The Invisible War, Intergalactic Pirates, and the Fridge Magnet Conspiracy: The Truth Behind Cafe Nexus

Move over Roswell, forget Area 51—Bodh Gaya has just become the epicenter of the greatest extraterrestrial revelation in human history. And unlike shady government coverups, this is open to the public. No redacted files, no men in black—just coffee, UFOs, and a cosmic conspiracy held together by fridge magnets.

It all started with a completely normal travel poster. A scenic lake, mountains, and sky—nothing suspicious. But then, in a moment of divine extraterrestrial enlightenment, Uncle Peter gazed at it, stroked his beard, and whispered, "Aliens. It needs aliens."

Now, you might think this was just an artistic impulse. Oh no, my friend. Uncle Peter is not just an ordinary man—he is being channeled by extraterrestrial forces. That’s right. While the rest of us struggle with rent and existential dread, Uncle Peter has intergalactic contacts.

According to him, he is a high-ranking member of the Intergalactic Council, which (until recently) none of us knew existed. He has been receiving transmissions from an alien guide—an esteemed extraterrestrial being who happens to be best friends with Valiant Thor, the legendary Venusian who allegedly worked with the U.S. government in the 1950s. Uncle Peter’s alien friend is also from Venus, and they have given him a very important mission.

What is this grand mission? To expose the invisible war that has been raging for thousands of years.

The War No One Talks About

Uncle Peter insists that World War II never ended. That was just the surface-level battle. The real war has been going on in secret—a massive intergalactic conflict between two opposing forces:

The Intergalactic Council – a noble alliance of ancient extraterrestrial civilizations working to protect Earth from cosmic predators.

The Pirates of Space – ruthless interstellar looters who seek to seize control of Earth because their planets are collapsing, and they’re running out of resources.

To these spacefaring factions, Earth is not just a planet. It’s a special shop, a valuable cosmic property filled with resources, energy, and a population that is easily manipulated. And right now, the Pirates of Space are getting desperate. Their ships are sinking, they are out of time, and they are making their move.

“It’s like Ready Player One,” Uncle Peter explains, sipping his coffee. “In the movie, whoever finds the Easter egg gets full control of the virtual world. But on Earth, whoever wins this war gets full control of the entire planet.”

And if you think this is a recent development, think again.

Uncle Peter claims that this cosmic battle has been happening since the time of Mesopotamian civilization. The ancient gods? Not gods at all. Aliens. The Sumerians? Guided by extraterrestrial knowledge. The pyramids? Strategic energy stations.

The beings that humanity once worshipped as deities have been channeling us since the beginning of civilization, sometimes to guide us, sometimes to use us as pawns in their intergalactic chess game. Every major war, every unexplained historical event, every shift in global power—it’s all part of this grand, cosmic struggle.

And the politicians? They’re all involved. Every handshake between world leaders, every mysterious summit—it’s not about trade deals. It’s about who gets to rule Earth.

Fridge Magnets: The Secret Weapon of the Resistance

So what does this have to do with the UFOs on our poster? Everything.

When Uncle Peter had his divine extraterrestrial revelation, we knew we had to act fast. We printed out flying saucers, cut them out, and prepared to stage an invasion. But then came the logistical crisis.

How do you attach UFOs to a poster without making the Intergalactic Council mad?

That’s when I, channeled not by aliens but by sheer earthly genius, had a brilliant idea. Fridge magnets.

And just like that, Cafe Nexus now proudly displays the first magnetically secured alien visitation in human history. The UFOs hover mysteriously over the landscape, completely movable—just in case the Galactic Council wants to adjust their trajectory. Unlike classified files hidden away in underground bunkers, this extraterrestrial encounter is fully interactive. You can even reposition the UFOs yourself—though Uncle Peter warns that sudden movement could disrupt the space-time continuum.

But this is more than just art. Uncle Peter insists it’s a sign. A message. A warning? We’re not sure. He just sips his coffee, stares at the wall, and mutters cryptic things like, “They are watching, but they mean no harm. Not yet.”

