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.
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