thoughts

Most websites today are obsessed with knowing everything about their visitors. How many people came? Where did they come from? How long did they stay? What did they click on? Analytics tools promise insights, growth, and optimization. But what if you just… didn’t track anything?

What Happens When You Remove Analytics?

At first, it feels unsettling. There’s a sense of control in knowing your numbers, and letting go of that can feel like flying blind. But then, something shifts. Your blog becomes a place, not a machine. A space for words to exist without constantly being measured.

The Benefits

1. Pure Privacy – Readers get a clean, private experience. No cookies, no scripts, no surveillance.

2. Speed – Your site loads faster. No analytics means no extra requests slowing it down.

3. Less Mental Noise – You stop obsessing over traffic spikes and dips. The pressure to optimize fades.

4. No Compliance Headaches – No need to worry about GDPR, CCPA, cookie banners, or privacy policies.

The Trade-offs

1. You Don’t Know Who’s Reading – No pageviews, no location data, no engagement metrics. Just silence.

2. No Feedback Loops – If a post resonates, you’ll only know if someone tells you directly.

3. No Error Tracking – You might not notice broken links or pages unless a reader reports them.

So, Why Do It?

Because not everything needs to be measured. Not every blog needs to be a content funnel, a conversion machine, or a data-driven growth experiment. Some writing is just… writing.

A Middle Path

If you still want a sense of what’s happening without tracking users, here are some alternatives:

• Server Logs – Your hosting provider likely keeps raw access logs, which give basic visit data without invasive tracking.

• Privacy-first Analytics – Tools like Plausible or Fathom offer lightweight, cookieless analytics. This blog might end up using one of them.

• Direct Engagement – Encourage emails, comments, and discussions instead of tracking passive views.

Bottomline

Do you write to be read, or do you write to be measured? If it’s the former, maybe you don’t need analytics at all. Let the words stand on their own. If they matter, people will find them. And if they don’t, no amount of tracking will change that.

We all have delusions. Some are crippling—like the belief that nothing will ever get better. Others are helpful—like the conviction that if we just keep going, something will click.

The trick is to choose the ones that serve us.

The artist believes, against all odds, that the next brushstroke will make the painting come alive. The entrepreneur believes that the hundredth rejection is just the last step before success. The person crawling out of grief convinces themselves that tomorrow might hurt a little less.

None of these are facts. They are stories we tell ourselves, and they shape our reality. A useful delusion can carry us through the parts of life where despair lurks, waiting for us to give up.

In sterquiinius invenitur—In filth, it will be found.

Jordan Peterson brought up this old alchemical phrase in a conversation with Theo Von, tying it to Carl Jung and the legend of King Arthur.

The knights of the Round Table set off in search of the Holy Grail—the ultimate value, the thing that redeems existence. But they didn’t know where to look. So, each knight faced the dark forest and entered at the point that seemed darkest to him. The place they least wanted to go.

That’s the rule. The answers you seek are buried in the places you avoid. The thing you need most is wrapped in discomfort, failure, and fear. That’s the way of transformation—not through the clean and easy, but through the mess.

Alchemy wasn’t just about turning lead into gold. It was a metaphor: that the muck, the rejected, the discarded, is where the treasure lies. And that applies to us.

Despair tells you to stop. A helpful delusion whispers, “Just a little further.”

If you must believe in something, let it be something that moves you forward.

You don’t pick your thoughts anymore.

You think you do. But open your phone, and the algorithm’s already decided what’s on your mind today.

That trending topic? That viral controversy? That product you suddenly want?

Not random. Not coincidence. Just data doing its job.

It’s subtle. It’s invisible. And that’s why it works so well.

Once, your worldview was shaped by the people around you—family, friends, mentors. Now, it’s shaped by an AI that feeds you more of whatever keeps you scrolling.

You’re not just a user. You’re a profile in a system. A constantly refined model, optimized for engagement.

It learns what makes you tick.
It learns what makes you mad.
It learns how to keep you here just a little longer.

The more you use it, the more you train it.
The more it trains you, the more predictable you become.

People used to say, “You become the average of the five people you spend the most time with.”

But what if you spend the most time with an algorithm?

What happens when it knows you better than your best friend?
What happens when it reinforces every bias, feeds every insecurity, fuels every addiction?

You’re not being shown what’s true.
You’re being shown what works.

And what works—for them—is whatever keeps you watching.

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So what now?

You could fight it. But let’s be real—you won’t. Neither will I.

It’s too good at what it does.
It’s too convenient. Too fun. Too seamless.

The best you can do? Be aware.

Because once you know you’re being shaped, you can start choosing who you become.

For centuries, Europe extracted wealth, resources, and human capital from the rest of the world, fueling its industrial revolution and empire-building. Yet, when we look at Europe today, a striking paradox emerges: the very nations that once pillaged the globe now struggle to maintain relevance in an increasingly multipolar world.

Take Britain, for instance. A nation that colonized and drained vast territories, most notably India, now finds itself in economic decline. Economist Utsa Patnaik estimated that Britain owes India $45 trillion in reparations for its colonial loot. To put that in perspective, Britain’s entire GDP today is barely $3.3 trillion. If it were to repay what it stole, it would cease to exist as an economic entity.