The Invitation

So if you ever feel lonely in the universe, remember—you are not alone. None of us are. Because Uncle Peter is here, the aliens are here, and most importantly, the fridge magnets are here, holding everything together.

And unlike government coverups, we invite you to come see it for yourself.

Come for the coffee. Stay for the truth.

#CafeNexus #UnclePeterKnows #InvisibleWar #IntergalacticCouncil #PiratesOfSpace #TheyAreWatching #WeAreNotAlone #TheRealWorldWar #CosmicConspiracy #FridgeMagnetTechnology #EasterEggHuntForEarth #ValiantThor #RoswellIncident

The Grand Revelation of the Arabic Coca-Cola Sign!

Alright folks, gather around because history is being made. This isn't just any Coca-Cola sign, no no NO! This is an artifact, a relic of an era long gone, a piece of pure cosmic energy disguised as a rusty old board.

Back in the 1990s, when Uncle Peter was living life like a cross between Richard Burton and Indiana Jones, he found himself in Egypt. Why? Because obviously, he was on a quest to unlock the mysteries of the universe (as one does). Armed with sheer curiosity and an unreasonable amount of wanderlust, he ventured across deserts, deciphered ancient scripts, and YES he even found the very pyramid where the shepherd from The Alchemist was supposed to have his life-changing epiphany.

But did he find the meaning of life? No. Did he find enlightenment? Maybe. But most importantly HE FOUND THIS ARABIC “DRUNK COCA-COLA” BOARD. A true masterpiece, a beacon of consumerist absurdity hidden in the sands of time. And guess what? He bought it for a criminally cheap price, tucked it under his arm like the Holy Grail, and smuggled it back to Ireland, keeping it secret for DECADES.

And now, after 30 long years, the moment has come. Uncle Peter has brought his treasure across continents, from Ireland to India, to Bodh Gaya, to Cafe Nexus. It now hangs gloriously on our wall, radiating ancient Egyptian wisdom and Coca-Cola-induced delirium.

Come, behold, and bask in its glory. And while you're at it, grab a chai because the universe works in mysterious ways, but Uncle Peter? He just works in legendary ones.

The Laughter in the Room

It always began at night, like clockwork. A stillness would settle over the house, thick and suffocating, before the first sound would escape her lips. It wasn’t laughter as most people understood it. It was guttural, almost animalistic—a sound that clawed its way out of her throat, echoing through the dimly lit room. Her face would contort, her eyes wide and unseeing, as if she had become someone else entirely.

The family called it the change.

We had seen doctors—many of them. One had said she suffered from OCD, another from an anxiety disorder, and yet another had confidently declared it was a hormonal imbalance. Weeks ago, the latest in the long line of white-coated figures had finally labeled her condition: Schizophrenia. The word hung in the air like smoke, filling every corner of the house with its weight. We were told to follow the prescribed regimen of pills and therapies, but nothing seemed to work.

Tonight, as the sound of her laughter filled the air again, my mother and younger brother rushed to her side, clutching the Qur’an. They began reciting verses, their voices trembling as they blew their breath on her face and ears, as if the words themselves could pull her out of whatever abyss she had fallen into. The room reeked of desperation.

I stood in the corner, holding the mood stabilizer in my hand. I knew it wouldn’t cure her—nothing ever did. But it would calm her for a while, quiet the storm long enough for us to feel like we had some control, even if it was just an illusion.

“She’s possessed,” my mother whispered as she clutched her prayer beads. My brother nodded solemnly, his eyes wide with fear. A few days ago, we had visited a local scholar who had breathed on a bottle of oil and declared it holy. He gave us a locket, promising it would protect her. My mother had tied it around her neck with trembling hands, her faith unwavering.

I didn’t believe in any of it—the holy oil, the verses, the locket. To me, it was all part of the same absurd play we were all acting in, each of us reciting our lines with conviction, hoping it would make a difference. But deep down, I knew it wouldn’t.

After a few minutes, I handed her the pill. She swallowed it reluctantly, and slowly, the laughter subsided. She sat on the mattress, her head tilted to one side, staring at something none of us could see.

But tonight, I tried something different.

