Avoid Repetition At All Costs: Life Lessons for True Artists and Lovers

People crave new randomness. Look at the Labubu craze—paying big money for something they haven’t seen, hoping it’s a rare one. It’s gambling dressed up as collecting. A thrill. A pulse. That moment of possibility.

Love’s the same. Random glances on trains, chance collisions in cafés—those are the stories people hold onto. The unexpected makes it sweeter, more real. Poets and songwriters live off that chaos.

They edit out what comes afterwards, of course. The habits. The arguments. The repeated conversations. Romance begins with chance and then spends years building a routine around it. People say they want surprises, but what they really want is uncertainty delivered inside something safe.

But not everyone likes random.

Especially not the police.

They rely on patterns—motive, means, routine. Randomness throws them off. It’s slippery. Unpredictable. A crime with no rhythm, no reason? That’s a nightmare for them. They need one act to resemble another because resemblance creates a line, and a line suggests direction. Give them enough points, and they believe they can see where it began and where it will end.

A killer’s profile is a promise that chaos can be translated. Behaviour becomes a diagram. Fear becomes evidence. The unknown man receives habits, preferences and a probable history. Soon, he almost feels familiar.

That comforts everyone.

It shouldn’t.

Which is why I use randomness. No habits. No calendar. No emotional ties to places or people. I don’t even pick targets. They happen. That’s the beauty. One moment, someone’s walking their dog. The next, they’re a memory with no pattern behind them.

You think choice requires a reason because your choices do. Hunger. Love. Revenge. Money. Those motives make sense to you, even when the result is monstrous. A motive puts walls around an act. It gives the public somewhere to stand and say, “That could never be me.”

Remove the reason and the walls disappear.

People reveal themselves through repetition. They order the same drink, travel the same roads and tell the same jokes to different people. Even rebellion becomes routine after a while. They find comfort in rules and systems because rules make tomorrow look like yesterday. Predictability feels like protection.

It isn’t.

The most dangerous men do not always arrive looking disturbed. They can be neighbours, husbands, workers and friends. They understand how ordinary life moves because they move within it. That is why the most normal men can make the best monsters. Normality is not proof of innocence. Sometimes it is simply the best place to hide what no one expects to find.

It’s not personal. It’s not even emotional. It’s art. And like any good artist, I avoid repetition and seek originality.

Artists are supposed to develop a recognisable style. A brushstroke. A rhythm. A signature. Critics adore signatures because they make difficult work easier to catalogue. Once something can be named, it can be placed in the correct room beneath the correct light.

Police are critics with badges.

They study what is left behind and search for recurring themes. The public helps by demanding a name. The newspapers supply one. Suddenly, the unknown has a title, a personality and a mythology. Everyone begins watching for the performance to repeat.

That’s the weakness.

They want to draw circles around me. But there are no circles. No arcs. No themes. Just moments. Unlinked, unspoken, untraceable.

Perhaps they’ll try to connect the weather. Perhaps they’ll attach meaning to a place, a sound or the time between discoveries. Human beings can find constellations in any scattering of stars. They forget that the lines exist only because someone chose to draw them.

A coincidence becomes a clue.

A clue becomes a theory.

A theory becomes certainty.

And certainty makes people careless.

They begin ignoring everything that falls outside the picture they have created. They defend their pattern because abandoning it means returning to uncertainty. It means admitting that the world is not arranged for their understanding.

I know better.

People love randomness. It excites them. It terrifies them. They purchase it in boxes, celebrate it in love songs and curse it when it enters their lives without permission.

Me?

I thrive in it.

The world’s too neat. I just mess it up a little.

—Kurdaitcha