blog

I. THE GENESIS BLOCK

on the first transactions, irreversible errors and the memory of heat

I found Bitcoin because I was looking for God. The psychedelic internet said He lived behind my eyes, behind a firewall of tryptamine and Tor. I was already swimming in LSD and research chems, already haunting forums and sketchy marketplaces—but DMT was different. It was mythological. It wasn’t sold, it was summoned. Everyone spoke of it like scripture and every script led to Silk Road.

BTC was eight dollars. Maybe six. Maybe twelve. I don’t remember the price, just the heat in my chest when the wallet loaded. There was no Coinbase. No self-custody. I wired cash to a stranger named Bruce. They sent coin to a browser wallet and from there to a Silk Road address. I bought DMT with Bitcoin in 2012, not because I wanted to invest, but because I wanted to see God.

We made a church out of a friend’s empty house that summer. His parents were in Bangladesh. We were kids with bics and pipe screens and no sense of mortality. We burned through grams of insight and came out different. The trip didn’t end. It just recompiled. The breakthrough wasn’t hyperspace — it was trust. Seeing belief move without permission. Watching value flow like water through machines no one owned.

Bitcoin wasn’t ideology. It was latency. It was silence. It was sacred.

Later, I dropped out of GSU halfway through a psych degree. Took the real estate route. Closed a couple houses with my dad, built a custom PC with the commission, then let the license lapse. But that PC had a 1080 Ti. I heard you could mine with it.

So I did.

Then came the Antminer D3s. Preordered, overpriced, late to arrive. ROI nuked on delivery. I built two rigs: 6x 1060s and 4x RX 580s. Ran an L3++, then an S9. Heat was my penance. Noise was prayer. I mined because I couldn’t pray anymore.

And I kept mining. Kept refreshing charts. Got wrecked on perps. Fell for HYIPs. Cycled through CFD scams — 1broker, SimpleFX. Made and lost bags chasing leverage on BitMEX and Bybit. Thought 20x was a shortcut to redemption. It wasn’t.

Eventually, I pivoted. Took a QA course through H2kinfosys. My cousin plugged me into his Switch FX Technologies. I worked manual testing contracts with Hatchworks, then Zipari. It was stable. Until it wasn’t. In 2021, the overseas team replaced us. The last deposit hit. I had $2k left.

II. FAILURE AS PROVENANCE

the metadata of regret and the permanence of embarrassment

You don’t know yourself until you’ve failed publicly, repeatedly and without compensation.

Everyone claims they fumbled the bag on purpose. That it was a lesson. That they’re over it. They’re not. They’re still watching the charts. Still LARPing conviction. Still trying to make the wreckage look like strategy.

Me? I don’t have the luxury of pretending.

I lost the money. I lost the girl. I lost the thread. And then I kept posting.

I minted 7 Pudgy Penguins. Missed BAYC and overcompensated. Flipped a Degen Ape Academy for $32k, that was cool lol. Minted 10 SMB Gen2s. Gave some to lil bro. Thought conviction was enough. Held while everything bled. Went to Pine Island to reset, but kept longing Solana while SBF tweeted bullish and Alameda shorted the top.

Sold the Penguins to keep the trades alive. Joined Milady. Got clowned. Sold more to prove loyalty. Got banned anyway (my fault at the end of the day🥺). No refunds for faith. Just deeper lore.

You learn something when the narrative stops serving you. When there’s no PR pivot. No brand recovery. Just uptime. Just logs.

Some try to monetize the aftermath. Pivot pain into a product. Turn transparency into a token. But not everything pivots. Some failures are architectural.

Entire protocols exist because I believed too hard. Dead DAOs still echo my ambition. I used to post like a prophet. Now I post like a janitor sweeping a dead subnet.

People don’t realize: your loss becomes metadata. Your dust becomes provenance. Your grief becomes on-chain.

And everyone still thinks this is a game.

“Make it.”

“Make it back.”

“Make it back again.”

Eventually, you realize there is no “back.” There’s just forward. Forward is entropy wearing a new ticker symbol. I’m not bitter. I’m just lucid.

