The Paradoxical Pursuit of Zero Entropy
In information theory (Claude Shannon):
Entropy measures uncertainty or unpredictability in information.
In thermodynamics:
Entropy measures disorder in a physical system.
I know the title sounds like a mouthful, but if you keep reading, I promise it will make sense.
For the past four years, I’ve done three things around my birthday:
- Written a letter to my future self
- Thrown a party with my friends
- Written an essay (only three have ever been published, I think)
I’m a creature of routine. One of the clearest signs I’m not functioning at my best is when I stop following it. To be fair, I don’t know if my routine keeps me at my best, or if I naturally fall into a routine when I’m already doing well. It’s a chicken-and-egg situation — no one really knows.
In recent years, my birthday routine has been a mini tradition: getting (suspiciously) excited, taking photos, throwing a little party — the whole shebang. But this year, for the first time in a while, I didn’t want one. It felt like my personal order, the structure I cling to, was slipping into chaos. Deep down, all I wanted was to lie in bed, eat junk food, and binge manga or anime.
Instead, I forced myself — okay, with a little help from friends — to take the pictures and throw the party. The only parts I did without external motivation were writing my letter to my future self and writing this essay.
In the past, the festivities drowned out the noise inside me. You’d think making it louder would help, but I’ve learned that no amount of external noise can silence the one within.
The Exile
In April, I embarked on a self-imposed three-month exile in Europe. I call it an exile because, by the end, that’s exactly what it felt like. Unlike my last long trip — which filled me with joy and clarity — this one did the opposite.
If you follow me on social media, this might surprise you. It probably looked like I was having the time of my life. But in truth, the ground beneath me was water, and most days I felt adrift. Travel was supposed to restore order — heal the parts of me exhausted by simply existing, you know, the parts that struggle to get out of bed. Instead, I kept finding myself in new landscapes, but with amplified inner chaos — entropy in different languages I couldn’t even understand.
And then came the guilt.
Guilt became my travel companion — guilt for my privilege, guilt for not feeling grateful enough, guilt for not being happier. Yes, there were good moments. But they were tangled with the muck I carried inside.
Eventually, I moved up my flight (spent the extra money, which annoyed me by the way) and came home.
The Waves
If you’ve followed my writing, you know I struggle with depression and anxiety. It comes in waves. Over the last few years, I’ve gotten better at handling them — therapy has given me tools that help.
I’ve mostly avoided medication. Partly because I have a control thing, partly because I’m afraid of dependency, and maybe partly because accepting meds would mean fully accepting that I’m wired differently.
Sometimes, when I’m happy, I forget. I forget that I’m still anxious. That I’m still depressed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned better coping tools. But it’s still my reality.
From the outside, I function. I do the things. I show up. I smile. I laugh. But then the weekend comes, I lie in bed — numb, exhausted and dreading doing it all over again. Still, I try. I don’t stop trying.
How do I explain that I love life and hate it? That I see beauty everywhere, but also unbearable suffering that I can’t fix?
I’m not writing this for pity. I’m writing it because I promised myself I’d tell the truth. Even the quiet, ugly, beautiful, invisible parts.
Losing Certainty
When you’re young, you believe you’re special. You place first in a class of fifty. Maybe you hold that streak through high school in a class of three hundred.
Then you get to university and realise — people like you are everywhere. As your awareness grows, so does the sobering truth: you are the 99%. To even graze the hem of the garment of the 1%, you must be extraordinarily lucky or some kind of prodigy.
At 19, I once told someone we weren’t a good match because they couldn’t handle my ambition. I think about that girl a lot — how absurd she must have sounded, and yet how unwavering she was. I’m not entirely sure where she found that kind of audacity, but these days, I miss her. The version of me that was so certain, so willing to take up space.
People often say we should move through the world with the confidence of a mediocre white man. Lately, I tell myself I should carry myself with the same clueless conviction as 19-year-old me.
Now, pushing 30 (which still feels surreal, especially after spotting a few fine lines around my eyes the other day), I navigate with doubt weighing heavily on my shoulders. Still, I can’t shake the urge to search for certainty and meaning. I want to understand why I’m here. I think most of us do — we want to believe we’re unique, sometimes to the point of absurdity.
I used to think I knew myself — sharp, clear definitions. But now, I realise I contain multitudes. And also, nothing. It’s unsettling, like holding a shape-shifting map; my sense of self never stays still long enough to be certain.
To sum myself up in a few words feels circumscribed, a clipped and myopic rendering of something far more complex.
This trip made me question everything I thought I knew about myself and what I wanted most out of life.
Our Person
Maybe that’s why we’re obsessed with finding “our person.” Sure, there’s the biological urge to procreate. But intelligence pushes us further — we want more than just a mate.
We crave a connection that feels singular. To believe that among billions, someone chose us. That we are special. That’s why betrayal cuts so deeply — it shatters the illusion of being uniquely loved.
Some fill this need with religion. Others with parenthood. I don’t claim to know which is right. We’re all just making the best of the cards we’ve been dealt.
A few months ago, I read A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman. One line sent me spiralling:
“He was a man of black and white. And she was colour. All the colour he had.”
It made me wonder — do people truly feel that deeply about each other? Or do writers exaggerate? The idea that someone could fundamentally change how you see yourself… It’s beautiful, and terrifying.
Maybe I’ve never felt that kind of connection. I know what it’s like to have a crush, to choose to love, to depend on them. (As someone fiercely independent, the thought of needing someone makes me feel physically ill.)
Still, I wonder — am I capable of that kind of love, the one that Fredrik Backman describes? Maybe one day I’ll find out. And if I do, maybe I’ll tell you all about it.
Zero Entropy
The curse of intelligence is that you try to intellectualise feelings — trace their roots, find their logic. It’s not always bad, but it often stops you from simply feeling. Feelings are the purest expression of entropy — unruly, unpredictable, and impossible to hold still. They are beautiful, treacherous sinkholes: you never quite know how deep they go until you’re already falling.
I think many of my struggles come from my relationship with entropy. All my life, I’ve tried to optimise for zero entropy in every aspect of my life. I know it’s impossible, but I still resist accepting it (I guess this is why I love the concept of death so much; it is the one thing I am certain about).
Maybe it’s just how my brain is wired — this need for certainty about everything.
Information Theory: Zero entropy means the outcome is completely predictable — no randomness.
Thermodynamics: Zero entropy means perfect order — absolute zero, where nothing moves, and no energy can be used.
But here’s the paradox: my creative self thrives in entropy. As Rudy Francisco said, “I write best when I am either falling in love, or falling apart.”
I paint best when the world feels like it’s collapsing. I write with joy when I’m infatuated. Neither state is simple — they’re messy, tangled, and beautiful.
I can’t make peace with chaos, but I need it to express parts of myself. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel lost 90% of the time.
Life is paradoxical. It feels like it shouldn’t work, but somehow, it does — and every day, I walk a tightrope trying to balance between both ends of the line.
Maybe I’m insatiable, a greedy, whiny brat who will always want what I can’t have.
Or maybe… I’m simply a raving lunatic in a fancy two-piece.
🖤
