I’m an overthinker, and I feel like I know the perils of overthinking. I could tell you about the chain of thoughts that lead you down a rabbit hole that you didn’t even know existed in your own mind and land you at a place that then keeps surfacing in your mind in everyday life. The worst result of that for me has been a lingering sense of existential dread that asked ‘why after all’ of practically every instance and threatened to downplay the value of many a big and small experience in life. I’ve been fighting it for years; finding ways to sometimes answer it and sometimes allow myself the realization of pointlessness/purpose-lessness.
And then I pick up someone like Dostoevsky or Ayn Rand (I know) and feel gratitude. Gratitude that I’m not THAT far gone down the lane of overthinking that I might produce literature like they have. As great an accomplishment as it is, and as aspirational, I can’t help but be scared at one’s own mind’s ability to burrow down so deep and fetch thoughts that can be articulated thus. It is simply natural that the greatest writers in the world have been the worst substance addicts or borderline mental. I don’t see how they could be anything but.
Now this is not a book review; I have read Crime and Punishment a long time ago. After a long journey with fantasy fiction in 2025, I was thinking I’ll revisit/pick up some arguable stuff so that the reading graph remains interesting. But looking at Dostoevsky made me wonder if I’m ready for that plunge again or if my brain might have lost my ability to resonate with stuff like that after sticking to fantasy for so long; and then I realized its just the memory of the lack-of-warmth that’s posing resistance. Well, down the rabbit hole then.
#hello2026
A look-back at some favourites:
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