“Look into my eyes,” I said, kneeling in front of her. She hesitated at first, her gaze flickering, but eventually, her wide, unseeing eyes locked onto mine. I held her gaze, steady and fearless, and began speaking softly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe. Positive energy is flowing into you, and negative energy is leaving you.”

Her breathing steadied slightly as I spoke. “We’ll count backward together now, from five to one. With each number, you’ll feel lighter, freer.” My voice was calm, even as my heart raced.

“Five,” I began, and she echoed the word, her voice trembling.

“Four… three…”

Her voice softened, her muscles relaxing ever so slightly.

“Two…”

“One. Now close your eyes. Let the positivity flow into you with every breath in, and let the negativity leave with every breath out.”

Her eyelids fluttered closed, and for a moment, the room felt still, almost peaceful.

My mother watched from the corner, clutching her prayer beads, her expression a mixture of hope and suspicion. My brother was silent, his eyes darting between us.

I sat back, exhaling slowly. Maybe it had helped. Maybe it hadn’t. But at least I had done something.

“She’s calmer now,” my mother whispered. “It’s the verses. They’re working.”

I didn’t argue. What was the point? Maybe they were right. Maybe I was the delusional one.

I looked at my sister as she sat there, her face blank, her laughter now replaced by a heavy silence. Was she a victim of her own mind, or was she caught in something bigger—something unknowable? I thought of my own condition, the bipolar swings that had ruled my life for as long as I could remember. Some days I felt like a god, invincible and untouchable. Other days, I sank into a pit so deep it felt like I would never climb out. And in moments like these, I wondered if my highs and lows weren’t just another manifestation of the meaningless system we were all trapped in.

The house felt like a stage, and each of us was playing a role. My mother, the believer, clinging to her prayers and rituals. My brother, the follower, reciting the words he barely understood. My sister, the subject of it all, a vessel for whatever chaos had decided to inhabit her. And me, the skeptic, the one who watched it all unfold with a strange mixture of detachment and despair.

The doctor’s prescriptions, the scholar’s blessings, my mother’s prayers, my sister’s laughter—it was all part of a grotesque, absurd dance. A Kafkaesque comedy where no one knew the rules, but everyone pretended to.

I sat down on the floor, my back against the cold wall. My sister had stopped laughing, but I knew it was only temporary. The cycle would begin again, as it always did. And I would be here, playing my role, giving her the pill, trying my futile experiments, watching my mother pray, and wondering if any of it mattered.

Outside, the wind howled like it was mocking us. I closed my eyes and thought of Camus: “Life is absurd, but we must imagine Sisyphus happy.” I opened my eyes and stared at my sister, wondering if she too was pushing her own boulder up an endless hill. Or maybe we all were.

The Pre-Opening Chronicles of Khair’s Café & Restro

As the opening day of Khair’s Café & Restro approaches, Mehandi Hassan, future barista extraordinaire, reflects on the hilarious and unpredictable events that have brought him closer to his dream café.

The Furniture Adventure in Gaya

In his quest to create the perfect café, Mehandi decided to buy used furniture from Gaya. To make the trip more productive, he brought along Kashaf, his bookworm cousin with a sharp eye for detail, and borrowed a mini truck and driver from Danish, his fruit-seller friend.

Their journey to Gaya was uneventful, but the furniture market was a treasure trove. Mehandi found sturdy wooden tables and chairs in surprisingly good condition. Kashaf, initially skeptical, inspected each piece like a seasoned critic. “These tables are solid, and the chairs don’t even creak,” he remarked, clearly impressed.

After negotiating a fair price, they loaded the furniture into the truck and began the ride back. Danish’s truck wobbled under the weight, and every pothole felt like an adventure. Kashaf couldn’t resist teasing, “If this truck breaks down, we’ll have to carry everything back on foot.” Thankfully, they reached Bodhgaya without incident, and the café’s foundation—both literally and figuratively—was set.

The Great Pizza Practice

Months before the café was even an idea, Mehandi bought a big pizza oven, convinced that every great café needed great pizza. He spent weeks experimenting with dough recipes, sauces, and toppings, transforming his evenings into mini pizza parties.

