You wake up, and your neurointerface instantly loads the familiar operating system that divides the infinite, chaotic stream of reality into two neat, sterile pens: "Good" and "Bad." This happens faster than you can taste the morning acid in your mouth, faster than photons hit your retina—it is an ancient script written into your brainstem, designed to protect a primate from a predator, but now used by you to judge avatars on the internet.

We call this morality, ethics, God’s law, but let us be honest before the face of biochemistry: it is simply a spasm.

"Good" is when a dopamine receptor gets its ration, when reality strokes your ego against the grain, confirming that you are safe, you are right, you are eternal. "Bad" is a cortisol siren, a glitch in the matrix of expectations, it is when the world refuses to bend to your hallucination of control. You have built a civilization on this binary code, erected cathedrals and prisons, written libraries of books to justify the simple reaction of an amoeba that either crawls toward sugar or flees from vinegar.

Your personality is a scar on the tissue of existence.

Look at a knife. When a knife cuts bread—this is "good," this is satiety, this is a family dinner. When a knife cuts flesh—this is "bad," this is pain, this is forensics. But the knife itself does not care. Steel is indifferent. Iron molecules do not care what they separate—a crispy crust or the soft tissues of your abdomen. The universe knows no ethical categories; it knows only gravity and entropy.

You are the only one creating this incision.

You walk through the world scattering labels like a frightened warehouseman during a fire, trying to save the "useful" and discard the "harmful," not noticing that the fire is already everywhere. You think your hatred of evil is a sacred fire, but in reality, it is just a splinter under the fingernail of the mind, an inflammation that you scratch until it bleeds because the pain gives you a sense of boundaries. "I hate, therefore I exist separately."

This is the sweetest lie. Separation.

Listen closely; this is going to hurt. Your enemy, that very bastard you despise with all your soul, whose actions trigger your gag reflex and the desire to pull the trigger—he breathes the same oxygen that just left your lungs. You are not just neighbors. You are the same biomass, temporarily organized into different shapes.

Imagine an ocean. You are a wave that decided it is a separate entity, and now it hates another wave because that one is higher or frothier. What a ridiculous tragedy. You fight, you judge, you build barricades of sand, but beneath the surface of the water, there is no "you" and "him." There is only depth. Cold, dark, indifferent depth, where you are one whole.

God is not a kind grandfather on a cloud. God is a system administrator with root privileges who forgot the server password. Or, if you want it closer to the body, God is the process of rot turning a king into grass, and the grass into a sheep that a new king will eat. It is a carbon cycle that does not give a damn about your ideas of justice.

You fear this. Your reptilian brain screams in terror at the thought of dissolving boundaries. That is why you cling to "Good" and "Bad" like a drowning man to the wreckage of the Titanic. You need to know who is to blame. You need to accuse someone so you don't have to look in the mirror and see the void there.

But look at your hand. Look at your fingers. Where do you end and the air begin? At the level of the skin? At the level of thermal radiation? At the level of the gravitational field you create? There are no boundaries. You are woven into the fabric of reality tightly. Your thoughts are electrical discharges that do not belong to you; they are rented from the universe. Your hatred is the energy of a star, processed through the photosynthesis of the potato you ate for lunch.

There is no "evil" outside that needs to be defeated. There is no "good" that needs to be earned. There is only the One, playing hide-and-seek with itself, wearing the masks of executioners and victims, saints and sinners, to experience something—anything—other than the endless loneliness of eternity.

Do you feel it? That slight dizziness? That is the walls of your internal prison crumbling. Stop sorting trash in a burning house. Stop being the judge, the prosecutor, and the defense attorney in a trial that no one is conducting.

The moment you stop dividing the world into parts, you will realize that the knife in your hand, the wound on the enemy's body, and the scream of pain are the same note in an infinite symphony of silence.

Inhale. Exhale.

And here is the formula to burn away the remnants of your fear:

The executioner, the victim, and the axe are simply three different dreams dreamed by the same Pillow.