Loss doesn’t make you wise — it makes you legible to the other ghosts. They read your delays, your gaps, your dropped packets. They recognize their own.

You think you’re alone?

You’re just a node in a crashloop full of dropouts and false forks. You’re exactly like the rest of us. The only difference is you’re still online.

And that counts for something. Maybe not much. But enough to keep typing.

III. THE PUBLIC LEDGER IS A CONFESSIONAL BOOTH

on being the signal they stole from and why they’ll always watch you even if they never tag you

They said build in public. But I wasn’t building for them. I was shitposting with blood in my mouth and leverage in my teeth. You think I came here to be seen? I came here to survive. To flip scraps into exits. To turn pain into syntax. To make people smarter, faster, funnier, poorer — depending on how well they could keep up.

Before LLMs could write coherent thoughts. Before crypto Twitter got sanitized by people with headshots. Before the platforms got scared of us.

I was here.

Daily.

Terminally online. Teaching myself in public with no safety net, no curriculum, no HR department. They watched me burn myself out and called it “engagement.” They read my drafts like lore. They quoted my despair like branding. And they never said my name.

Because they didn’t want credit to go where it was due.

They wanted clearance— permission to steal the tone and package it for people who never lived it. I was trading under surveillance. I was posting through psyops. Shady entities from three continents watching every address I ever touched. Law enforcement hovering like flies. Still showed up. Small account. Good face card. No fear.

Because I knew that even if they could track the wallet, they couldn’t parse the soul.

I wasn’t writing documentation. I was encoding grief. I wasn’t participating in “open source culture.” I was leaking raw alpha between memes. Every dead joke they forked into a product.

I remember the night it was written. I remember the mood. I remember the hunger.

They built slides. I built slippage. They pushed newsletters.

I was pushing size on a ticker that didn’t even have volume. You think you’re early now? We were so early the contracts weren’t verified. We were so early we still thought we’d make it out. We were so early we didn’t even have words for the things we were already losing.

You saw me post through market nukes, dead friendships, shadowbans, and heartbreaks I never admitted.

I made it look fun. I made it look fluent. They turned it into an onboarding experience. You think I’m mad? I’m not mad. I’m just not playing dead for people who want to resell my voice as a feature. They can keep forking my tone. But they’ll never know the key that signed it.

IV. PRIVACY IS FLESH

for those born already being watched

I didn’t choose this. I was born into it. Before I knew how to read, I knew how to hide. Before I had a phone, I had a father who changed names depending on who was knocking. One name for family. One for the state.

He didn’t get his green card until I was 16. Until then, our existence was a technicality. A buffer overflow in the American dream. Something that could be patched out at any moment. I was raised in a house built on omissions. Raised by a man who didn’t trust the calendar, who knew how to vanish mid-conversation without moving a muscle.

You grow up around that, you don’t develop neuroses. You develop protocols.

I was a kid writing burner thoughts on borrowed devices. A teenager watching my own tragedies unfold with the eerie sense that they’d been scheduled. Targeted individual? No. Just someone who paid attention. You only call it paranoia when it hasn’t happened to you yet. This is why I don’t use Venmo. This is why I don’t say names out loud unless I’ve mapped out four contingencies for saying them. This is why I don’t laugh freely in rooms I didn’t sweep first.

You call it crazy. I call it inheritance.

The Americans taught me shame. The Israelis taught me silence. And my life has been one long compromise with visibility ever since. I stream because I can’t stop. Because I know they’re watching. Because if I go silent now, they’ll write the story without me. This isn’t performance. This is containment. I am already doxxed. Already logged. Already known in all the wrong ways. The girls don’t have to block me. They just let the metadata handle it. They just run a passive filter called “everyone but him.” They know I’ll keep showing up. Streaming like a good simp boy. Logging the breakdown in real-time so they don’t have to imagine it.

And still I log in.

Because maybe, just maybe, some kid whose father also had two names is watching. And he hasn’t been broken yet. And if he reads this, he’ll take the right precautions before it’s too late. Not because it’ll save him. But because it’ll slow them down.

