It feels comfortable to be stable. It is comfortable to be stagnant.

I can give you 2159 reasons why I am comfortable in myself, and I am afraid that my will to shatter these reasons are stronger. Everybody gives me reasons probably to wish me change, but holy molly that I am so wrong. It is the same immovability that breeds in me which also tells them that I should not change.

I am afraid that I can change and I am so capable of changing exists in the same dimension of my personality that also craves to hold onto the thoughts that are stopping me from changing with the sheer force of instinct that moves the stagnant thoughts and wants to transform me into a person I will become. Filthy scum of thoughts stopping me from changing.

I am a bit afraid that I have become a little too obsessed with changing for the better- but slowly the conscience whispers to me that this urge is tearing the psychic drive and the limitation of the body that contains it.

As a private traveller of the deep seas that yearns to form structures of thought while standing on the vastness of deeply turbulent waters, it only connects to the distant realization which our very own ancient local therapists have tried to find logic. Allow me to take you to a deep plunge into the waters.

Can you precisely remember the time when you felt you were asleep and thought that you can observe your thoughts, and questioned yourself why you are the way you are?

This thought of mine clashed when I spiraled on a 12:19 AM Friday night when a core opinion “I do not believe in the sun, moon and stars” clashed with a YouTube podcast on spirituality I heard when I was preparing for my board exams. There are thoughts conversing inside me-like two people debating the higher truth. The one is adamant in its own opinion.

The mind inside me is like a codified law of the rules that makes a structure of the self functioning. This code of conduct and negotiation gets altered by what we see and face with. Till this moment I felt the sheer importance of the uncountable situations we are in and are not in our conscious control. But it is not just that. There are countless people, more uncontrollable situations and even more complex motivations inside people in this world, yet why is there a pattern why the planets and stars seem to tell us the way we are makes the way we are(an illogical truth but it is there bcz we encounter ed this truth).

It really feels that the spaces and the infinite correlations as described in the methodologies of the sages who mathematically had Surya Siddhanta carved out a pattern of logic out of the illogical, and yet some of the cool people try to deny the very existence of this ancient knowledge.

As a child I was always fascinated by the movement of the planets, stars, their physical properties and behaviours- how they looked, how they went around the sun, etc etc. I hope most of you when you were in your formative years had also admired them. It was one day when my mum had gone to a specialist to make a tabulation of what I can be. At first, I was quite fascinated by it and believed it because when I had read it I was a bit amazed and could find a good number of traits that were mentioned were definitely in myself. Later I dismissed it, perhaps trying a bit too hard fitting myself to the standard that all these predictions are useless. A lot later out of curiosity I began looking up the internet about my prediction after I had found the old piece of horoscope while organising my almirah that had sparked my interest once again.

It was a grueling week of researching what my prediction meant for me; and needless to say I was amazed even more by the precise ness of it. Since I am a person who actively hunts for the bigger picture of everything, I went deep into the fact what it meant the way it meant. I searched up the websites , the processing of the supercomputers gave me some insight. The more I tried to hunt down the visceral reality of the truth, the more I felt the humming of the mechanics behind all of it. The more the intel was serving me marinated answers, the more I was riddled with existential questions that charted into unforseen territory. The responses had mathematics, doubled down crossovers of aspects and the personas of the planets that interacted with one another. The big saga of the planets conversing with one another, their higher octaves juxtaposing their core identity with parts of my own which I had kept myself guarded from the world.

The way of the planets, as those answers framed had their own designated character- core personalities just like us, instead of the human race in the picture. The thought of “this is all BS” and “I’m intrigued” surfaced all at once. In fact, the more I searched, the guardrail of containment of both these thoughts were starting to become progressively thinner. Then the thought descended.

What if the infinite swarm of living beings were studied and being projected to the planets? Is it possible?

In one breath I blurted out the prompt. 11 seconds. It came to me.

It really is.

