Aimless Orbit

Hey Drifters,

Pull up a thought. Sit with me a second. You ever feel like the world hands you a script and forgets to tell you it’s fiction?

Some days, I feel like I’m living in a reality built on someone else’s certainty. Not my own. Like I’m standing outside a belief system—nose pressed to the glass—watching everyone else move through life like it makes sense, while I’m just trying not to drown in questions.

They say some things are absolute. Objective. Undeniable.

But even those so-called “truths” feel like they came from someone long gone, whispered down through generations until we stopped asking where they even came from.

At some point, every objective truth was just a subjective one that someone else believed in hard enough to pass it down. And we? We just kept it going.

Like folklore. Or religion. Or time.

I used to think truth was something you could hold. Like a stone—heavy, solid, unmoving. But the older I get, the more I realize… most of what I called truth was just repetition. Familiar phrases, memorized beliefs. Things passed down like hand-me-downs, worn thin in places where they stopped fitting me.

I remember sitting in psychology class, learning about subconscious bias. The idea that we could move through life thinking we were making choices—when really, our brains were just following old scripts. That messed me up a little. It made me wonder: how much of me is me—and how much is memory, repetition, instinct dressed up as truth?

I started questioning one night and couldn’t stop spiraling.

I started with “What’s real?”
Then, “What do I actually believe?”
Then, “What have I just accepted because it was easier than asking too many questions?”

I landed somewhere between Descartes and “maybe I’m just tired.”
And if the self is unstable, then truth has nowhere solid to land.

Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am.”
But even that feels shaky.
What if the thought wasn’t even yours to begin with?
What if your thoughts are just echoes of the conditioning you didn’t ask for?

Nietzsche said there are no facts, only interpretations.
And that one got under my skin.
If there are no facts—only filters—then who gets to say what’s true?
Who handed me my lens?

I’ve tried to find peace in philosophy—Plato, Kierkegaard, all of them.
But sometimes it just made the spiral worse.
Like arguing with ghosts who don’t know me, but still feel entitled to shape my reality.
I don’t want sterile theories.
I want something that lets me breathe.

Even the body keeps score.
Sometimes I’ll feel this tightness in my chest, like my subconscious is trying to scream over all the truths I’ve silenced just to survive the day.

And then the spiral shifts—because if truth can be this unstable, what does that say about the truths we build around family?

What even is that?
Blood? Obligation? Loyalty?

I spiraled once into thinking that if the Bible says we all came from Adam and Eve—and evolution says we all evolved from the same early beings—then technically, we’re all related.
So why do we draw such hard lines between “family” and “everyone else”?

Maybe “family” is just a made-up word for the people we’re scared to admit we need.
A safety net.
A crutch we call unconditional.

And if ‘family’ is just a fragile truth we cling to—what about love?

Is unconditional love even real?

I want to say yes.
I need to believe it’s possible.
But if we only started loving people because of certain conditions—how they made us feel, what they did, what we shared—then can we really say we’d still love them if all of that was stripped away?

Would I still love my Dad if he were a stranger who hurt me?
Would I still cling to the idea of “forever love” if I wasn’t afraid of being left?

Sometimes I think unconditional love is a fantasy we tell ourselves to cope with the fact that love can be taken away.
Like, if I can love without limits, then maybe someone will finally do the same for me.

But when they don’t?
It doesn’t break the world.
It breaks me.

I live in my head a lot.
It’s noisy in there.
Thoughts don’t take turns.
They fight.
They merge.
They contradict.

And still, I want truth.
Not the kind I can recite,
but the kind I can feel with my whole body and not flinch.

Most days, I can’t find that.
Most days, I’m just pretending.
Pretending to be sure.
Pretending to know what I believe.
Pretending to be smart when I’m really just drowning in overthinking that never finishes its own sentences.

Stillness? That’s the dream.

I want to walk through my thoughts like a museum—take my time, read the plaques, sit with the art of my own mind.

But right now?
It’s a funhouse mirror—warped, stretched, and blurred at the edges.

I crave silence.
Not from the world,
but from the pressure to know anything for sure.

So no, I don’t have a truth to hand you.
No packaged answers or perfect theories.

Just a conversation.
A crack in the wall.
A shared question:

What was the first “truth” you ever questioned — and what did it do to you?