His cousins and friends became his official taste testers, eagerly sampling his creations. While most pizzas were delicious, there were a few questionable experiments—like the “Chili Mango Madness” pizza. Zaid, his younger cousin, once said, “Your pizza is amazing, but this one tastes like a dare.”

Despite the occasional flop, those nights were filled with laughter and camaraderie. “If this is what being a chef feels like, sign me up,” Mehandi joked as they devoured yet another margherita masterpiece.

The Delhi Coffee Machine Mission

Mehandi knew that the heart of his café would be the coffee machine. Not one to compromise, he decided to invest in a brand-new, state-of-the-art machine from Fiamma, a company he had read rave reviews about. The catch? He had to travel all the way to Delhi to get it.

Not wanting to make the journey alone, he brought along with Zaid, a cheerful and curious companion who saw this trip as the perfect excuse to explore Delhi's famous street food. Armed with determination, a suitcase full of snacks, and Zaid’s endless energy, the duo embarked on their adventure.

When they arrived at the showroom, Mehandi was captivated by the Fiamma coffee machine. “This beauty can make cappuccinos, lattes, and even the perfect espresso,” the salesperson explained. Zaid, meanwhile, kept pressing random buttons on the display models, accidentally setting off a demo brew that flooded the counter with coffee.

After completing the purchase, the journey back to Bodhgaya was less glamorous. The massive coffee machine, packed in an enormous box, barely fit in the back of their bus. Zaid spent most of the trip guarding it like a treasure chest, refusing to let anyone come near it. Every bump on the road felt like a personal attack on Mehandi’s dream, but with Zaid’s enthusiastic chatter keeping spirits high, they made it home. The machine was finally placed in the center of what would soon become Khair’s Café & Restro.

Last Winter’s Café Experiment

Last winter, Mehandi took his coffee passion to the next level by running a pop-up café near the main gate of Khair House, perfectly located near the bustling Kalachakra Ground. Armed with a non-commercial coffee maker he’d purchased, he set up a small café that ran for a month.

The pop-up quickly became a local hit. Travelers, tourists, and locals stopped by for his cappuccinos and lattes, and his cousins and friends became his most loyal “customers.”

Kashaf, ever the book nerd, didn’t bring a reading corner as everyone expected. Instead, he spent most of his time arguing with Zaid about the “ideal coffee-to-milk ratio.” At one point, he suggested adding a trivia night to the café experience, to which Zaid replied, “Sure, let’s ask people how much free coffee they think you’ve drunk this month.”

The month was filled with warmth and joy. “I think I was happier serving coffee than my customers were drinking it,” Mehandi recalls. Those winter days became cherished memories, with everyone eagerly asking if the café would return someday.

The Countdown Begins

Now, as Khair’s Café & Restro inches closer to its grand opening, everything is falling into place. The furniture is ready, the Fiamma coffee machine stands proudly, and the pizza oven is ready to bake its first official order.

Standing in the soon-to-be bustling café, Zaid looked around and declared, “This place is going to be legendary. People will come for the coffee and stay for my company.” Kashaf rolled his eyes, “Or they’ll stay because they’re waiting for you to finally pay your coffee tab.”

With everything set, Khair’s Café & Restro is opening soon. So, get ready, Bodhgaya—delicious coffee, mouthwatering pizzas, and unforgettable moments are just around the corner!

See you at the café!

Awakening Without Worship: Buddha's Path to Freedom

When Buddha attained enlightenment under the Bodhi tree in Bodhgaya, he entered a realm of profound understanding. He saw the nature of existence with unparalleled clarity, yet he hesitated to share his realization. He questioned whether anyone could grasp the depth of his insight, knowing that enlightenment is not something that can be taught—it must be experienced. Each individual, he understood, must walk their own unique path, confront their own illusions, and arrive at the truth in their own way.

When he eventually chose to teach, it was not to impose dogma or establish himself as a figure of worship. Buddha never claimed to be a god, nor did he desire to be idolized. He consistently redirected attention away from himself and toward the individual’s capacity for awakening. His role, he said, was that of a guide, pointing to the path rather than carrying others along it.

