They mastered imitation. I mastered absence.
They built walls of process. I built the void they feared.
— On Control, Silence, and the Fear of Clarity
It started with boredom. Not the kind that comes from doing nothing — but the kind that comes from doing things that mean nothing.
I was in a software company once. Everything was dead but pretended to be alive. They called it structure. They called it productivity. But underneath it all, it was just a carefully constructed system designed to prevent clarity from surfacing.
When I started, there was no time-tracking. I was the first in that unit — the only one who could do what I did. They hired me for a project that wouldn’t start until six months later. So I worked on something internal — something half-dead — and I gave it form. They didn’t ask for reports. They didn’t check hours. There was trust. Or maybe there was just no structure yet to suppress initiative.
That changed. About 18 months in, they said: “Client projects now require time tracking.” I didn’t care. I was doing everything in an hour that others took all day for. The rest of the time, I built my own things. I refused to lie — so I refused to track time.
They asked me. Hundreds of times. “Why don’t you track time?” They couldn’t understand it. Eventually they sat down with me, opened the software, and said: “How long did this task take?” I said nothing. They answered for me. “Three hours?” I nodded. “Exactly three hours.” And that’s how time was written.
Then came the review meetings. Mandatory check-ins. Feedback loops. “We need to evaluate your performance.” I said I didn’t need review meetings. I said, “I know what I’m doing.” They said: “You still need them.” They handed me a review form. I gave myself top marks.
They weren’t happy with that either. “You can’t give yourself the highest score in every category,” they said. “Why not?” I asked. “Because you’re not the best in everything.” “Yes, I am,” I replied. So they sat down with me again — told me what boxes to tick. And then they held a meeting about the answers they gave me.
Everything that worked in that field came from me. Every concept, every architecture, every strategy. The CEO wanted to be me — but he wasn’t. Not in communication, not in thinking, not in execution. I outperformed him in every meeting. And still, they tried to manufacture authority.
But no one ever said it publicly. No one accused me to my face. They whispered. Called me a liar. A manipulator. A copycat. But never where I could respond. Never where facts were required. They feared daylight, because daylight doesn’t care for gossip.
They stole the work, repackaged it as theirs, and hoped no one would trace the signature. But here’s the truth: In that field, I was the source. The rest? Decorators of stolen architecture.
And that’s the real reason they feared boredom: Because it left me time to think. And what I built in silence — they still try to imitate, without blueprint, without soul.
It’s the architecture of boredom.
And it always collapses under the weight of its own performance.