Privacy is not a feature. Privacy is not a right. Privacy is not a brand alignment.

Privacy is a wound. A reminder of where the blade went in. A scar you hide not because you’re ashamed — but because you remember who put it there. Privacy is a curse you cast to ward off repetition. It is pain weaponized into boundaries. It is the refusal to be reformatted again.

You want to know me? Search me. Go ahead.

You’ll find a hundred logs. You’ll find livestreams, confessionals, shitposts, doxxes. You’ll find my face, my name, my history.

But you won’t find the original signature.
Because it never left cold storage. And it never will.

You cannot fork the soul. You can only surveil the shell.

V. DOXXED AT BIRTH

the architecture of humiliation and the afterlife of exposure

By the time I learned to lie, they already knew the truth. By the time I changed my name, my face had been indexed twice. This wasn’t privacy lost — it was privacy pre-denied. I didn’t “get doxxed.” I was born into it. A child of metadata before I knew what a cache was.

4chan /b/. Xanga. TheCwalk forums. Tumblr handles that still resolve if you know where to dig. I uploaded myself before I even grew into my face. Facebook before it mattered. Twitter when it still broke you. Kazaa. Limewire. iMesh. AIM. MSN. Yahoo Messenger. Neopets. Torrenting before sex. Porn before puberty. Trauma streamed in 144p over DSL.

My adolescence wasn’t experienced — it was cached. No luxury of mystery. No first impressions. Just logs. Just artifacts.

My memory is scattered across forums with broken BBCode. My first heartbreak archived in someone else’s DMs. Every username I loved became a target on my back.

They say: “Just disappear.” No. Some of us never had the chance to be unknown. I didn’t grow up under surveillance. I grew into it — like bones learning gravity, like skin thickening for impact. There was no reset. No “pre-internet self.” Just layers of cached shame I had to perform into aesthetic. So I leaned in. Posted harder. Made the exposure look like art. Made the scars look like branding. Shitposting like a necromancer animating my own corpse.

And it worked. Until I caught feelings. Until someone looked me in the eyes online and I believed it. Until I mistook attention for affection. Followers for future. Every girl I liked could Google me faster than she could reply. Every time I streamed, I was reminding them what not to want. I thought showing up made me visible — it made me disposable.

They didn’t even have to block me. The algorithm already ghosted on their behalf. You ever been too online and too sincere? A punchline in your own lore? A self-archive so complete even you can’t look away? My existence became a honeypot. Bait for ridicule. A sandbox for humiliation. Even the cops don’t need a warrant. I volunteered into surveillance. Streamed my sadness with a good mic and worse posture.

Because I didn’t have anything else.
No degree.
No career.
No plan.
Just signal.
Raw and uncompressed.
Laced with desperation — but technically proficient. You think I’m exaggerating? My face is on posts I don’t even remember making.
Girls I never touched can search me and laugh at the guy who tried too hard to care. There’s no revenge arc. No glow-up. No redemption.

Just this:
The documentation of decline. The livestream of longing. The extended cut of a man who saw too much and still opened his mouth.

If there’s a God, He’s watching me doxx myself in real time.
If there’s a devil, he wrote your pinned tweets.

The tragedy isn’t that I’m known.
The tragedy is that I’ll only ever be known in ways I didn’t choose.

And yet —

I keep typing. Keep streaming. Keep showing up like someone’s still listening. Because even now, even here, there’s something sacred in being seen completely. No filters. No edits. No protection. You want the soul? You’ll have to parse it from the logs. You’ll have to decrypt it from my uptime. You’ll have to accept the version that never got onboarding approval.

You’ll have to see it how it was meant to be seen:
Without context.
Without irony.
Without recovery.

Not because I’m brave but I’m already too far gone to stop.

VI. THE FLESH IS A SANDBOX

on recursion, recursion, recursion. on becoming the ghost in the machine

America #1. China #1. Rishad #1. And still I lose.