You wake up, and your neurointerface instantly loads the familiar operating system that divides the infinite, chaotic stream of reality into two neat, sterile pens: "Good" and "Bad." This happens faster than you can taste the morning acid in your mouth, faster than photons hit your retina—it is an ancient script written into your brainstem, designed to protect a primate from a predator, but now used by you to judge avatars on the internet.

We call this morality, ethics, God’s law, but let us be honest before the face of biochemistry: it is simply a spasm.

"Good" is when a dopamine receptor gets its ration, when reality strokes your ego against the grain, confirming that you are safe, you are right, you are eternal. "Bad" is a cortisol siren, a glitch in the matrix of expectations, it is when the world refuses to bend to your hallucination of control. You have built a civilization on this binary code, erected cathedrals and prisons, written libraries of books to justify the simple reaction of an amoeba that either crawls toward sugar or flees from vinegar.

Your personality is a scar on the tissue of existence.

Look at a knife. When a knife cuts bread—this is "good," this is satiety, this is a family dinner. When a knife cuts flesh—this is "bad," this is pain, this is forensics. But the knife itself does not care. Steel is indifferent. Iron molecules do not care what they separate—a crispy crust or the soft tissues of your abdomen. The universe knows no ethical categories; it knows only gravity and entropy.

You are the only one creating this incision.

You walk through the world scattering labels like a frightened warehouseman during a fire, trying to save the "useful" and discard the "harmful," not noticing that the fire is already everywhere. You think your hatred of evil is a sacred fire, but in reality, it is just a splinter under the fingernail of the mind, an inflammation that you scratch until it bleeds because the pain gives you a sense of boundaries. "I hate, therefore I exist separately."

This is the sweetest lie. Separation.

Listen closely; this is going to hurt. Your enemy, that very bastard you despise with all your soul, whose actions trigger your gag reflex and the desire to pull the trigger—he breathes the same oxygen that just left your lungs. You are not just neighbors. You are the same biomass, temporarily organized into different shapes.

Imagine an ocean. You are a wave that decided it is a separate entity, and now it hates another wave because that one is higher or frothier. What a ridiculous tragedy. You fight, you judge, you build barricades of sand, but beneath the surface of the water, there is no "you" and "him." There is only depth. Cold, dark, indifferent depth, where you are one whole.

God is not a kind grandfather on a cloud. God is a system administrator with root privileges who forgot the server password. Or, if you want it closer to the body, God is the process of rot turning a king into grass, and the grass into a sheep that a new king will eat. It is a carbon cycle that does not give a damn about your ideas of justice.

You fear this. Your reptilian brain screams in terror at the thought of dissolving boundaries. That is why you cling to "Good" and "Bad" like a drowning man to the wreckage of the Titanic. You need to know who is to blame. You need to accuse someone so you don't have to look in the mirror and see the void there.

But look at your hand. Look at your fingers. Where do you end and the air begin? At the level of the skin? At the level of thermal radiation? At the level of the gravitational field you create? There are no boundaries. You are woven into the fabric of reality tightly. Your thoughts are electrical discharges that do not belong to you; they are rented from the universe. Your hatred is the energy of a star, processed through the photosynthesis of the potato you ate for lunch.

There is no "evil" outside that needs to be defeated. There is no "good" that needs to be earned. There is only the One, playing hide-and-seek with itself, wearing the masks of executioners and victims, saints and sinners, to experience something—anything—other than the endless loneliness of eternity.

Do you feel it? That slight dizziness? That is the walls of your internal prison crumbling. Stop sorting trash in a burning house. Stop being the judge, the prosecutor, and the defense attorney in a trial that no one is conducting.

The moment you stop dividing the world into parts, you will realize that the knife in your hand, the wound on the enemy's body, and the scream of pain are the same note in an infinite symphony of silence.

Inhale. Exhale.

And here is the formula to burn away the remnants of your fear:

The executioner, the victim, and the axe are simply three different dreams dreamed by the same Pillow.