WELCOME TO HOUSE KAMARA!
Hello there!
If you are reading this, congratulations.
You have entered a construction site disguised as a website.
First of all, I respect your time and intentions. Clicking this was a decision. A risky one. And don’t worry — I am not here to market the house.
I physically cannot market the house.
Marketing requires clarity.
This house runs on confusion and caffeine.
I am just here to share what’s happening inside the house.
And currently?
The house is being built.
Trust me — building something after 9.5 hours of corporate work is not ambition. It is spiritual self-harm with WiFi.
It’s a mind-fucking marathon where your brain says,
“Sleep.”
Your ego says,
“Empire.”
And your bank account says,
“Please reconsider.”
I am doing this with 0 funds but full of hope.
Hope is the only currency that doesn’t decline at checkout.
Hmm. Yeah. I am really poor in marketing.
If marketing was a subject, I would fail and then write a poem about why failure is revolutionary.
But trust me — this is not an enterprise.
This is an experience.
(If that sounds like something someone says before asking for donations, relax. We can’t even process payments yet.)
So what are we going to do here?
Let me explain before the characters hijack this page again.
THE HOUSE IS A NARRATIVE STUDIO.
The house is actually a narrative studio.
Yes, I know.
That sounds like something I made up during an existential crisis.
I felt the same.
Sometimes I still Google it just to confirm I didn’t accidentally invent a fake industry at 2AM.
Lately memory got poor.
All my memory was spent rethinking the past.
Which, by the way, does not benefit anybody in any universe.
Not this one.
Not the Iron Dominion one.
Not even the one where I passed electrical engineering without emotional damage.
I wrote all my ideas and asked all the AIs.
They analyzed me.
They processed me.
They emotionally evaluated me.
And then they said:
“Bro. This is called a narrative studio.”
I didn’t understand.
But the term sounded expensive.
So we kept it.
THIS IS A VOICE FROM THE HOUSE.
Wait.
This is not the voice of the house.
This is a voice from the house.
That means I live here.
That also means I am slightly unstable.
FAILED ENGINEER. ANGRY WORKER.
I technically graduated engineering.
Not so good.
Actually far more than worse.
Electrical engineering is a fucked up subject.
Yes.
More fucked up than your life.
It’s the only subject where both the circuits and your brain short-circuit simultaneously.
But I was in love.
So I let it fuck up.
That’s something I always do.
I fall in love and let it sabotage structured systems.
Whether it’s relationships or resistors.
So now:
A failed electrical engineer.
An angry corporate worker.
Not corporate like SQL, Java, Python, “we’re disrupting ecosystems.”
No.
I am from the other side.
The actual side of pain and pressure.
I mostly said:
“Thank you for calling bla bla support.”
Or
“I am calling from the provider’s office.”
Yes, I worked in chat as well.
Trust me, I am -100 in chat.
If empathy had a loading bar, mine spins forever.
Supporting people is something I always liked.
Or at least I told myself that to survive.
But you know what?
I am not going to lie.
I hate it.
Really.
I hate it.
JONES. LYDIA. JULIAN.
“ARC! You are again yapping.”
Jones from the house.
(He appears whenever vulnerability exceeds 30%.)
“Whoa! Shut up Jones, I am not yapping, I am communicating, I am sharing.”
“I mean seriously ARC! Are you fucking kidding me? ‘9.5 hours of work, memory spent on past, I was in love I fucked up, failed engineer, angry worker.’ I mean what’s all this? Who will even read this? Write something good man that will make people visit the house. I mean don’t tell about Jones — he is just cheapest version of you. You can talk about me ARC!”
Lydia exhales a cigarette that exists purely for dramatic timing.
Sorry.
My characters want participation rights.
They think this blog is a collaborative universe.
Give me a second.
“Lydia! I have a plan for you people, let me just share what we are doing first,” I reply.
“Honestly! ARC! Your plan sucks just like your website design.”
Lydia says this while standing inside the website design.
POWERED BY CHATGPT, CONFIDENCE, DELUSION.
By the way, I built this with AI.
I don’t know anything about coding.
Which means the entire House Kamara infrastructure is powered by:
1. ChatGPT
2. Confidence
3. Delusion
“Okay! First of all, that is A24,” I reply.
Because if something looks confusing, dark, and slightly impractical, you just say A24 and people assume it’s intentional.
“Look at the payment gateway ARC! You set a pre-order page for our narrative. First of all nobody is going to buy. And even if someone wants to, they can’t because the payment gateway is not working. I mean seriously guys, are your creators doing this to you? Looks like your creator also lacks the marketing skills to sell you.”
“The team is working on it Lydia!” I reply automatically.
“That’s your chat support script,” Julian replies.
He doesn’t blink.
He knows.
“And what team?” Jones asks.
Silence.
The website also waits.
The server fan spins louder.
WELCOME TO HOUSE KAMARA.
So people…
This is what you will see here.
What is happening inside the house.
Currently I am trying to convince my characters that their existence has purpose and meaning.
Otherwise they will unionize.
They already question the payment gateway.
Soon they will question my emotional stability.
After that, they will question whether I even control this universe.
And honestly?
Sometimes I am not sure.
Because when Lydia interrupts, I don’t write her lines.
She writes herself.
When Julian criticizes me, it feels real.
When Jones mocks me, it hurts professionally.
And if that’s not meta chaos…
I don’t know what is.
So welcome to House Kamara.
A narrative studio built after corporate exhaustion.
A cinematic universe funded by hope.
A website that might glitch but refuses to die.
We will talk later.
But we will talk for sure.
Because if I stop writing…
They get louder.
And if they get louder…
You’ll hear them too.
And hey.
Thanks for listening.