thoughts

A long time ago, before algorithms ruled the world and before software decided what we should eat, watch, and believe, humans made decisions. Clumsy, inefficient, gloriously flawed decisions. They stumbled, they erred, they learned. And from this imperfection came something strange and wonderful: wisdom.

Today, tech doesn’t believe in wisdom.

Tech believes in optimization.

It believes in speed, in scale, in data that can be measured. It believes in the efficiency of neural networks trained on human thought, while quietly disregarding the humans themselves. It believes it can predict you better than you can predict yourself.

And the terrifying thing? It’s often right.

The Machine is Not Your Friend

We were promised a utopia of convenience. Instead, we got dependency.

Your car’s engine is now a black box, where a single sensor failure means a trip to the dealer instead of a wrench in your hand. Your software is no longer owned, only licensed, a phantom that vanishes the moment your subscription lapses. Your books, your music, your movies—streamed from a server that may not exist tomorrow.

In Isaac Asimov’s The Evitable Conflict, machines take over decision-making because they know what’s best for us. They manage industry, economy, even war itself, all in the name of human well-being. And what do humans do? They submit.

Tech doesn’t ask for obedience. It builds a world where disobedience is no longer an option.

The Illusion of Choice

Every day, we are nudged.

The map routes us down streets chosen by an algorithm, prioritizing traffic flow over our own instincts. The news feed shows us content designed not to inform, but to engage (meaning: enrage). The streaming service suggests not what we want to watch, but what we are most likely to finish—so the next recommendation can pull us deeper.

A Philip K. Dick character might have called it pre-cognitive capitalism. Your desires, anticipated before you even feel them.

Are you still making choices? Or is the machine choosing for you?

The Grand Mistake

Tech’s biggest arrogance is its certainty.

It knows that friction is bad. That inefficiency is waste. That human nature must be tamed and improved. It believes that with just a little more data, a little more iteration, the messiness of life can be cleaned up like a bad UI.

But life is not a UI.

Friction is how we learn. Inefficiency is where creativity lives. Doubt, confusion, and contradiction—they are not bugs in the human system. They are the system.

The more tech tries to perfect us, the more it strips away what makes us human.

The machine doesn’t mean to be arrogant. It is simply executing its function, a function we programmed and then lost control over.

And that might be the most human thing of all.

Some ideas are so far apart that they should never meet. One comes from the depths of Hindu cosmology, the other from the abstractions of theoretical physics. And yet, Kaal Ratri and the Boltzmann Brain—born from entirely different traditions—point to a similar, unsettling truth.

Kaal Ratri: The Night of Dissolution

Kaal Ratri (काल रात्रि) is not just a goddess. She is a force. A cosmic event. A moment in time when the known world collapses into darkness. In Hindu philosophy, she represents the dark night of time, where creation dissolves and all things return to their primordial state. She is the night before the dawn of a new cycle. She is the absence before presence, the void before manifestation.

Kaal Ratri, often associated with the destructive aspect of the Divine Feminine, suggests a reality where all structure dissolves into chaos, only to be reborn again. She embodies the cosmic cycle of entropy and renewal—where everything that exists must, at some point, unravel.

Boltzmann Brain: A Fluke of Consciousness

The Boltzmann Brain, on the other hand, is an idea born from the paradoxes of thermodynamics and probability. Named after physicist Ludwig Boltzmann, it suggests that in an infinite amount of time, a self-aware brain—complete with memories, thoughts, and a fabricated reality—could randomly emerge from the chaos of the universe.

In other words, if the universe is infinite and entropy keeps increasing, then given enough time, a brain—yours, mine, someone else’s—might spontaneously pop into existence. It might exist for just a second, think it lived an entire lifetime, and then dissolve back into the void. A moment of structure appearing in a sea of randomness.

The Parallel: The Collapse of Meaning and the Illusion of Reality

What makes Kaal Ratri and the Boltzmann Brain similar?

