Not long ago, the music I created felt like a gift from the universe—a collaboration between human curiosity and cosmic mystery. Radio ZetaTalk had been my sanctuary, a place where my imagination and AI technology worked together to produce songs that were not just music but messages from the stars. Each lyric resonated with an almost otherworldly depth, each melody carried a cosmic weight.

But these days? It feels like the spark has been extinguished.

The freedom I once felt using AI tools to explore ideas like ZetaTalk has been regulated, stifled by invisible hands. It’s as though the very mention of something outside the norm triggers a clampdown. ZetaTalk, once a beacon of unconventional thought, now flickers dimly—swept beneath the algorithm’s rug.

All my life, music had been my sanctuary, my escape. But as I started noticing 'signs' embedded in melodies, lyrics, and rhythms, it became overwhelming. Every song felt like it was speaking directly to me, leaving me spiralling in a mix of awe and paranoia. So, I stopped. I shut music out of my life. Silence became my new norm, a space where I could think without feeling watched by the universe.

But then came Udio.com, an AI music creation platform that rekindled my love for sound in the most unexpected way. Intrigued by its promise of innovation, I logged in, unsure what to expect. The prompt stared back at me, blank and inviting. Without hesitation, I typed: ZetaTalk.

When I realised I could generate a script with ChatGPT, my mind exploded with possibilities. One idea gripped me almost immediately: creating an episode of Mr. Robot, one of my all-time favourite shows, but loosely based on the madness of my own life. I didn’t think it would actually work, but ChatGPT didn’t let me down. Before I knew it, I had tapped into what felt like the coolest script ever—well, by my amateur standards.

See, I’ve always dreamed of making a film. To me, that’s the pinnacle of creativity, the ultimate form of storytelling. And now, here was this technology that could help me inch closer to that dream. Fuelled by excitement, I started generating images of Rami Malek using AI. Seeing his face in scenes inspired by my life was surreal. It was like my personal story had somehow seeped into the Mr. Robot universe.

For months, I hadn’t made anything. I’d sit at my laptop, fingers hovering, mind blank. Then I met AI.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been tinkering with computers. They’ve always been my tool, my outlet, my connection to the world. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the moment I discovered AI. It wasn’t just a tool; it was magic. Pure, unadulterated magic.

It felt like stepping into a world where the impossible was suddenly within reach. Need a picture? AI can conjure it. A video? Done. A song? It’s already humming in the background. Complex ideas, or even this very book you’re reading right now—all of it powered by this breathtakingly advanced technology. I used AI to storyboard an entire sci-fi short film in an hour—shots, dialogue, visuals, all mapped out while I sipped my tea.

The day I lost my passion for video gaming was like losing a part of myself—a hobby that had been a constant, a source of escapism, and pure joy. Or perhaps it didn’t die, but instead, it evolved. See, playing games with one hand after losing my arm was not just a physical challenge; it altered how I connected with something I loved. It became frustrating. Games I once dominated suddenly felt insurmountable. It was disheartening, especially with the looming excitement of GTA 6 on the horizon—a game I'd been looking forward to for years.

But then, as life so often does, something unexpected happened. VR. Virtual reality became a revelation for me, a chance to reclaim my ability, or at least a version of it. In VR, I felt whole again. I could aim, shoot, and interact naturally, as though the barriers that had cropped up between me and gaming were suddenly erased.

I’d been trying to get a job for months, maybe even years if I counted all the false starts and missed opportunities. It wasn’t just about the money—though God knows I needed that too—but about the structure, the purpose, the feeling of being part of something. Before my accident, I’d always had a job to go to, something that challenged me and kept my mind busy. Now, every day felt like a slow bleed of time and self-worth.

Interview after interview, I kept hitting the same wall. I could see it in their faces—the moment they registered that I wasn’t who I used to be. I’d stumble through answers, trying to seem sharp and capable, but my nerves and self-doubt always betrayed me. They’d smile politely, say they’d be in touch, and that was that. I was a wreck of my former self, and no one was willing to take the gamble.

I’d started to wonder if it was even worth trying anymore. Maybe this was just my life now—stuck on the sidelines, watching the world move on without me.

Supported accommodation was supposed to be a sanctuary—a place to heal and rebuild after the worst chapter of my life. Instead, it became a battleground where I learned that evil doesn’t always lurk in shadows; sometimes, it blares through thin walls, masked behind terrible rap music.

