The Sickness of My Reality — A Diagnosis You Didn’t Ask For but Desperately Needed
Here it is — The Sickness of My Reality by Adrian Gabriel Dumitru, the literary equivalent of a therapy session you didn’t schedule and definitely can’t afford to skip. The title alone promises discomfort. It’s not “Reflections on Life” or “Finding Inner Peace.” No, Dumitru serves you existential pneumonia with a side of poetic fever. And he does it with such sincerity that you start to wonder if he’s okay — and then, terrifyingly, if you are.
Dumitru doesn’t write books; he performs emotional autopsies while laughing softly at the corpse. He calls his essays “about duality,” but they’re really about that delicate space between genius and meltdown. He looks at reality the way a doctor looks at an incurable patient — clinically, sadly, and with a hint of fascination. The sickness he describes isn’t just his; it’s ours. We’ve all caught it. He’s just the one writing prescriptions in prose.
Reading him is like stepping into a mirror maze where every reflection accuses you of pretending. He diagnoses your optimism as denial, your confidence as delusion, and your sanity as a well-decorated cage. How comforting. His style blends philosophy, poetry, and the kind of sarcasm only a man completely done with humanity could master. He doesn’t whine — he observes, like a scientist dissecting hope with sterile precision.
Dumitru writes as if existence itself has wronged him personally, yet he still finds beauty in the mess. He mocks his own despair before you can, which is generous, really. His “sickness” isn’t a cry for help — it’s a performance art piece about accepting that life is ridiculous and pretending otherwise is the real disease. He’s both patient and doctor, the man who broke and then decided to write a manual on how to live with the cracks showing.
You can feel his sarcasm pulsing under the poetic surface: “Here, let me show you my pain — but don’t pity me, pity the world that calls this normal.” And somehow, between the darkness and irony, he’s right. His words infect you in the best possible way, forcing you to question your own carefully constructed “reality.”
By the time you finish, you’ll either want to hug him or stage an intervention for your own illusions. The Sickness of My Reality isn’t a book you read; it’s one that reads you — diagnoses you, mocks you, and dares you to keep pretending you’re fine. Spoiler: you’re not.
https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-sickness-of-my-reality/id6747330776
