I’m writing an article about modern craftsmanship under a blanket, inside a stone-cold room in Gori, Georgia. Soviet concrete is too thick—so thick that it somehow feels thin. It transfers cold like an ice wall.
Gori is only one degree Celsius outside— but what does it matter when inside is one degree too? The water heater stopped working again. Outside, snow has swallowed the streets. My hands are shaking—not from inspiration, but because the air is colder than the keyboard. People think I write on a laptop, take notes in a leather journal, and lounge idly in cafes. Even my family thinks so. Because democratic citizens cherish their own suffering above all else, they easily dismiss the unseen pain of others as something romantic. Unless you cry out in agony and push Rawlsian logic—asking if they could say the same if they were in your shoes—they simply cannot imagine it.
I look inward. I chase the traces of those who came before me. Writing cannot be mere excretion. It must matter to someone’s life. It must be entertaining, insightful, or at least useful. If it is none of these—it’s just waste. A product must be tasty or beautiful to sell. Sometimes I feel like I don’t have that talent. Fear keeps pulling me under.
The water is too cold—brushing my teeth was an achievement. The cold makes it hard to focus—but I keep going. One box of crackers per day. My homeland has started to feel like a dream. However, for now, I have no desire to go back. And still, I type. Because this is the price of trying to build something—from nothing.
Some people chase wealth by buying stocks or crypto. I am chasing a different form of wealth: the possibility that words might change my life. Maybe I’ll publish a book someday. I’m no god—so surely I’m allowed to hope that much. This world is brutal—but it leaves a little crack where light leaks in. It sounds foolish. Maybe I am going a little crazy. But every writer in history began the same way—with nothing but cold rooms, hunger, and a stubborn belief that tomorrow could be different.
Without a sense of mission to uncover the truth of this fake paradise run by Demiurge—a collective intelligence god of 50 million people—and to survive, it is unbearable to endure more than a year of zero traffic and invest capital over a long period just to create a commonplace consumer good called writing. For me, true Gnosis is the active practice of living today with freedom and vitality, guided by my inner divinity, while remaining entirely unswayed by the fears and rewards imposed by the state and society.
However, if it is ultimately not exposed on Google, all of this investment will be liquidated to zero. To me, the algorithm is like an abyss.
So tonight, I pray— not to a god, but to the algorithm: “Let my words be seen.” If Google finally indexes my blog, this blanket I’m sitting under will suddenly feel like a throne. Because the only real luxury is this: continuing—even when nothing is guaranteed.
I’m not doing this to prove I’m strong. I am weak. That is why maintaining even 1% of daily hardship hurts. And that is why ordinary warmth feels sacred. If I didn’t have this blanket—how could I endure? This cold is proof that I am alive. It is the road to freedom.
Is the room you’re reading this from warm? If so, be grateful—and start something. As for me, I will not stop—even in the cold.
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