Being a conspiracy theorist is ugly.

Seriously.

 

Don’t do it.

There’s no going back.

 

Even the name is a sentence.

“Conspiracy theorist.”

Sounds like you wake up in the morning and organize secret meetings in your pajamas.

 

“Alright guys, today we control oil or manipulate minds?”

 

I just wanted to listen to music.

 

I grew up with Freddie Mercury.

I sang at the top of my lungs.

I felt immortal.

 

Then the mental virus hits.

And you start asking who funds what.

Who decides what gets on the radio.

Who becomes a legend and who stays in a garage.

 

And there you are, with your overpriced original CDs, thinking you were “supporting the artist.”

 

You were supporting a system.

Always the system.

The system is like God: you don’t see it, but it gets paid.

 

 

 

Being a conspiracy theorist is ugly because it ruins simple things.

 

You can’t eat a burger at McDonald’s without thinking about global supply chains, patented seeds, psychological marketing.

 

You can’t wear Nike without picturing a boardroom somewhere raising a glass while you jog, feeling free.

 

You can’t even open a social network — say Facebook — without hearing a soft electronic whisper:

 

“Thank you for your data.

Thank you for your soul.

See you tomorrow.”

 

 

 

The problem is, at first it’s fun.

 

You feel awake.

You feel like Neo.

 

Then you realize Neo at least had Morpheus.

 

You have a comment under a video that says:

“DO YOUR RESEARCH!!!1!”

 

 

 

Once I was lying in a field.

Perfect sunset.

Arianna.

 

The right light.

The right wind.

Poetry ready.

 

And I see a trail in the sky.

 

Game over.

 

Instead of kissing her, I start with:

“You see, technically…”

 

She looks at me.

Ten minutes.

Then she says:

 

“Listen, dude, either we make out or I’m leaving.”

 

I chose atmospheric geopolitics.

 

She chose life.

 

 

 

Being a conspiracy theorist is ugly because you can’t even enjoy an ATM.

 

You just want to withdraw fifty bucks.

 

Instead you hear words echoing in your head:

 

Central banks.

Issuance.

Debt.

Seigniorage.

 

I swear, sometimes I stare at a receipt like it’s an esoteric manuscript.

 

“Money… money… money…”

 

And that’s when you understand the madness isn’t discovering something.

 

It’s not being able to stop connecting everything.

 

 

 

The most tragic part?

 

It’s not becoming paranoid.

 

It’s becoming predictable.

 

Because the system loves the conspiracy theorist.

 

It studies him.

Catalogs him.

Sells him books.

Sells him documentaries.

Sells him t-shirts that say “WAKE UP.”

 

It makes you feel rebellious while you fill your cart.

 

Brilliant.

 

“The best way to control someone is to convince them they’re free.”

 

I don’t know who said that.

But it sounds good, so it’s probably true.

 

 

 

Does TV lie?

Maybe.

 

Does the internet lie?

Definitely.

 

Does the conspiracy theorist lie?

Often.

 

The difference is he feels pure while doing it.

 

And that’s the ugly part.

 

Because you start doubting everything.

Then you doubt those who don’t doubt.

Then you doubt those who doubt too much.

Then you doubt yourself for doubting.

 

Loop.

 

Welcome to the elegant hell of consciousness.

 

 

 

Being a conspiracy theorist is ugly because it takes your innocence but gives you no power.

 

It makes you feel lucid in a sleeping world.

 

But you’re just an exhausted awake person.

 

And Friedrich Nietzsche said:

 

“And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

 

The problem is today the abyss has an algorithm.

 

It watches you.

Studies you.

Suggests things.

 

“Enjoyed the fall of an empire?

Try this alternative theory.”

 

 

 

Being a conspiracy theorist is ugly.

 

You start because you want to save the world.

 

You end up arguing in comment sections with a guy whose profile picture is a wolf with blue eyes.

 

 

 

But the most dangerous part?

 

It’s not believing in conspiracies.

 

It’s building your identity on them.

 

If there’s no invisible enemy, who are you?

 

If there’s no evil system, what fuels your anger?

 

If there’s no global manipulation, what justifies your loneliness?

 

 

 

I know what it’s like.

 

I wanted the nice car.

The club.

The marriage.

The mortgage.

The simple life.

 

Then I started thinking too much.

 

Fatal mistake.

 

Because awareness isn’t glamorous.

 

It’s uncomfortable.

It’s antisocial.

It’s a flaw.

 

 

 

So yes.

 

Being a conspiracy theorist is ugly.

 

It ruins songs.

It ruins sunsets.

It ruins girls.

It ruins ATMs.

 

But most of all, it ruins peace of mind.

 

And peace of mind today is worth more than gold.

 

 

 

Don’t become conspiracy theorists.

 

Become human.

 

That’s much harder.

 

And much less monetizable.