Dear Reader,

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I never imagined my story would find its way into your hands, much less that you’d take the time to read it. Writing this book has been one of the hardest and most cathartic things I’ve ever done. Reliving some of the moments I’d rather forget, capturing the ones I cherish, and stitching them together into a cohesive narrative felt like trying to explain chaos. And yet, here we are—at the end. Or maybe, the beginning.

The truth is, I never set out to inspire anyone. Most days, I’m still trying to inspire myself. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned through the relentless, messy chaos of life, it’s this: you are always capable of more than you think.

I kept a blog that became a reflection of my mind—chaotic, fragmented, yet brutally honest. It wasn’t just a collection of thoughts; it was a lifeline, a desperate attempt to make sense of a world that felt like it was crumbling around me. Writing was the only way I knew to process the noise in my head. Page after page, I poured out my fears, my suspicions, my heartbreak.

But the hardest part? It wasn’t writing those words; it was looking back at them later.

The blog grew with an intensity that mirrored my psychosis. Every entry was a snapshot of my spiralling thoughts, each one more fragmented than the last. I wrote about the people in the office next door, convinced they were part of some grand conspiracy. I dissected every lyric from the songs I heard, convinced they were messages meant for me. And I wrote about my belief that the world was watching me, that I was somehow the centre of this dark, twisted performance.

There I was, eagerly settling into my seat, popcorn in hand, ready to dive into the latest chapter of the Alien saga: Alien Romulus. The opening scene rolled in, that iconic style I’d come to love, with its vast, silent expanse of space. The screen shifted to display the ship's location in the universe, and there it was—Zeta Reticuli.

It hit me like a lightning bolt of déjà vu. My mind raced back to the original Alien film, where they also referenced Zeta Reticuli. This wasn’t just clever continuity by the filmmakers—it felt like the universe itself nudging me. Of course, Zeta Reticuli isn’t just a location in a movie; it’s steeped in mystery and lore, tied to the alien narratives that have fascinated me my entire life.

Through my Holodex adventures, I’ve met some truly extraordinary people. Among them, Heather Vahn stands out as one of the rarest people I’ve ever met. Over the years, she’s been a constant presence, steadfast and unwavering, even in the moments when it felt like the rest of the world had turned its back on me.

Heather is a force of nature—wildly successful, radiating confidence and financial ease. She knows I’m broke—and she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she takes me out to dinner. Not just dinner, but lavish meals in restaurants where a single dish costs more than I’d usually spend in a week.

The last time we went out, the bill came to a staggering £200—practically my monthly budget in one sitting. It was a humbling experience. Part of me wanted to argue, to fight for my pride, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She waved away my protests, reminding me that her success meant nothing if she couldn’t share it with the people she cared about.

Visiting my friend Noah in the hospital was supposed to be a comforting gesture, but it quickly spiralled into something I wasn’t prepared for. Noah, a devout Muslim, had been admitted for a serious medical condition, and when I arrived, I was stunned by what I saw.

The hallway outside his room was packed with people—family, friends, and members of his mosque—all waiting to offer their support. The gestures of solidarity and love were profound. Many of them had even offered Noah one of their kidneys if it came to that. Their faith and selflessness were awe-inspiring, and it reminded me of what it meant to have a real community backing you.

It was in that moment of admiration and gratitude that I decided to open up about my own faith.

With all the goodwill in the room, I thought maybe this was the right time to share my perspective. Surely, they would be open-minded, right?

Wrong.

These days, I find myself in a place I never thought I’d reach—not just physically, but emotionally. After the chaos and hardships that defined much of my journey, life has finally offered me a reprieve. Thanks to a disability payment I receive each month, I can live comfortably in the heart of London—a privilege I never take for granted. Without it, I’d be staring down bankruptcy, but instead, I’ve got a stable life for myself.

Almost against my own instincts, the system provided me with something I never imagined having: a weekly cleaner. At first, I balked at the idea. Having grown up justifying every little expense, the notion of someone else folding my laundry and scrubbing my floors felt… indulgent. But let me tell you—living in a spotless home is a game-changer. It’s amazing how much clarity and energy a clean environment brings. I’ve come to realise that sometimes, the help you don’t think you need can transform your daily life.