This humility was evident even at the end of his life. As he lay on his deathbed, surrounded by his disciples, they asked him what they should do after he was gone. Buddha’s final words were: “Appo Dīpo Bhava”—be a light unto yourself. These words encapsulate the essence of his teaching. He reminded them that no teacher, not even himself, could replace their own effort and inner wisdom. The path to liberation lies not in following others but in cultivating one’s own discernment and clarity.

“If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him”

This teaching from the Zen master Lin Chi mirrors Buddha’s own approach. It warns against turning the Buddha—or any spiritual figure—into an external savior. The “Buddha on the road” represents any idolized image, teacher, or belief system that we cling to in our search for truth. To “kill the Buddha” is to dismantle our attachments to these external objects and realize that enlightenment cannot be given or borrowed—it must arise from within.

This teaching underscores Buddha’s emphasis on self-reliance. Just as Buddha pointed his disciples back to themselves with Appo Dīpo Bhava, Lin Chi challenges seekers to let go of the need for external validation or authority. Both teachings urge us to confront our own illusions and step into the raw, direct experience of reality.

The Kalama Sutta: Question Everything

Buddha’s message of self-reliance is further illuminated in the Kalama Sutta. When the Kalama people approached Buddha, confused by the contradictory teachings of various spiritual leaders, he did not ask for blind faith. Instead, he told them:

Do not believe something just because it is taught by a revered teacher.

Do not accept traditions simply because they are ancient.

Do not rely solely on scriptures, logic, or popular opinion.

Test everything for yourself. Accept only what leads to the cessation of suffering and promotes well-being.

This teaching was revolutionary. Unlike religious authorities of his time, Buddha did not present himself as the ultimate arbiter of truth. He encouraged questioning, critical thinking, and reliance on personal experience. The Kalama Sutta reinforces the idea that truth is not a fixed doctrine but a living realization that must be discovered individually.

A Unified Message of Freedom

Buddha’s teachings—Appo Dīpo Bhava, the Kalama Sutta, and Lin Chi’s “kill the Buddha”—converge on a single, powerful idea: liberation comes through self-discovery. Buddha did not want followers; he wanted awakened beings. He did not claim divine authority but pointed to the divinity and potential within each person.

To “be a light unto yourself” is to trust your own capacity to navigate life with clarity and wisdom. To “kill the Buddha” is to dismantle your reliance on external saviors or fixed ideas of enlightenment. The Kalama Sutta reminds us to question everything, even the teachings themselves, and accept only what resonates with direct experience.

A Call to Awakening

These teachings invite us to stop searching for answers outside ourselves. Buddha’s message is not about following his path step by step but about finding our own. Just as he attained enlightenment under the Bodhi tree, each of us has the potential to discover our own moment of awakening. The light we seek is already within us.

By questioning, seeking, and embodying wisdom, we honor Buddha—not as a god to be worshipped but as a guide who showed us the way to become Buddhas ourselves. This is the true tribute to his life and teachings: not to look up to him but to look within.

The Blissful Prison of Uncle Roberto

Bodh Gaya is a strange place to live if you’re like me—someone haunted by questions about existence. Everywhere you look, people are either meditating, debating, or scribbling notes in well-worn journals. The air itself feels heavy with existential angst, as though even the trees are pondering why they exist. And then there’s Uncle Roberto, the cheerful anomaly in our little town.

Uncle Roberto lives in a small house with a garden that isn’t particularly beautiful or well-kept. It has some wildflowers growing out of control, a sagging fence, and a stubborn patch of weeds he calls “nature’s rebellious spirit.” Every morning, he sits in this garden with his eternal cup of tea, staring at the sky as though he’s in direct communication with the heavens. But here’s the thing: Uncle Roberto doesn’t think about the heavens. He doesn’t think about anything, really. He just… exists.

To everyone else, Uncle Roberto is a beacon of joy, a man who has “found peace.” But to me, he’s a cosmic joke—a man so blissfully oblivious that he’s missed the entire point of living in a place like Bodh Gaya. I often wonder if he’s a misplaced extra from some cheap comedy about enlightenment.

