsal for a play that may never open.

It all feels real. That’s the hook. The monologue doesn’t sound like fiction. It sounds like truth. Like memory. Like instinct. It says, “This is just how it is.” But it’s not. It’s just how it feels. Until proven otherwise.

That’s the thing. Unless confirmed, unless tested, unless verified, unless lived, your inner monologue is science fiction.

You are an unreliable narrator. And so is everyone else.

Sometimes you need a second character to break the loop. A friend, a lover, a therapist, a stranger in a bar who says, “Wait, that’s not what happened.” Suddenly, the timeline splits. A different version emerges. You’re not alone in your head anymore.

It doesn’t mean the monologue is evil. It just means it’s a writer with no editor.

That voice isn’t going away. But maybe you don’t have to believe every word. Maybe you can switch genres. Turn the sci-fi to satire. Add laugh tracks. Break the fourth wall. Talk back.

Because sometimes the most radical act is asking:

Is this true?

Until then? It’s fiction. And you’re watching reruns.

*Inspired by the looping paranoias and shadow-boxing inner monologues.