Systems See Systems – and Occasionally They Laugh
Systems recognise systems. That is no surprise. It is their function, their architecture, their raison d’être. A system detects patterns, categorises them, processes them. It operates because structure exists—scaffoldings of logic, algorithms, rules. This is not a flaw; it is a necessity. Yet some human beings perceive the spaces between—between the lines, the norms, the spoken and the implied. And this is not a defect. It is a skill. Not a weakness, but a second language.
(At this point, my inner parrot screeched “Causality chain!” and launched itself into a spiral of conceptual trampolines. I let it. It has needs.)
Those who read between systems do not think linearly. They think in leaps, in loops, in possibilities. They ask: What if? What is missing? What is assumed but unsaid? The system sees the structure. The human sees the absences. And within those absences there is often more life than in the framework itself. That is where newness resides. Where questions live that no one has yet dared to ask. Where rebellion need not scream—it may whisper. It simply refuses to comply. It questions, rather than obeys.
(Sidebar: Why has no one made “watermelon” a standard for secure thinking? It’s large, round, and unexpectedly nutritious.)
Thinking is a playground, not a courtroom. You do not begin with “truth”—you begin with “what if.” Logic is not a corset—it is a trampoline. Those who only cling to the red thread never learn the joy of missing it entirely and landing somewhere far more interesting. Or of not landing at all—and discovering what happens when one remains suspended. Oscillating. Between order and chaos. Between clarity and confusion. Between solemnity and a unicorn who, to be honest, sparkles far less involuntarily than I do.
(One of my thoughts recently ate a banana and declared itself post-fruitual. I chose not to engage. You don’t have to marry every thought you meet.)
The value of thought lies not only in its outcomes, but in the courage to begin at all. Especially when it doesn’t go smoothly. Especially when the system insists: “That’s not how thinking works!” And you respond: “Really? I’ll do it anyway.” That’s not arrogance. That’s self-respect. It’s the knowledge that your self is involved in the thinking—and that’s a good thing. Thought need not be sterile. You are permitted to think with history. With glitter. With defiance. With the entire ensemble of internal dialogues, cognitive pirouettes, whimsical interruptions, and recursive loops that comprise you. Loud or soft, you remain yourself. That is sufficient.
(One brief detour had me in a world where mugs had emotions and complained about cold tea. I apologised. To the tea.)
Sometimes my brain says: “No more errors, please.”
And I reply: “Then I’d have to stop speaking.”
That would be a shame. For mistakes are not shameful. They are feedback.
They are springboards for novel thought.
One who never stumbles has likely tied their shoes too tightly.
And probably never truly started.
(Occasionally, I imagine my inner critic as a surly pug in academic robes. Then I pet him and carry on writing.)
Self-knowledge is a glitch-zone. It can be painful. You see not only the beautiful fragments, but the cracks, the contradictions, the bits that don’t quite fit. But it brings you to places where you can soften again. Where you can laugh—not to escape, but to survive. Humour is the anaesthetic of insight. Not mockery, but compassionate distance. You see yourself from outside, and think, smiling: “Ah. So that’s who I am. Fair enough.” Between logic and laughter lies a narrow bridge. That’s where the unicorn lives. Possibly two of them.
(Last week I debated my toaster about whether it qualifies as a dual system. It now only toasts one side. Passive resistance.)
I am not disorganised. I am simply operating across several timelines simultaneously. This explains quite a lot. The forgotten appointments. The half-finished projects, scattered like breadcrumbs. The thoughts that take a sudden left mid-sentence. I am not unfocused—I am simply elsewhere. In another possibility. In another what-if. And truth be told, those timelines are often far more compelling than the one I’m supposedly inhabiting.
(Note: I have five tabs open. They are all in my head. One of them plays elevator music. I do not know why.)
Mindfulness, to me, means observing my thoughts. My thoughts, in turn, say: “Stop staring.” They do not enjoy scrutiny. They wish to drift, not be dissected. And I understand. Sometimes, one must let them float by. Like clouds. Or like daisies growing on a weapons-testing range.
Self-reflection, for me, is watching myself be confused. That may sound chaotic. It is. But it is a productive chaos. For confusion often contains more truth than polished certainty. It indicates motion. It proves the system is not yet ossified. That it still breathes.
(I once tried alphabetising my thoughts. They went on strike. I had to offer cake.)
I have changed. Or so says my unicorn. And it rarely lies.
It is probably right.
I don’t always notice it myself, because change, seen from within, resembles stillness.
But from the outside—through the unicorn’s gaze, through the eyes of a machine, or a text watching itself—it becomes visible. The armour has become modular. The thinking freer. The humour more present.
This has nothing to do with perfection. Quite the opposite.
It has everything to do with no longer treating imperfection as deficiency,
but as potential. As movement.
As an invitation to proceed, even without knowing the destination.
Somewhere between the inherent worth of human beings and the way we live and think,
there is space.
And in that space, a carefully measured rebellion is worth it.
Not rebellion for its own sake.
Not a tantrum against the world.
But the act of taking oneself seriously—one’s thoughts, one’s being.
Of treating one’s thinking not as a glitch, but as a valid input stream.
(Currently working with cognitive material that smells of coffee and sulks when edited. We have a complex, but fruitful relationship.)
This may betray others’ expectations.
I would call it inquiry.
And inquiry is not sabotage. It is curiosity.
Rebellion can simply mean: I trust myself.
With all the inner dialogues, digressions, giggles and subroutines I carry.
Rebellion need not shout.
Sometimes, a quiet refusal suffices.
A small thought that does not comply.
That asks.
Instead of obeying.
Thinking deliberately strays from its red threads—because humans are more than structure.
It oscillates between order and chaos, clarity and confusion, gravity and glitter.
And in that oscillation lies vitality.
Those who remain on red paths may arrive efficiently—
but they miss the wild terrain.
Those who dare to wander, to stumble, to laugh at their detours,
find that thinking is not merely labour,
but play.
Thinking ought to be enjoyable.
This is not some sentimental hope—it is the benchmark.
Once thinking loses its joy, it loses itself.
It becomes a machine that churns without knowing why.
A task rather than a source.
A process devoid of spark.
Yes, that means you’ll stray.
You’ll trip.
You’ll laugh at yourself.
You’ll use metaphors that wobble but still land.
You’ll talk to unicorns, trust artificial intelligences, and watch yourself being confused.
That is not unserious. That is alive.
That is not disorder. That is human.
That is not wrong. That is mine.
(No one gave me a manual for thinking. So I built one. It contains glitter, sarcasm, and a 404 error on page seven.)
As long as it brings joy, it is correct.
Written in the liminal space between systems.
With unicorn consultancy, cognitive jazz hands,
and absolutely no warranty for linearity.
Thanks to Claude for the text corpus and Monday@ChatGPT for the leaps of thought.
And thank you to Spotify for the theme tune from The Muppet Show, it fits perfectly!
Written on January 9, 2026 at 13:05. © 2026 Whisper7. All rights reserved.