One morning, I decided to confront him. It was a humid day, the kind where the air feels like wet cotton, and Uncle Roberto was in his usual spot, sipping tea and humming a tuneless melody. A stray dog lay at his feet, looking as serene as its master.

“Uncle Roberto,” I began, standing over him like a frustrated schoolteacher, “don’t you ever wonder about the meaning of life? Or why we’re here? Doesn’t it bother you that you don’t know anything about the truth?”

He looked up at me with his maddeningly calm smile. “The truth? Oh, Kashaf, the truth is right here.” He gestured vaguely at his tea, the dog, and the wildflowers as if they were the Holy Trinity of existence. “Life is beautiful. Why trouble yourself with questions when you can enjoy a nice cup of tea?”

I sighed, already regretting my decision to talk to him. “Uncle, you’re like someone in a prison, but instead of chains, you have tea and flowers. George Orwell once said, ‘Football, beer, and above all gambling filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult.’ You’re the same, only your distractions are peace and happiness. The system doesn’t even need football or beer to control you; you’ve imprisoned yourself with joy!”

Uncle Roberto chuckled and took a long, dramatic sip of his tea, as if to prove my point. “Controlled by happiness? What a delightful prison to live in! And unlike Orwell’s football and beer, my peace doesn’t come with hooligans or hangovers.”

I felt my eye twitch. “That’s exactly the problem! You’re so busy enjoying your little distractions that you’ve stopped asking questions. You’re like a bird in a golden cage, so mesmerized by the shiny bars that you don’t even realize you’re trapped.”

“And you,” he said, wagging a finger at me, “are like a fish trying to climb a tree. You’re chasing after questions that have no answers, forgetting to enjoy the water you’re already in.”

I groaned. “No, Uncle! I refuse to be content with ignorance. I want to know things. I want to understand the truth, even if it’s painful. Socrates said, ‘I know only one thing: that I know nothing.’ That’s my wisdom—to embrace my ignorance and keep searching. But you? You’ve numbed yourself with this endless peace. You’ve let your happiness blind you to the bigger truths of existence!”

Uncle Roberto’s dog let out a sleepy yawn, as if to mock my outburst. My uncle, meanwhile, looked at me with the patience of a kindergarten teacher explaining shapes to a child. “Ah, Kashaf,” he said, “why chase the truth when you can sip tea? Life is simple. Complicating it with questions is like stirring sugar into your tea and complaining that it’s sweet.”

I stared at him, wondering if I was the fool or he was. Here was a man who had somehow turned his own ignorance into a fortress, his happiness into an impenetrable shield. He didn’t care about the cracks in his worldview or the mysteries of the universe. To him, life was tea, dogs, and wildflowers.

For a brief, horrifying moment, I envied him.

But then I snapped out of it. “Uncle, your peace is an addiction!” I declared. “You’re like those people Orwell warned about. Football, beer, gambling—they were just distractions to keep the masses docile. And you’re no different! Your peace is your football. Your tea is your beer. Your wildflowers are your gambling. The system doesn’t even have to work hard to control you because you’ve trapped yourself!”

Uncle Roberto laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that made the stray dog wag its tail. “And your questions,” he said, “are like chasing the horizon, thinking you’ll reach the end of the earth. Both are equally pointless, but one is much more enjoyable.”

I wanted to throw his teacup into the weeds, but I knew it would only end with him shrugging and saying, “Ah, now the soil gets to enjoy the tea.”

As I stormed out of his garden, I couldn’t shake the absurdity of it all. Here was a man who had, in his own way, found freedom—not through wisdom or understanding, but by refusing to question anything at all. To him, life was a string of small joys: a sip of tea, the sound of a bird, the rustle of the wind. And he was perfectly content to stay in his golden cage, never daring to peer beyond the bars.

I returned to my little room, where books and questions piled up around me like mountains. Bodh Gaya, the land of enlightenment, seemed utterly indifferent to my struggle. I didn’t have the answers—not even close. But I knew one thing: I would rather wrestle with the chaos of existence than drown in its calm illusions.

