Decoys Killing Decoys

Have you ever had an unrealistic thought overpower a realistic one? Sometimes, it's instinctual. You act on that impulse, and everything cascades from there.

Those unrealistic thoughts are like a tyrannical ruler of the galaxy—a leader who forces their soldiers to work until exhaustion. I’ve begun to realize that the way I treat myself mirrors that metaphorical ruler.

Sometimes I push myself too hard—until exhaustion. It drains me. My thoughts boil over and spill into my actions. And those actions bleed onto others, which is unfair and, frankly, childish.

I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I don’t want it to continue. I want to be able to control those decoy thoughts. I want to process them and understand what they mean—and how they’ve been affecting me. Because they have been affecting me. Deeply.

The interesting thing is, maybe I should try to let those thoughts live in harmony. But I don’t. The reality is, one side wants to wipe out the other—like eradicating a resistance. There’s a constant civil war. Little soldiers inside me striving for better. Always learning. Always working on themselves. There is hope.

This idea started taking shape when I read Isaac Asimov. He made me view my thoughts through a science fiction lens.

My mind creates clones of these bad thoughts. Each side rushes to attack the other. Kind of like The Laws of Robotics, which Asimov coined. The laws state that robots must not injure humans, must obey humans, and must protect their own existence. But the third law—to protect their own existence—can override the first two. That’s what happens with my thoughts. The decoys attack each other to survive.

My intention was to apply that concept to the negative thoughts we all have. How, at times, we act in radical self-interest—doing things we know aren’t good for us but still choosing them instinctively. I was speaking with someone the other day who made a great point: If you can create bad thoughts for no reason, you can create good ones too. I ought to start trying that.

Sometimes, those negative thoughts feel like insanity—telling myself one thing, then purposely doing the opposite, knowing I’m missing out on something better. They’ve overpowered me for as long as I can remember.

And no thanks to the galactic fuzz that clouds a traveler’s mind. Lost in a cosmic nebula, my mind wanders. I lie to myself—saying it helps—but I’ve realized it actually kills my creativity. Now, sitting here clear-minded with a cup of coffee, the creative flow finally returns.

I’ve come to understand that the tools that got me this far won’t be the ones that take me to the edge of the universe. The very things that shackle me to the ordinary are the same things that will make me extraordinary. Getting back into the gym, reading, writing, working hard, and saying no to shiny distractions—those are my tools now.

I don’t want to hold back the joy I have inside. It’s unfair to rob myself of it. Villainous, even. Holding joy hostage, waiting for the “right” reward—one of the stupidest things I do. I’ve realized that negative thoughts only bring pain. That instinct to self-preserve the “good” in us is deep-rooted. But I’ve also learned that nobody really cares. Often, the “good” I try to share with the world is based on a worldview that’s impossible for others to relate to. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do with this writing—bridge that gap.

All thoughts matter—for a split second. But learning to discern which ones actually matter is the key. Some of my thoughts have hurt people I once considered friends (even if I say I don’t have any). In the end, though, the realistic thoughts always triumph. They linger. They apply guilt. They carry a moral compass.

That’s the essence of it all: realizing I am greater than my thoughts. As someone who constantly struggles with self-hate, I don’t fully understand where it comes from. I just know it’s there.

But maybe—even in a galaxy cascading with clones—the real stars still burn bright.