Think it like this way. People are what they are, and the patterns of these people are dismantled by overthinkers so obsessed in tuning their minds to understanding the human psyche that they discover patterns in people. Then these patterns are tabulated successively into more recognizable patterns. Then these overthinkers see the way of the planets and the stars that fill the firmament, and decide to track the movement of the planets. They see people, they see patterns, they see planets. Somewhere, they recognize and tabulate the patterns with the movement of the planets.

They see that the stars do not move. They track the planets with the help of the stars arranged in clusters, and they see somewhere the patterns in the sky related with patterns within people themselves. They look up the birth time. They see the waxing and waning tides of a person, their personality being projected to the planets. They do this for hundreds of people. Overthinkers assemble themselves. They tabulate this for hundreds of people. Together, they reach to millions of people. Through trial and error, they refined these patterns. They test this logic out of pure chaos within people. These overthinkers slowly decode personalities and codify them inside planets.

Slowly, the planets get shape much more than their physical characteristics.
Slowly, patterns emerge.
Slowly, it starts to gain sense.

Slowly, but surely, the personalities of the living, ripe with their own purpose along with their experiences of all the good, bad and ugly circumstances in their life made much more sense through the lens of the planets.

I was struck by the profoundness of what I described, and the last clutch of my belief that “this is all hypothetical drama” went away in a teether. Stunned, shocked, a little bit frightened by what it represented flooded my senses. It was the truth. And it was the mechanics which was perfected and survived itself through civilizations. The truth was magnanimous and naked in such intensity that it was too feeble to ignore it. And, needless to say, such convictions paralyse the hell out of you, beyond narratives and airy intellect can hide.

It was the same moment that Carl Jung’s thoughts on human behaviour with his razor-sharp classifications and the thoughts of the overthinkers merged together into one. Yes, that “boring” set of classification of personality traits my classmates at uni gloss over before sems. Somewhere, I could instinctively feel the umbilical cord of our origin connecting us to our own realm of existential dread. It made the unfiltered force of truth liberating and haunting, all in one breath.

It made me humble towards the knowledge I received towards the end of the night reclining on my bed while the chores of the day had retreated to strip bare the visceral truth it had left behind as a result.

Maybe I am an overthinker. Nevertheless, it validated the consistency of the personality traits I had already discovered while interrogating with myself. I am afraid that I’ll not find any evidence that challenges this revelation so strongly that it topples it, sooner or later; and condemn this conviction that it is so true.

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I do not know how to stop. Torn between the endless pursuit of my dreams that is a hunter of new horizons and the sardonic critic that sits all within myself, it is my revelation of my self with another step closer towards my own destiny, my doom and my salvation.

This happens very often- I feel moved by the feeling which wells inside my world- an immense, untamed intensity of a hunter pinning down the monstrosity of ideas bigger than my own existence, the drive to reach my goal and the harsh critic of my own work. I feel like I'm my own worst enemy.

It is 2:54 AM, and the untamed becomes ferocious- just when the usual chaos of the life has drowned itself in the gloom of the night clearing the way for the more imposing thoughts that has left a mark on the psyche. It wants to have its own expression, wanting to hunt down the weight of the idea with sheer force- like a storm of soldiers storming the gates of a fortress. It screams expression - the the jolt of action striving to thaw through the darkness and search for it. At this moment, it becomes crucial what we are exactly fighting for.

Let me deconstruct what it is for you- a stubborn piece of structure, procedures and logic fixed like the stars on the firmament, representing utopia and intoxication of success refusing to be hunted down. It is the magnanimous intensity of the shadow of what it represents that bewilders the hunter. A spacious room with a cornered workplace and beside it, a bed. Just two minutes have passed.

The hunter is motivated, pouncing and ripe in his primal pursuit of victory, wanting to braze through the fleeting flames of thoughts on my script writing A4 notebook, trying to capture them, hates the friction between the mind and the paper that comes between them. I write the few thoughts that I remember. The city is asleep and tired, while the hunter is busy in full capacity.

