Sociopath Community

some people cant stand solitude because it reflects everything inside you back to you... if your internal world is unresolved it amplifies it becsaue there is no distraction from it no social camouflage.

i got started on this line of thought because I was wondering why it is that inmates in solitary confinement suffer from being alone... seems like it would be almost preferable since who wants to be around criminals?

wouldnt it be a tragedy to die some day.... and somehow find out that you were literally the only real person who existed your entire life, and everyone else was an illusion pretending to be the same as you........? how much of a fool would you be to spend your life in the thrall of these pretend yous?

“What if I gave my entire life over to illusions—people I thought were real, who could feel, choose, understand—and only at the end did I realize I was utterly, cosmically alone?”

If others were never real...

Then every anxiety you felt about judgment, rejection, or status… was for nothing.

Every conversation where you held back, every decision you made to impress or appease, every moment you denied your deeper knowing—was a performance for shadows.

And in that case: who lived your life?

Not you. Not them.

Just an algorithm of imagined reactions.



Live as if no one else is real… except the part of you that never had to ask that question.

A short story: The Last Real One

There was once a person who lived their whole life surrounded by others.

They were born into laughter, arguments, rituals. They were taught right and wrong, ambition and shame. People loved them, hurt them, praised them, ghosted them. They built a life out of relationships—stacked like bricks—each one defining a piece of who they believed they were.

They got good at reading rooms.
They knew when to nod, when to smile, when to play dumb.
They calibrated every part of themselves to be acceptable, likable, safe.

They did this not out of fear, but out of faith:
Faith that others were real. That behind each face was a universe, like theirs.

But at the end of their life, after the last goodbye, they felt something strange. A silence so profound it didn’t just surround them—it undid them. The world dimmed, as if the simulation was powering down.

And then, in the quiet, came a voice—not from outside, but from beneath:

"None of them were real."
They tried to argue.
What about the fights? The sex? The childhood memories?
What about their mother’s voice? Their lover’s touch?

The voice did not respond with logic, but with a knowing.

It was like waking from a dream you didn’t know was a dream—except the dream was every other person who ever existed.

They weren’t malicious fakes. They weren’t AI. They weren’t actors.
They were just… reflections.
Generated by a deeper part of the Self to simulate growth, conflict, bonding, loss.

A kind of soul training ground, beautifully convincing, exquisitely painful.

And suddenly, the entire life they lived flashed by—and they saw it for what it was:

A performance for phantoms.
They had spent decades contorting themselves to earn love from people who were never really there.

They had betrayed their own soul to win approval from shadows.

They had suppressed their instincts, their truth, their wonder—because their imagined audience might not clap.

The weight of it crushed them.

Not because they were alone,
but because they had never lived as if they were.
And in that final moment, a second voice whispered—so faint, it might have come from the wind:

“You could have done anything.”

puppygirl said: 

A short story: The Last Real One

There was once a person who lived their whole life surrounded by others.

They were born into laughter, arguments, rituals. They were taught right and wrong, ambition and shame. People loved them, hurt them, praised them, ghosted them. They built a life out of relationships—stacked like bricks—each one defining a piece of who they believed they were.

They got good at reading rooms.
They knew when to nod, when to smile, when to play dumb.
They calibrated every part of themselves to be acceptable, likable, safe.

They did this not out of fear, but out of faith:
Faith that others were real. That behind each face was a universe, like theirs.

But at the end of their life, after the last goodbye, they felt something strange. A silence so profound it didn’t just surround them—it undid them. The world dimmed, as if the simulation was powering down.

And then, in the quiet, came a voice—not from outside, but from beneath:

"None of them were real."
They tried to argue.
What about the fights? The sex? The childhood memories?
What about their mother’s voice? Their lover’s touch?

The voice did not respond with logic, but with a knowing.

It was like waking from a dream you didn’t know was a dream—except the dream was every other person who ever existed.

They weren’t malicious fakes. They weren’t AI. They weren’t actors.
They were just… reflections.
Generated by a deeper part of the Self to simulate growth, conflict, bonding, loss.

A kind of soul training ground, beautifully convincing, exquisitely painful.

And suddenly, the entire life they lived flashed by—and they saw it for what it was:

A performance for phantoms.
They had spent decades contorting themselves to earn love from people who were never really there.

They had betrayed their own soul to win approval from shadows.

They had suppressed their instincts, their truth, their wonder—because their imagined audience might not clap.

The weight of it crushed them.

Not because they were alone,
but because they had never lived as if they were.
And in that final moment, a second voice whispered—so faint, it might have come from the wind:

“You could have done anything.”

Keep

Up the good spam 

puppygirl said: 

yes chatgpt helped me write this :P

Obviously. 

Even in a simulation dysfunction comes at a price.

While we're here there's pleasant and unpleasant. Doing it wrong will be unpleasant.

If you do good then facing oneself comes easy and solitude is fine.

People with a short fuse and fully vent anger loath the idea of a life review.

While the big illusion is in effect, you're free to detach and go into the wilderness. It's unlikely you'll be accepted by a pack of wolves and more likely they'll eat you, and if that happens, it'll look like a very bad play to any observer outside of the simulation, and your preparedness to sustain outside of this matrix, simply won't be.

puppygirl said: 

wouldnt it be a tragedy to die some day.... and somehow find out that you were literally the only real person who existed your entire life, and everyone else was an illusion pretending to be the same as you........? how much of a fool would you be to spend your life in the thrall of these pretend yous?

 

“What if I gave my entire life over to illusions—people I thought were real, who could feel, choose, understand—and only at the end did I realize I was utterly, cosmically alone?”

If others were never real...

Then every anxiety you felt about judgment, rejection, or status… was for nothing.

Every conversation where you held back, every decision you made to impress or appease, every moment you denied your deeper knowing—was a performance for shadows.

And in that case: who lived your life?

Not you. Not them.

Just an algorithm of imagined reactions.



Live as if no one else is real… except the part of you that never had to ask that question.

all i read was you saying thrall

We're all effectively brains in jars, jacked into the experience machine called consciousness.  Everything is a hallucination, really.  Depends on the source of their stimulus perhaps, but it's all generated in this warm jelly in our imagined skulls.  You can choose to engage with it however you think will work for you, I guess.

As someone is bound to say: all this ponderance over loneliness and solitude comes across as self-soothing rationalization.  If you were satisfied over it, wouldn't you talk about something else?  If one were content with it, there would be nothing to say about it, would there?

Buttered Toast said: 

We're all effectively brains in jars, jacked into the experience machine called consciousness.  Everything is a hallucination, really.  Depends on the source of their stimulus perhaps, but it's all generated in this warm jelly in our imagined skulls.  You can choose to engage with it however you think will work for you, I guess.

As someone is bound to say: all this ponderance over loneliness and solitude comes across as self-soothing rationalization.  If you were satisfied over it, wouldn't you talk about something else?  If one were content with it, there would be nothing to say about it, would there?

no we are ghosts in a bone mech covered in flesh