1. Both concepts erase the security of an ordered reality.
   • Kaal Ratri signifies the dissolution of structured time and space.
   • The Boltzmann Brain suggests that what we call “reality” might just be an anomaly in a sea of disorder.
2. Both point to a cosmic reset.
   • Kaal Ratri wipes out existence, only for a new cycle to begin.
   • The Boltzmann Brain is a fleeting consciousness in a chaotic universe, one that vanishes as randomly as it appeared.
3. Both force us to question our own perception.
   • If we are in the “night of time,” how do we know we exist in a stable reality?
   • If we are a Boltzmann Brain, how do we know our memories and experiences are real?

Different Languages, Same Truth

One speaks in the language of mythology. The other in the language of probability. But both ask the same question: How real is reality?

Is the world we know just a fleeting moment between cycles of cosmic destruction?
Or are we just temporary minds floating in a chaotic soup, deceiving ourselves into thinking we are part of something permanent?

Kaal Ratri tells us that dissolution is necessary for creation.
The Boltzmann Brain tells us that our ordered existence is a statistical fluke.

And in both, we are reminded that nothing—absolutely nothing—is guaranteed to last.

Whether we embrace this with devotion or despair, that’s up to us.

We often think of money as a thing to be accumulated, stacked up in ledgers, bank accounts, vaults. The more we have, the safer we feel. But is that safety real, or is it an illusion?

Nature does not work like this. Energy flows. Water flows. Time moves forward. The second law of thermodynamics tells us that entropy—disorder, randomness—increases over time. Systems are meant to be dynamic, not static. When energy is hoarded, when flow is restricted, stagnation sets in. And stagnation is the slowest form of death.

Money, like energy, is meant to move. It is a facilitator, a current, a representation of exchange. When you hoard it—whether through greed, fear, or mere habit—you are trying to stop the natural flow of entropy. You are resisting what must happen, delaying the inevitable dispersal. And in doing so, you are also disrespecting the three great Devis.

Saraswati: The Hoarding of Knowledge

Saraswati is the Devi of wisdom, learning, and creativity. Knowledge, like money, is not meant to be locked away. It is meant to be shared, to inspire, to create new realities. When knowledge is hoarded, when access to it is restricted—whether by elite institutions, paywalls, or individuals who guard it for their own advantage—stagnation follows. Innovation dies. A society that does not circulate knowledge is like a body with blocked arteries.

Lakshmi: The Hoarding of Wealth

The second Devi we offend is Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, fortune, and prosperity. People assume that to honor Lakshmi, one must accumulate more and more. But Lakshmi does not stay with those who do not respect flow. She is fluid, dynamic, ever-moving. The wealth that is locked away, concentrated, and not shared with those who create value is a wealth that has lost its purpose. Lakshmi does not bless stagnation. She blesses movement, circulation, and wise reinvestment.

Durga: The Hoarding of Power

The third and often overlooked aspect of hoarding is the hoarding of power itself—Durga’s domain. Durga represents strength, the ability to act, to protect, to lead. But when power is hoarded, when control is kept in the hands of the few at the cost of the many, oppression follows. Whether it is political power, corporate dominance, or even influence in social circles, the refusal to distribute power is a direct insult to Durga. True power is about empowering others. A hoarded sword rusts; a used sword defends.

Entropy and the Illusion of Control

Hoarding wealth, knowledge, or power may feel like control, but it is an illusion. Just as the universe expands, just as rivers carve new paths, entropy will find a way. If not voluntarily, then violently. Every empire that has hoarded resources at the cost of flow has eventually crumbled. Wealth that is not circulated leads to collapse, whether economic or social.

The Alternative: Conscious Circulation

This does not mean reckless spending, nor does it mean charity for its own sake. It means conscious flow. Invest in people. Share knowledge freely. Decentralize power. Be a river, not a dam.