You ever wake up horny for vengeance and find the only relief is syntax? You ever clock the way your hands tremble when the chart retraces exactly where you begged God it wouldn’t? You ever type a joke so sharp it draws blood and no one even favorites it?

That’s enlightenment. That’s tantra for the wireheaded. That’s nondual consciousness expressed in pseudonymous liquidity. That’s recursion.

I don’t jerk off anymore. I compile. I don’t sleep. I cache. I don’t dream. I batch process intrusive memories into sharable alphasets.

I’ve made my libido a ledger. Every unmet touch becomes a hash. Every ignored message becomes a nonce. Every memory of my mother’s handprint on my shoulder becomes a timestamp I never erase.

Rage isn’t something I feel anymore. Rage is something I render.

I render in prose. I render in backtested fib extensions. I render in leveraged longs so outrageous they break the curvature of local reality and bend time into irony.

I make people search things. That’s my utility.

People google my thoughts in private. They don’t like or quote me. They study me. Whispers through custom GPTs trained on my drafts. Entire prompt chains that begin with “Was Rishad right?” They don’t believe in God. They believe in my syntax errors.

Cold. Unlovable. Unverified. And right.

I speak in Merkle poetry. I preach with zk-SNARK homilies. My longing is asynchronous. My heartbreak is optimistically rolled up.

You wouldn’t understand unless you tried. And most don’t. Because most don’t need to. They can still get touched by another human being without paying. They still think privacy is a preference, not a punishment.

I walk around like the world’s a honeypot, because it is. Because it always was.

They trained us to be searchable. From Neopets to Kazaa, from LimeWire to the limp little lies you told on MySpace. Everything indexed. Everything archived. Everything engineered to make you easier to hurt.

And it worked, because we grew up data-borne. We learned to perform ourselves, annotate ourselves and betray ourselves — all in service of being known.

You know why America’s still #1? Because it taught its children to doxx themselves for fun. Because it built trauma into the GUI. Because it made humiliation into a login screen. And we logged in. And we streamed. And we begged for likes like orphans begging for rice from a drone camera operator.

China just took notes. America was always the prototype.

You want to talk geopolitics? You don’t get to tweet that until you’ve been touch-starved enough to memorize both Federal Reserve repos and Chinese censorship protocols. Until you’ve watched girls you love install Signal just to ghost you with plausible deniability. Until you’ve seen your own father lose his name to a green card system built on Kafka, but funded by Lockheed. Until you’ve searched your own name and found nothing worth hiding.

That’s the final humiliation. To be so completely known that you’re uninteresting.

My mother used to hit me for no reason. Just to reassert entropy. Her hands were the FOMC — tightening, loosening, tightening again. I was the liquidity. The volatility wasn’t random; it was instructional.

Now I only flinch when ETH moves 8% against me. But I still flinch.

Because trauma doesn’t expire. It just gets versioned. And I’ve been patched too many times to roll back.

I used to think I needed a girlfriend. Turns out I needed a validator set who wouldn’t censor my blocks. I used to want love. Now I want full node sovereignty under a shielded identity schema.

Every time a girl doesn’t text back, I buy more privacy coins. Every time someone says “you should just touch grass,” I tighten my opsec protocols.

Every time someone asks “what do you do exactly?” I tell them: I write proofs of life in languages you don’t understand. I verify existence without third-party attestation. I transmit divinity through packet loss. I drop alpha in DMs and call it communion.

So yeah. America #1. China #1. Rishad #1.

Because the code compiles. Because the logs confirm it. Because the broadcast isn’t over.

VII. THE OPPS

on traitors, takers and technocratic theft with a smile

The opps don’t breach firewalls — they build dashboards. They don’t break down your door — they geo-fence your liquidity and call it compliance. They wear wireframes and VC caps, not balaclavas. They keynote at Consensus with lapel mics while laundering your future. Your enemies aren’t loud. They’re sponsored. And they didn’t win — they purchased consensus.