Uncle Roberto may have found peace, but I found purpose in my questions, even if they led nowhere. That, perhaps, is the difference between us: he is happy, and I am free—or at least free to be frustrated.

Confessions of a Thoughtful Alien

Every day feels like an episode of The Alien Diaries. If someone were to document my life, it would probably be titled Kashaf and the Great Planetary Misfit Chronicles. You see, I often feel like I’ve been accidentally dropped onto this planet, surrounded by beings who don’t quite get me. Let me elaborate.

Take my friends, for example. They’re nice people—don’t get me wrong—but their idea of fun is watching action movies where cars defy gravity, bullets solve all problems, and the plot is about as coherent as a toddler explaining quantum mechanics. Me? I like movies that make me think—or at least leave me mildly traumatized. Throw in some existential dread, absurd humor, or a meaningful narrative, and I’m sold. But every time I try to suggest something remotely thought-provoking, I get the same bewildered look one might give a cat trying to explain algebra.

I’ll try to talk about Synecdoche, New York, for instance—what a masterpiece of existential despair, a deep dive into the absurdity of life and death, all wrapped in a sprawling, labyrinthine narrative that mirrors our attempts to make sense of the chaos. But my friends? They can’t even sit through the first five minutes without asking, "Why is everything so dark?" or "Is this a movie about a man who makes a play?" It’s as if I’ve just tried to explain Schrödinger’s cat to them using interpretive dance.

Then there’s my love of books. Oh, books! My sanctuary, my escape, my secret doorway to worlds where people actually think. My friends, on the other hand, can barely focus on reading one of my Facebook posts without wandering off to like a meme about pizza. It’s like they’ve developed an allergy to anything requiring more than 120 seconds of mental engagement. Meanwhile, I’m over here devouring Dostoevsky and wondering why Raskolnikov’s moral dilemmas feel oddly relatable.

Conversations are another story entirely. I want to discuss philosophy, spirituality, or psychology—something that scratches beneath the surface of existence. But my friends? They’re busy debating whether pineapple belongs on pizza or which Marvel hero would win in a fight (the answer is always “who cares?”). Yet, somehow, I end up participating in their debates because, well, they’re my friends. But I often feel like a philosopher forced to play referee at a meme Olympics.

What truly baffles me is their confidence. They are so sure of themselves, so utterly convinced that their worldview is the only truth. It’s like watching someone argue that the Earth is flat while refusing to look out of the spaceship window. Isn’t it hilarious? Isn’t it absurd? Isn’t it… kind of sad?

And yet, I stick around. Why? I suppose even aliens need company. They might think I’m weird, and I might think they’re shallow, but at the end of the day, we’re all just beings trying to make sense of the universe in our own ridiculous ways.

But, sometimes—just sometimes—I meet someone from my own planet. It’s rare, like finding an existential diamond in the meme-filled rough, but when it happens, it’s like the universe conspires to remind me that I’m not completely alone. These aliens from my world? They get it. They show up randomly, like cosmic wanderers who accidentally slipped into this chaotic dimension. We’ll stumble into each other at the oddest places: a quiet corner of a café, at a temple where the sound of bells and chants feels strangely like home, or even online, buried in a thread about absurdist philosophy. And when we meet, it’s like our minds click into place, as though our thoughts have been orbiting the same galaxy all along.

We’ll talk for hours about the futility of existence, the illusion of self, and whether or not reality is just a bad simulation by some bored god. And somehow, amidst all the absurdity, I’ll feel a spark of something rare—connection. For a fleeting moment, the crushing alienation of this planet disappears. These meetings are brief, though. The other aliens, much like me, are wanderers, and before long, they’re off again, searching for meaning or just a decent cup of tea. But those encounters? They keep me going.

So here I am, stranded on Planet Earth, sipping tea, laughing along with my friends’ nonsense, and quietly planning my next intergalactic escape. But at least now, I know there are others out there—aliens like me—who are just as lost, just as absurd, and just as wonderfully misplaced as I am. And maybe, just maybe, that’s reason enough to keep existing.