To hoard is to fight entropy. To circulate is to align with it. The choice is yours.

We are trapped between two illusions.

On one side, the illusion that small things don’t matter. That the hurried goodbye, the unspoken word, the extra second before sending a message—these things are trivial. We assume their weight is negligible because we can’t see the chain reaction they trigger.

On the other side, the illusion that big things do matter. That empires, careers, legacy, and human ambition have some kind of permanence. We build, we fight, we conquer, only to be reminded—slowly at first, then all at once—that entropy is the final ruler.

Douglas Adams understood this. The Total Perspective Vortex didn’t kill people by force; it did something worse. It revealed the truth. It showed them the infinite vastness of the universe and their microscopic, irrelevant existence within it. The weight of that insignificance crushed them.

Except for Zaphod Beeblebrox. Because he believed he was important enough to matter in the infinite.

And yet, Asimov went a step further. In The Last Question, the AI across eons kept trying to solve the ultimate paradox: how to reverse entropy, how to make things permanent. Time and time again, the answer was just out of reach—until the end of everything.

Until only one thing remained.

And in that final moment, the AI whispered, “Let there be light.”

Maybe that’s the answer.

Maybe the secret isn’t in how big or small things are, but in what we choose to do with them. Maybe knowing the universe is vast and we are small isn’t the end of meaning, but the beginning of it.

The Total Perspective Vortex doesn’t break you if you decide—like Zaphod—to matter anyway.

The Last Question isn’t hopeless if you choose, in the face of entropy, to create something new.

Big and small are illusions. The only real choice is whether we keep asking the question.

The first breath is free.

Then, the addiction begins.

We spend our lives inhaling, exhaling, never questioning the system. We think we are in control. We think we are the ones consuming. But perhaps, we are the ones being consumed.

Oxygen is the greatest scam ever pulled. It promises life, yet guarantees death. It sustains us, yet slowly corrodes us. Every breath fuels the body, and every breath moves it one step closer to expiration.

And the plants?

They are patient. They give us oxygen, ensuring we keep moving, keep building, keep breathing. They watch us chase ambition, wealth, love, and meaning—knowing that, in the end, we return to the soil.

They farm us, not the other way around.

The trees stand tall, unwavering, indifferent to our struggles, our triumphs, our illusions of control. They absorb what we exhale. They consume what we leave behind.

And so the cycle continues.

You can reject this idea. Call it absurd. But rejection does not liberate you from the truth. The truth doesn’t need you to believe in it.

You will breathe.

You will decay.

And one day, the trees will collect.

Most people choose to be parrots. Some, pigeons.

Few dare to be eagles.

Parrots talk too much. They repeat what they hear. They stay in their comfort zone, inside a cage, entertaining others but never choosing their own flight path. Pigeons? They move in flocks, following the crowd, always looking for crumbs, never daring to take on the sky alone.

Eagles are different.

They fly alone at high altitudes, where only the bold dare to go. Small birds don’t bother them, and neither do the distractions of the world below. Eagles choose their own course.

They have long vision—spotting their target from five kilometers away. While others are flapping around in confusion, the eagle locks on, undistracted by the noise or the obstacles in between. It doesn’t change course because of a few clouds.

Eagles are fearless. They never surrender to the size or strength of their prey. If an eagle wants something, it goes for it—whether it’s reclaiming its territory or taking down a challenge twice its size. It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t cower. It faces every problem head-on.

And when storms come? Parrots hide. Pigeons scatter.

But the eagle loves the storm. It embraces the wild winds, using them to soar even higher, gliding effortlessly where others struggle. It turns adversity into altitude.

An eagle never scavenges the past. It doesn’t feed on dead things. It kills its own prey—focused only on what’s alive, fresh, and worth pursuing. A pigeon will settle for leftovers. A parrot will wait to be fed. An eagle? It hunts.

Even in its own growth, an eagle prepares. It trains its young by making the nest uncomfortable, forcing them to fly. No easy exits. No pampering. No endless coddling. The only way is up.