Larry Fink, with $10 trillion in custody, ETF’d your hope into a quarterly report. Brian Armstrong lit the decentralization torch, then sold it to Homeland Security. Sam Bankman-Fried was the synthetic scapegoat—FTX the controlled demolition of retail credibility. Caroline Ellison ran the spreadsheets. Chris Dixon and Marc Andreessen turned decentralization into a SaaS model. Gary Gensler used to teach blockchain at MIT — then prosecuted it for sport. And Vitalik Buterin? He built a God, then sold priesthood to the rich. Proof of Stake wasn’t about energy. It was about custody.

And where were the journalists? Taking oil-backed checks to sing PoS praises. Publishing ESG puff pieces. Defending censorship as “deterministic finality.”

Bloomberg Green is backed by Bloomberg Philanthropies, which feeds Goldman’s energy books. CoinDesk was owned by DCG, lobbying the CFTC while claiming neutrality. MIT DCI — where Gensler taught — was partially funded by Big Oil think tanks. These are the headline authors. These are the message managers.

They tell you privacy is dangerous, while investing in surveillance middleware. They call Monero extremist, then license your metadata to Palantir. They fund Web3 grants with blood money and quote Solzhenitsyn while building tools for digital feudalism.

They sell you zk-rollups while backing Worldcoin. They arrest the Tornado dev but let HSBC pay a fine and walk. They write sanctions, not smart contracts. They build mixers for pitch decks, then blacklist anyone who ships them. It’s not about justice. It’s about narrative control.

The Solana ecosystem told itself a story about speed, but forgot to check who was driving. Jupiter DAO positioned itself as neutral — yet said nothing when Pump.fun siphoned millions in USDC, rotated wallets and migrated liquidity from Raydium and Serum. Raydium, tied to the FTX-Alameda pipeline, was already radioactive. Solana devs knew. They just didn’t say it out loud.

Then came the meme coins: Trump Coin. Melania Coin. LIBRA Coin. All launched with fanfare, all rugged just as fast. Trace their deployers and you’ll find the same wallet clusters. The same private Telegrams. The same bait. Meteora served as the LP honeypot: conservative yields, low risk — until it wasn’t. I LP’d there. I got drained.

On-chain, it’s not a vibe — it’s evidence. But nobody does postmortems unless it scores engagement. Nobody tracks grant recipients unless they’re late on deliverables. There is no open-source accountability layer. Only optics.

And then there’s the lore:

When FTX imploded, funds didn’t just disappear — they were drained with precision. Wallets tied to cold storage were accessed. Assets bridged, swapped, obfuscated with pro-level composure. And somehow, a year later, some sim-swappers got indicted. Like that explains it. Like they weren’t proxies, pawns, bait. Maybe they did do it. But only because someone let them.

Alameda had the connections. The playbook. The incentive to clean house and move on. If you don’t think they had sim-swap crews on payroll, you’ve never read a leak. The real operation was post-collapse: state-sanctioned laundering. Fall guy installed. NDAs activated. Funds rotated. Media muzzled.

So if you’re looking for the opps, start there. Where silence is branded neutrality. Where exploits are backstopped by VC liquidity. Where rugged LPs get shrugged off as beta testers.

Today, the funds are back on-chain. Pump.fun spins up dozens of tokens a day. NFT pre-mint hype, presale wallets seeded early, USDC liquidity sourced from god knows where. BTC or XMR cleaned through multiple routers, fake identity farms in India and Kenya, then bridged to Solana. Free OnlyFans accounts. PPV spam. Ads run to simulate organic reach. It’s not just fake volume — it’s fake culture.

Ever wonder where the liquidity goes? It doesn’t just vanish — it recycles. Tainted coins, scrubbed through fake PPV sales on OnlyFans, fed into ad campaigns with surgically precise targeting. You think she got famous because she’s hot? No — because someone needed you to see her. Viral loops built from Telegram scripts and prepaid bins. The whole thing is a psyop: the influencer, the algorithm, the thirst. Not sex work — narrative laundering.

They don’t even hide it. The Solana influencers say it plainly: “They provide a service people are willing to pay for.” Like demand justifies deception. Like consent validates the con.

