Thank you.
Yes, you, dear reader with an attention span fractured by a decade of notifications, finger-tapping compulsions, and algorithms more powerful than your prefrontal cortex.
Remember that sacred time when you could take a shit for 20 minutes with nothing but your thoughts? Yeah. That’s gone.
So thanks for breaking your toxic scroll cycle —
that little pre-bed or post-bed ritual,
that budget dopamine hunt that’s eating your evenings, stealing your mood,
and turning your spine into that of a 90-year-old monkey.
Picture it: clenched hands, legs numb on the toilet, eyes glazed over.
Did I interrupt something?
You were fine, weren’t you?
Scrolling endlessly, hypnotized by the glowing rectangle we now call “my phone.”
Now you’re smiling.
Or frowning.
You’re unsure.
You’re probably thinking:
“Who the hell are you to talk to me like this?”
Well —
I’m just like you.
Not better. Not worse.
Just a human, searching for meaning, creation.
A modern alchemist, trying to make gold out of crap.
I know it’s not easy.
We’ve lost the courage to look away from the shrine we carry in our pocket —
that glowing altar that’s rewired our brains better than our moms, our philosophy teachers, and three monk lives combined.
I’ve spent what feels like a hundred years in the shadows,
exploring a thousand disciplines,
until I found the few that truly light me up.
I’ve drawn, written, composed, tinkered, improvised, invented — often without even existing.
And I’m still doing it:
Sounds. Worlds. Machines. Ideas.
Unfinished things. Forgotten thoughts.
Dust on Earth.
No art degree — don’t want one.
No career as a musician — don’t need it.
All I want is to capture that fragile moment where your attention is mine, just long enough for me to dive deeper into the unknown.
And between you and me —
we’re living in a strange era.
Let’s not pretend otherwise.
Everyone has an opinion.
And too often, it drowns out the facts.
Soon, we’ll either have to question everything —
or idiocratize ourselves down to survive.
AI will tell us what to think,
and we’ll think it.
Reality will come with filters. Maybe two.
So who can you trust?
Maybe not me.
But if I’m selling you bullshit,
I won’t pretend it’s gold.
Impostor syndrome?
Let it rot.
When you do everything yourself, you start wearing hats that don’t fit —
some way too big to fit through a doorway.
Still, I keep experimenting. Searching.
Not out of arrogance, but obsession.
Maybe I’m chasing something I’ll never reach:
Genius.
Or a Djinn.
¯il Djinn¯
This site is my space.
My lab. My chaos. My sanctuary.
And I’m sharing it with you — unfiltered:
- Unreleased or imperfect sounds
- Sensitive creations that might hurt
- Songs you won’t forget
- Drawings, obsessions, fragments
- Raw or beautiful reflections
- DIY projects — electronic or absurd
- Words from yesterday and now
- Mistakes, probably plenty
This isn’t CNN.
This ain’t Fox News either.
We don’t deal in headlines.
We deal in the human.
The obsessed.
The deeply real.
We try to make gold out of shit.
Sometimes it stays shit.
And you know what?
That’s fine.
Because clearly, something in you likes it.
That curious part of your brain keeps you here.
Still reading.
Still… wondering.
So now that you’re still here, you might:
- See yourself in my mess
- Not give a damn about what I write
- Hate me… but keep reading because you enjoy hating me
- Find me disturbingly sincere
- Or fall in love with the chaos
Me?
I’m not chasing likes.
I’m just trying to finally exist.
To stop being the impostor punching a clock 9 to 5.
To start being the mind I really carry inside this skull.
Let’s blow it wide open.
Let’s explore it together.
I don’t know if I’m even real.
But I’m here.
And so are you.
Thanks for showing up.