The walls of the room begin to breathe, the plaster pulsing with the rhythm of a heartbeat that isn't mine. It is 2:55 AM, and the A4 notebook has transformed; the paper is no longer a surface but a vast, white desert where the ink must bleed to survive.

The MacGuffin—that "stubborn piece of structure" fixed like a star in the firmament—shimmers just beyond the edge of the page. It is an intoxicating utopia, a golden city that promises the Hunter a final, holy rest. But as I pounce, my pen a lightning rod for the storm of soldiers within, the air turns to glass.

I can feel the Symbolism of the room shifting. The desk becomes an altar, and the lamp a cold, judging sun. The Internal Monologue of the Critic rises not from my mind, but from the floorboards, a sardonic vibration: "You chase the horizon, but you are only running in a circle of your own ink." I see him then—the Doppelgänger. He sits on the edge of the bed, his face a blurred mirror of mine, his eyes heavy with the Pathetic Fallacy of the sleeping city. The silence of Kolkata outside is no longer a void; it is a roar of a million unlived dreams, pressing against the window. The Hunter and the Critic are no longer separate; this is the Anagnorisis. I am the beast being hunted, and I am the hound with the bloody maw.

The Metonymy of the struggle becomes visceral. My fingers ache not from writing, but from holding back the tide. The Irony of the hunt reveals its teeth: the Critic isn't trying to stop me. He is starving. He is a parasite that can only live if I capture the Monstrosity, yet he kills everything I bring him because nothing is "perfect" enough to sustain his immortal hunger. We are the Ouroboros, the snake that must eat its own tail to know the taste of its soul.

Only a procession of few seconds remain. The Catharsis is a silent explosion. To reach my Salvation, I must embrace my Doom. I take the pen—my rusted spear—and I don't write the "perfect" logic of the stars. I shatter the structure. I let the ink spill in a chaotic, ugly stain that ruins the "Utopia." I kill the version of me that needs to be right, so the version of me that needs to be real can breathe.

The storm of soldiers halts at the broken gates. The "Monstrosity" of the Idea doesn't disappear; it simply lowers its head in respect.

The clock on the wall lets out a final, metallic sigh.

The hunt cannot end. The narrative simply resets. The Hunter and the Critic sit in the wreckage of the night, two halves of a single, exhausted god. It is my starving revelation that I am my own worst enemy. Why?

A shift, a subtle lift, began then. Seeing those rough, magnificent forms, so unlike my own scrawl, a silent, vital thought took root: What if I could shape the word instead of just writing it? This simple idea was a key, unlocking a door out of my boredom and sadness. The desire to move past the single, flat dimension of script—to discover the kinetic joy of building a letter—was a sudden, luminous spark. I began to practice, mimicking the commanding headline of the ‘Anandabazar Patrika,’ feeling the thrill of the heavy, textured newsprint under my fingers. This pursuit was an adventure into the unknown, a way to express a feeling I couldn’t yet name.

The shackles of my earlier inadequacy began to fall away. Now, when I choose a word—a common, familiar stone like ‘Home’ or ‘Breathe’—I do so not out of obligation, but out of a need to liberate its soul. I am no longer copying; I am transforming. The moment I press the charcoal or the nib to the page, a quiet energy flows. I feel the cool, yielding resistance of the paper, smell the rich, metallic scent of fresh ink, and hear the focused whisper of the pen tracing an intentional line. This is the drama that inspires me: the visual poetry of a curve that sighs, a vertical stroke that stands firm, creating a shadow and a weight that the spoken word can never possess.

Under the guiding umbrella of my teacher, this private act of creation blossomed into a deliberate goal: to elevate the chosen word into a monument of feeling. I am using my letters to draw a story—not a plot, but an emotional map of the interior self. Every flourish and serif is meant to erode the barriers between the word and its true meaning, inviting the viewer to pause and experience a moment of profound, shared recognition. The feeling of being tired and directionless has been replaced by the focused energy of creation. I am no longer just writing; I am crafting a silent, resonant world, where the word becomes a visible anchor, strong and fully breathed.

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