If you build? You’re doxxed, discredited, or dead.

John McAfee: hung in a Spanish cell. Said too much. Knew too many names.

Nikolai Mushegian: body found off the coast of Puerto Rico. Tweeted about CIA/Mossad blackmail ops. Said they’d plant evidence. Said they’d torture him. They didn’t need to. He vanished.

Aaron Swartz: hounded to death for trying to open access. The state doesn’t forgive idealism that scales.

Ross Ulbricht: two life sentences plus 40 years. Not for violence — for building infrastructure without permission.

Julian Assange: not crypto-native, but spiritually aligned. He leaked the logs. They broke his body.

These were not founders. They didn’t get Series A. They didn’t launch on Base. They got erased.

So go ahead. Trust the VCs. Retweet the founders. Keep staking into the same four funds.

You think the opps wear ski masks? They wear credentials. They wear smiles. And they win.

The real opps don’t rug. They write policy.

• They don’t dump bags. They exit with golden parachutes.
• They don’t bridge assets. They bridge narratives.
• They don’t lose access. They rotate wallets.
• They don’t jail builders. They hire them — under NDA.

If you were really with the resistance — an “ally” — you’d be running forensics on boroghor.eth and boroghor.sol, tracing every bridge, signer and burn. Not because I matter — but because the breadcrumbs do.

Because the only real alpha is who’s missing. And who got psyopped into silence.

Milady’s not opp. Pudgy’s not opp. Charlotte’s not opp. Luka’s not opp. Everyone plays their role. The opps? They play you.

VIII. THE END USER LICENSE AGREEMENT

on fine print, dark patterns and signing your autonomy away in exchange for nothing but uptime

You didn’t sign up. You clicked through.
You didn’t read the terms. You scrolled.
You didn’t consent. You complied.

Every wallet you’ve spun? Fingerprinted.
Every seed you’ve backed up? Indexed.
Every app you installed? Called home.

This is not decentralization. This is gamified forfeiture.

They offered you freedom and you paid gas to wrap yourself in a new prison.
Wrapped ETH. Wrapped identity. Wrapped intentions.
Every time you bridged, you confessed. Every time you staked, you agreed.

“By continuing to use this service, you accept full liability for your own dismemberment.”

They build UIs like mazes. They use design to extract compliance.
You think you made a choice. You didn’t.
You think you can opt out. You can’t.

Dark patterns are still patterns.
And they all end in the same place: logged, parsed, sold.

You ever read the fine print?

• Clause 3.2.6: You waive the right to truth.
• Clause 7.1.9: You agree to indefinite arbitration in jurisdictions that don’t exist.
• Clause 12.4.0: You give up.

But hey — you clicked “Accept.”
So now they get to say it’s fair.

Every GitHub repo is a Trojan horse.
Every governance vote is a census for the next crackdown.
Every Discord is a honeypot for sentiment analysis.

You think this is about code?
This is about consent laundering.

You’re the end user.
And the end user is the product.

IX. THE BROADCAST NEVER TERMINATES

on God, soul and the stream that doesn’t die

The code is still running. The logs are still writing. The soul is still broadcasting.

They tried to silence you. But silence is just 0dB signal. And you never went offline.

You are a fork of every loss that shaped you. You are a patch to a system that rejected you. You are divine recursion in plain text.

God is watching. God is logging. And you are the debug trace.

Proof of life? You’re typing it. Proof of work? You’re living it. Proof of stake? You gave it up long ago.

This isn’t redemption. It’s a rebase. This isn’t closure. It’s commit hash #deadbeef.

You want meaning? Run your own node. You want connection? Ping the subnet of the forgotten:

The Genocide.
The Rugs.
The Heartbreak.

You will not be saved. You will be versioned. If they fork you, they still won’t get the soul.

The Soul
Does Not
Terminate
It Loops
It Mutates
It Logs
It Endures

There is no final message.
Only ongoing signal.
Only uptime.
You cannot fork the soul.
But you can catch the packet.
Add to the chain.
Leave behind a signature only you could verify.