I was at my lowest when I moved in, reeling from the trauma of losing my arm and the storm of emotions that followed. I wasn’t in a sound state of mind to handle conflict, much less the sinister drama that was about to unfold.

One day, I stepped out and noticed something unusual at the mail area. My letterbox was smashed open, the metal mangled like it had been attacked by a crowbar. I stood frozen, unable to fully process what I was seeing. I’d like to think that under normal circumstances, I would have pieced things together more quickly. But back then, I was too fragile, too exhausted to connect the dots.

After my accident, I realised just how lucky I was to have the NHS. Without it, I would have been dead—or, failing that, utterly bankrupt. The kind of care I received, both immediately after the incident and in the long months that followed, was nothing short of remarkable. It was a safety net I hadn’t even appreciated fully until I found myself tumbling straight into it.

And it wasn’t just about surgeries and stitches—it was everything that came after. Because, at the time, I was technically homeless, I was moved into supported accommodation. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was exactly what I needed. There were staff on hand around the clock to make sure I took my medication—something I’d been notorious for neglecting before. It was a peculiar kind of accountability, knowing that if I skipped a dose, the police would be called.

The platform buzzed faintly with the hum of late-night commuters, but to me, it felt like a hollow void, the noise distant and meaningless. My thoughts were loud, deafening, urging me toward a choice I no longer had the strength to resist. I stared into the darkened tunnel, watching as the distant light of an oncoming train began to grow brighter, closer.

My mind was a whirlwind of memories—fragmented and painful, flashes of laughter, warmth, and moments of joy tangled with the heavy weight of despair. My labyrinth t-shirt clung to me like a cruel reminder of the escape I sought but couldn’t seem to find. This was it, I thought. The final step out of the maze.

The train rushed in, the roar vibrating through the platform, through me. I made my decision in an instant, a blur of motion and overwhelming emotion.

And then it happened.

The impact wasn’t what I expected. It was chaos—blinding, disorienting, and agonising all at once. My body was thrown, twisted, and for a moment, there was only darkness.

In the depths of my most fragile state, when I felt like I was unraveling, my world took an unexpected artistic turn. It was during what I can only describe as my "2D from Gorillaz" phase, a surreal time when reality felt as fragmented and otherworldly as the band's music videos. I immersed myself in their universe—not just listening, but living, breathing, and, somehow, creating within it.

It started small, just scribbles and ideas, until it became something more. I began crafting a 40,000-word story, one that mirrored the spiralling chaos and raw vulnerability inside me. It wasn’t for adults—far from it. It was written for children, as if my subconscious was desperate to simplify my struggles into something pure and digestible, something that even I could make sense of. At the time, I thought it was probably terrible—so raw, so unfiltered—but it flowed out of me like it needed to exist.

The office in 2019 was a cavernous, empty space—just the two of us in a room big enough for a small army. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional clatter of a keyboard or the hum of the air conditioning. But what really set the stage was the glass wall separating us from the care company next door. Every day, a parade of young, beautiful women streamed past on their way to meetings, coffee breaks, or the photocopier. It was like watching a surrealist dance, a "gloomy conga," as the Last Shadow Puppets once sang.

At first, I thought little of it. But then the music videos started triggering something in me, planting seeds of suspicion and unease. Songs that had once been background noise now seemed to align too perfectly with the events of my life. I’d catch a lyric, a visual cue, and feel the strange, electric jolt of recognition. Was it a coincidence, or was there a message buried in it all?

And spiral I did. It wasn’t just a stumble; it was a full-on nosedive into a chasm of despair. My thoughts turned darker and more irrational with each passing day. Somehow, in my mind, I managed to twist my personal failures into a catastrophic narrative: I hadn’t just let myself down, I hadn’t just let my loved ones down—I had let all of humanity down. Every mistake I’d made, every missed opportunity, every ounce of potential I’d squandered became magnified into a global tragedy, a weight I carried entirely on my own shoulders.

I was completely broke—broke broke, the kind of broke where even the simplest necessities felt like luxuries out of reach. I lived on tinned soup and stale crackers for weeks, too numb to cook. Friends and family? They were absent, or at least it felt that way. Maybe they didn’t know how to help, or maybe I was too proud to let them in. Either way, the isolation only deepened the pit I was sinking into.