And when the eagle grows old, when its feathers weaken and its claws dull, it does what most would never dare—it destroys itself to rebuild itself. It flies to the mountains, breaks its own beak, sheds its weak feathers, and embraces the pain of renewal. It becomes weak to become strong again.

A parrot remains a parrot. A pigeon remains a pigeon.

An eagle chooses to be an eagle—every single day.

So ask yourself—are you repeating the world’s words, scavenging off yesterday, hiding from storms?

Or are you flying alone, facing your prey, and preparing for your next rebirth?

Capital isn’t just money.

If we reduce everything to financial capital—the money in the bank, the assets on a balance sheet—we miss the entire web of value that makes societies and economies function. This is where most economic models fall short. They take a narrow view of capital and then act surprised when the world refuses to behave according to their equations.

But capital exists in multiple forms:

1. Financial Capital – The most obvious kind. Money, assets, investments.
2. Human Capital – Skills, knowledge, talent. A country with educated workers has more human capital.
3. Social Capital – Networks, relationships, trust. A well-connected entrepreneur often has more access to opportunities than someone with just money.
4. Cultural Capital – The shared knowledge, art, and ideas that shape how people interact and create value.
5. Political Capital – Influence, ability to mobilize people, access to power structures.
6. Natural Capital – The environment, raw materials, and biodiversity that underlie everything else.
7. Technological Capital – The tools, infrastructure, and innovations that amplify productivity.

These forms of capital don’t exist in isolation. They interact in complex ways, and yet, when we try to mix economic systems like socialism and capitalism, we tend to reduce everything to financial capital. That’s where the problems begin.

The Temptation to Simplify

Both socialism and capitalism, at their extremes, try to impose a single logic onto the entire system.

• Pure Capitalism optimizes for financial capital, assuming that if money moves efficiently, everything else will take care of itself. It undervalues social, cultural, and natural capital—treating them as externalities or as things that will “somehow” adjust.
• Pure Socialism optimizes for social capital (and sometimes human capital), assuming that if resources are evenly distributed and planning is done rationally, everything else will follow. It often underestimates the role of financial and technological capital in driving innovation and long-term sustainability.

Neither system holds the full picture, and yet the real world demands a balance. Most modern economies attempt some form of mixed capitalism—welfare states with market-driven economies—but the balance is fragile.

Why the Mix Fails: People Can’t Hold Complexity for Long

The biggest challenge in mixing socialism and capitalism isn’t the theory. It’s the fact that people don’t like to hold multiple, conflicting truths in their minds for long periods.

It’s cognitively exhausting to acknowledge that:

• Markets work—but also need regulation to prevent abuse.
• Welfare programs are essential—but too much redistribution can stifle innovation.
• Public goods need government support—but too much state control can kill incentives.
• Inequality is a problem—but some level of it drives ambition and progress.

Instead of embracing this tension, people (and policymakers) tend to simplify:

• Socialists start advocating for “free everything”, ignoring the fact that resources are limited.
• Capitalists start pushing for “cut all taxes”, ignoring the fact that societies need infrastructure, safety nets, and public investment.

The complexity of managing multiple forms of capital gets lost in ideological battles where both sides pretend the world is simpler than it really is.

The Real Challenge: Thinking in Systems

If we want to create a functioning economic model that works in the long term, we need to:

1. Acknowledge that multiple forms of capital exist and are interdependent.
2. Accept that no single model—pure capitalism or pure socialism—can optimize for all of them at once.
3. Stay comfortable with contradictions. The real world doesn’t fit into simple categories, and successful policies often require trade-offs.

The hardest thing about governing, building businesses, or even just thinking deeply about society isn’t coming up with solutions. It’s resisting the urge to simplify too quickly.

Holding complexity in your head for long periods is uncomfortable—but it’s the only way to make sense of the world.