The story of Holodex isn't just about an idea; it's about resilience, audacity, and the will to face giants with little more than sheer determination. The industry is dominated by Aylo—a behemoth whose valuation towers in the billions, a juggernaut so firmly entrenched that most wouldn’t even consider trying to compete. But for me, the challenge of going head-to-head with such a colossal presence is precisely what makes this journey thrilling.

Holodex is my David against their Goliath. It’s not just about business; it’s personal. From day one, I’ve been armed only with my tech skills, resourcefulness, and a belief that there’s room for something better, something different. Aylo might own the market, but they don’t own the hearts of the creators or the audiences. That’s where I see the opportunity—a chance to build a platform that feels human, one that listens, adapts, and serves in a way the corporate monolith never could.

Before I knew it, I found myself diving headfirst into a new idea—one that felt both personal and incredibly innovative. Using ChatGPT, I began designing a futuristic VR game that would transport players to a time when space prisons housed the worst of society’s criminals. To confuse matters I also called it Holodex. Set aboard a massive, high-tech prison ship, this game wasn’t just about escape or survival—it was about managing the rehabilitation of digital inmates, almost like a high-tech Tamagotchi in a grim, dystopian setting.

After deciding to give Holodex another shot, I was hit with a major roadblock: money. I needed an investor, and fast. There was one person, Simon, who had always been supportive of me in the past. I thought for sure he would come through. When I called him up to pitch my plan for re-entering the adult content space with Holodex, he seemed interested. He told me to send over everything I had, and he’d get back to me later that evening. So, I did what I had to do—I sent everything—financial projections, business plans, all of it.

But then… nothing. Months passed. I didn’t get a response. And when I finally did hear from him, it was a cold, distant email that didn’t feel like he even took the time to read my pitch. The worst part? It felt like I was being given the silent treatment. I had asked for just ten minutes of his time to discuss my vision, but months went by without any real feedback.

At least I was trying. After all, what else can you do when you believe in something so deeply? This year, something shifted in me, something that reignited my passion for ZetaTalk. It was another breakthrough—another tool that seemed like it had been made for this very purpose. I discovered an AI that could convert text to speech, and the real magic came when it paired with beautiful video imagery. I knew instantly this was the perfect medium for the ZetaTalk message.

And just like that, I was back on track. Before I even realised what was happening, I was creating what would become the official ZetaTalk YouTube channel. I can’t even begin to explain how ecstatic I was to get this role. It felt like a small victory in a battle that had felt endless. Hours later, I had created over 400 videos—a massive archive that would live on for anyone who wanted to explore the ideas in a video format.

For ten long years, I’ve been trying to make the world listen—shouting about the truth I believe in, about ZetaTalk, and the mysteries that I’ve uncovered. It’s been a journey, and not one that many would understand. In fact, for most of the time, it felt like I was the only one in the world who even cared. I was the lone voice, much like someone in the past standing up and saying, “No, the Earth isn’t flat.” That kind of conviction, that kind of belief, is a heavy burden to carry when no one else is listening.

And yet, despite the years of silence, despite the feeling of being unheard, I continued. I made choices that others would deem unthinkable. I chose my cause over everything else—over my marriage, over relationships, and even over my own peace of mind. It wasn’t a decision I took lightly. In fact, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But in my heart, I felt that I was doing what I had to do. I couldn’t abandon what I believed in. I couldn’t just let the world continue without me trying to make it see something different.

As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. Being signed off work because of the psychological and physical battles I’ve faced has left me with more hours in the day than I sometimes know what to do with. At first, that time felt like a void—an endless stretch where my thoughts could spiral, pulling me back into the pain of everything I’ve endured. But over time, I discovered something incredible: the power of creativity to rebuild what life had taken from me.

Projects like Monk's Models and others have been my lifeline, my way of finding purpose when it felt like everything else had been stripped away. They weren’t just hobbies; they were a form of therapy. Writing scripts, generating music, producing episodes—all of it became a way to channel my experiences, process my emotions, and rediscover the parts of myself I thought were lost.