This reveals an uncomfortable truth—Britain (and much of Europe) was never truly “rich.” It was merely propped up by theft, and without its empire, its actual productive capacity was weak. The empire was its lifeline. When the empire crumbled, so did Britain’s status.

The Myth of European Innovation

There’s a persistent myth that Europe’s wealth came from its own ingenuity. But history tells us otherwise. The industrial revolution was fueled by stolen cotton from India, enslaved labor in the Americas, and free-flowing capital extracted from colonies. London and Paris thrived because the world paid the price. When that supply chain of exploitation was cut off, these economies began to stagnate.

Compare this to Asia. China and India were once among the world’s richest economies before colonization. Now, freed from European plunder, they are rising again, not through conquest but through productivity. Meanwhile, Europe, which had centuries of stolen advantage, now clings to relevance with outdated institutions like the EU, internal economic crises, and declining global influence.

The True Cost of Colonization

Colonization wasn’t just about looting wealth—it also destroyed economic structures in the colonized nations, making them dependent and delaying their natural growth. India, for example, had a 25% share of global GDP before British rule. By the time the British left, it was reduced to less than 3%.

But what did Britain do with this stolen wealth? It squandered it. Instead of building a sustainable economy, it created a rentier system—living off past gains without producing new ones. Today, its industries are weak, its politics is fractured, and its economy is floundering.

Europe’s Future: A Declining Power

As Asia, Africa, and Latin America reclaim their agency, Europe faces a harsh reality—it is no longer the center of the world. It doesn’t have the colonies to sustain its illusion of wealth anymore. It lacks the productive power to compete with rising economies.

The European model—built on extraction rather than creation—has run its course. Without the ability to loot, Europe has little left to offer. The debt it owes the world is greater than the wealth it possesses. And that is why, in a truly global accounting, Europe is a net loss.

Once upon a time, status was built on what you did.

Now, it’s built on who’s watching.

Attention is the currency. Not money, not skill, not even expertise. Just… attention.

If you have it, you can sell anything—a product, an idea, yourself.

If you don’t, you’re invisible.

How We Got Here

Social media didn’t just connect people. It turned everything into a performance.

• Conversations became content.
• Friendships became follower counts.
• Opinions became engagement bait.

And the algorithm? It doesn’t care about truth. It cares about time spent on screen.

More outrage. More drama. More extremes. Because mild doesn’t trend.

The Business of Attention

Social platforms don’t sell ads. They sell your time.

• More engagement → More scrolling.
• More scrolling → More ads served.
• More ads served → More profit.

Every click, every share, every second you stay on a post—it’s money in their bank.
And creators? They’re just trying to keep up.

• Say something thoughtful? No traction.
• Say something divisive? Viral.

The market rewards those who play the game.

The Trap

Chasing attention feels like progress. Until it doesn’t.

• You post. You go viral. You win.
• You post again. Fewer likes. Anxiety.
• You post louder. More extreme. More controversial.
• You burn out. Or worse—you fade out.

It’s a game you can’t stop playing. But you also can’t win.

What Happens Next?

We built a world where attention equals power.
But power without depth is empty.

The question is—when the dopamine runs out, what’s left?

In India, the milk you drink might not be milk.

It could be detergent. Or shampoo. Or urea. Or a little bit of all three.

The paneer in your sabzi? It might be made from refined oil and synthetic chemicals. The spices in your kitchen? Laced with artificial colors and lead salts. The tea leaves? Burnt leather shavings. The ice cream on a hot day? Made with industrial starch. The sweets at festivals? Adulterated with washing powder.

This isn’t an exaggeration. It’s the market.

And it doesn’t stop at food.

Fake medicines are sold freely—expired pills repackaged, life-saving drugs replaced with chalk powder. In any sane country, this would be a crime worthy of capital punishment. Here, it’s just another day in business.

And then, the army was sold fake coffins.

Think about that. A country where even death isn’t spared. Where the most sacred, the most sensitive, the most irreplaceable is up for fraud. What chance does the rest have?

Hygiene? Not even a discussion. Rotten meat, rebranded and sold fresh. Open drains, next to street food stalls. Water mixed with sewage, running through the city’s veins. A fly in your food is not a sign of negligence, it’s a sign of affordability—after all, the cleaner places charge more.

And if someone does check? A bribe here, a favor there. The problem disappears.

Road safety? We build highways without barriers, intersections without signals, roads that flood at the first sign of rain. The seatbelt is optional, the helmet is for show, the traffic lights are mere suggestions.

Industrial safety? Gas leaks. Factory fires. Workers suffocated, crushed, burned. And when a building collapses, the rescue effort is a race against corruption as much as it is against time.

Labour laws? The richest in the country tell you to work 90-hour weeks. The poorest are forced to work without rights, without rest, without dignity.

The milk is not milk.

The medicine is not medicine.

The food is not food.

The rules exist—but only as long as no one pays to make them disappear.