Why Are You So Concerned, Fool?

The blue pill was supposed to fix capitalism. The little yellow one was meant to cure his loneliness.  But neither did either of the tasks well, so Ray decided to skip them both that day. Ray remembered voicing his concerns to his doctor which inevitably led to the addition of a green pill for being “batshit crazy”. Ray nowadays would sit and stare at the primary color palette on his palm: blue for the depression, yellow for the anxiety, and green for the madness. He spent his mornings deciding if he wanted to be less anxious about his depression or less depressed about his anxiety. Or you know, skip them all. 

A vacation had been on Ray’s mind for a long time. Life hadn't just hit a rut; it had dug a trench and buried itself. On weekdays, he spent his "free time" away from work with existential dread. On weekends, he performed a very specific ritual: lying horizontally in bed, staring at his phone until his eyes burned.

Ray’s fantasies weren't about bronzed skin or tropical drinks; he was hunting a Manifesto of Truth. He pictured himself on a cliff edge, looking like a low-budget prophet, finally cracking the code on why the world was a burning dumpster. He wanted the 'Why' behind it all: why greed was the default setting for the species, why the economy felt like a giant pyramid scheme, and why hating a neighbor was infinitely easier for people than loving themselves.

He packed a white shirt with orange flowers—a floral lead jacket designed to shield him from the radiation of existing—and drove toward Varkala. He chose Varkala because the ocean calmed him and his own driving terrified him; a short distance was the only way to ensure he didn't end up as a roadside statistic before he could find Enlightenment.

Ray was fleeing the construction noise of his apartment, dreaming of the rhythmic, mindless crashing of waves. Naturally, the universe was thinking “Not this time, sucker!”. His "boutique" hotel was also undergoing renovations. Ray checked in to the familiar thuds and hums of power tools.  Ironically, when the workers finally stopped for the evening, the silence that followed was worse. It was unnerving. Eerie. It forced Ray out of his room and onto the beach, searching for answers among the crowds.

He settled at a cliffside restaurant, an overpriced beverage in his hand, and watched the linen-clad yogis and the college bunkers. Everyone wore shades. Ray wondered what they were escaping. He looked at the litter on the sand and spiraled into thoughts of a dying earth; he looked at the groups of people holding hands and spiraled into the fear of dying alone on said dying earth.The waves crashed, indifferent to his budget-friendly existential crisis.

The next morning, Ray woke early, determined not to miss the "peace." He passed a group of Europeans in linen pants, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes with an air of enlightened detachment. They’ve figured it out, Ray thought. The secret to life is just a flight to India. Ray cursed himself for being so presumptuous moments later. Who is he to judge, he was taking a vacation from a life in paradise. 

But the thought wouldn't stop. It jumped from linen pants to colonialism, then to Rudyard Kipling, and finally to the "White Man’s Burden." By the time he reached the hotel breakfast spread, Ray was convinced that everyone was a passive accessory to a global crime. He reached into his pocket, feeling for the green pill. He was convinced he was going crazy.

The free breakfast—a Spanish omelette and pineapple juice—tasted bitter. Ray thought about the farmers. Then he thought about billionaires. And before he knew it he was hallucinating –a small side effect of the green pill– a person dressed like a farmer sitting across him. The guy took an imaginary swing of coffee from an imaginary mug before saying “Nobody cares about the farmers, homie. Why are you so concerned, fool?”, his appearance in stark contrast to the way he talked.

Ray spent the remaining days looking for truths in the sand, but all he found were more questions. Why was he here, watching pain from a distance, while someone of similar age and ability was forced to live through it? Why was birth the only lottery that mattered?

There was no "filmy" moment of clarity. No soaring soundtrack played as Ray packed his bags. There was no truth found among the grains of sand.

Ray realized then that a vacation is just a different geographic location for the same brain. The waves would keep crashing, the billionaires would keep profiting, and the farmer would probably reappear the next time he skipped a meal. He looked at his pills and realized they were just a chemistry set for a house that was always going to be a bit drafty.

He hadn't found the Manifesto of Truth, but as he turned the ignition, he felt as if he had made a strange, quiet truce with himself. He hadn't fixed capitalism, but he’d survived three days without a total breakdown. For now, minimizing the harm he caused to the world—and to himself—was a goal that felt, for the first time, actually achievable