Once upon a time, the poor soul thought that words had meaning. That when he spoke, people would actually understand what he meant. Ah, how naive he was.
In reality, every time he uttered a sentence, it became an open-world puzzle for everyone else to solve.
One group would hear him and interpret his words as an attack, another would find a secret message confirming their beliefs, while yet another would assume he was speaking directly to them in an elaborate code meant only for their ears.
It was like watching religious scholars analyze their holy texts—each person reading the same sentence but somehow walking away with a completely different doctrine.
“What does he mean by that?”
“Surely, this is a hidden insult!”
“No, no! He’s obviously sending me a cryptic message of approval!”
“I think he’s predicting the end of times.”
And there he was—just a guy making a basic statement.
At first, this circus of interpretation annoyed the poor soul. He actually cared about being understood. He wasted energy clarifying, explaining, even apologizing for things he never meant in the first place.
But one day, it hit him like a cosmic revelation: It’s not his problem.
If people wanted to dig for hidden meanings in his words, let them get lost in the maze of their own minds. If they wanted to twist his words into pretzels, let them enjoy the taste of their own confusion.
Now, the same misunderstandings that once frustrated him have become his entertainment.
“Wait… did he just mean—?”
“I KNEW IT! He’s secretly siding with me!”
“No, you fool! He’s against us all!”
Meanwhile, the poor soul is sipping his coffee, fully aware that this is their cycle, not his. He already broke free, elevated beyond this nonsense.
If they wanted to understand, they’d have to break the cycle for themselves—to communicate like adults instead of playing psychological detective with every sentence.
And if they didn’t? Well, they were free to believe whatever made them happy. He wasn’t going to stop them.
After all, who was he to interfere with their favorite pastime—reading between lines that don’t exist?
