A Visit: Remere & Alexis

The below passage contains light descriptions of blood and sickening flirtatious tomfoolery. Do take care.

Remere had spent the better part of a week preparing this ritual. Guests were not something they had frequently, save for The Groundskeeper, so conjuring lodging as they had originally planned was out of the question. It was much easier to attune their newfound guest to their dwelling instead, and allow them to come and go as they pleased. Not only was it more efficient, but it was less draining.

They had opted to meet with Alexis the same place they had run into one another prior, by the ruins that surrounded them when they had a scythe to their neck. Their only demand was that Alexis take their hand.

When they find Alexis again, he is restlessly pacing about the immediate area near the ruins, brows knit in deep contemplation. This time, he does not sport his usual armor and leathers, and instead wears a white shirt and black gilet, rosary framing the sharp planes of his chest. His signature scythe is likewise not present; then again, hunters are known to be able to summon their weapons at will, so perhaps he is not as vulnerable as he appears.

He consents readily to Rem’s offer to take their hand—not without a snide comment of “this relationship is moving rather fast, isn't it?” But then his fingers, skin warm to the touch, interlace with Remere’s. Once they appear near the glowing crystal, Alexis slips his hand free of Rem’s to step forward and casually examine the area.

In a blink of an eye they surfaced beside a towering red crystal, levitating above a golden basin containing a red liquid. The contents were left no mystery—the renowned Witch practiced dark magic, here.

Remere turns to Alexis, gloves having been discarded prior to their trip to reveal vein-like scars upon their person. They extend a clawed hand, the one unoccupied by a rose that was much an accessory as it was a comfort object, and wearily exhale. “Apologies. I was unable to arrange lodging, but this should suffice, instead. Will a pin-prick bother you?”

“Darling, I’ve been attacked by all manners of creatures,” he answers, finally glancing back toward Rem, practiced charm in his smile. “I hardly think such a thing would bother me at all.”

Remere says nothing in response to Alexis’ blatant flirtation. At least, not aloud. There’s something in their expression that shifts, a softness in their eyes and a raising of brows that is swiftly concealed by a clearing of their throat. Their mind ponders the warmth that lingers on their slightly cool skin, waiting for Alexis to orient themselves before they proceed.

“Lovely. You are about to be attacked by another.” They reach clinically for the hand that had just slipped away, pressing a pointed nail into Alexis' index finger to puncture the skin, and hold it above the pool. A drop was all they needed, and it glistened as it landed within.

Remere pauses for a moment, in contemplation.

What was the harm in sampling the goods, as it were?

They brush their hand along the wound, closing it with some manner of sorcery... and allowing the contents to smear upon their own finger, before they bring it to their lips to clean it. A pleased hum, musical and somewhat decadent. Definitely part of the ritual, and nothing more.

“Ground yourself and think of me, and you may come and go as you please. Think of leaving, and you shall return where you last were. Are you ready for the tour? Questions, concerns?”

Rem’s warning lands on ears connected to a skull devoid of rational thought on the best of days. Alexis does not perceive the remark—you are about to be attacked by another—as anything more than some manner of strange humor. There is only wordless obedience as Alexis permits Remere to claim his hand, his own comfortably and willingly relaxed in his companion's grasp.

Such cold hands, he thinks, but gives the observation no more consideration than that.

The sound that escapes him as claw pierces flesh is interesting, to put it simply. It’s something like an inhaled gasp, sharp and shaky, and it exhales into something like a muted whimper. Blue eyes avert from the sight, cheeks flush with color, and Alexis feels his heart thump insistently against his ribs for a moment. He shifts his gaze back just in time to catch his own essence ripple into the pool surrounding the crystal, and finds himself too transfixed by the morbid sight to notice Rem lick their own finger clean.

He feels his heart finally slow back to a languid pulse when Remere speaks. “Concerns? Well, you’ve already taken my blood for ritualistic witchcraft, so I don’t see what worse you could do.” The smirk that punctuates is reassurance that he's merely teasing. “Please, lead the way.”

“Ritualistic witchcraft? You make me sound so... gauche.” A frown, subtle though it may be. They don’t seem to notice any shift in Alexis’ heartbeat or otherwise, mind occupied as it was. “I merely invited you into my home, and gave you access to bypass the enchantments that prevent others from entering. The only blood in this pool is my own, and a drop of yours.”

They start walking out of the overgrown cemetery, slipping between the crystal, Alexis, and any headstones present. As they round a corner a silhouette can be seen maintaining the fuchsia bushes at the base of the house, clad in a hat that obstructed their features. They seemed more focused on making sure what bloomed there overtook the property more than trimming it in any capacity.

“Good day, Groundskeeper. Thank you for helping me with my composition last evening. Please rest soon, yes?” Remere’s words fall upon deaf ears, a disgruntled huff the only response they are granted. A soft laugh follows from the Witch’s lips.

“He came with the home, you see. Maintained it before I came here. Anything you might need, The Groundskeeper can help with.”

Patiently, Alexis waits for Rem to step forward first, and then he maneuvers carefully alongside headstones with many curious, unspoken questions of who slumbers beneath. Those don’t seem like the things one ought to ask about on a second meeting.

As they pass The Groundskeeper, Alexis offers a polite wave, acknowledging the figure with no indication of unease; whatever chill of death hangs around him falls just short of Alexis’ awareness. Perhaps getting subtly aroused by Rem drawing his blood a moment ago has dulled his senses. Besides that, something seems to suddenly draw his gaze as they begin to ascend the steps to Rem’s house.

Alexis pauses finally, squinting through the trees ahead. His head tilts as he closely analyzes the sight, and then he relaxes with a laugh. “Well, isn’t that something? It seems we’ve been neighbors all this time.” He nods toward the trees, lining the perimeters of their properties. “You see, just there ahead, there's a path cutting between the trees? That’s my cottage.”

Remere pauses, taking a moment to peek towards the trees separating his home from the neighboring cottage. Their expression shifts, and the rose they were holding flitters to the ground. They bring their hand to their forehead in exasperation.

“One week... of preparation, and you were my neighbor. I think I might like to die.” Nearby, The Groundskeeper barks a laugh before resuming their examination of the blooms surrounding the home.

There’s a small delay before Alexis follows. He idles with a raised brow and amused smirk at Remere’s theatrics, not to mention the laughter that resounds from The Groundskeeper just nearby. Alexis may not notice that he’s literally dead, but he can detect the subdued mockery toward Rem’s suffering. There’s something almost familial about it. Curious.

He promptly crouches to seize the forgotten rose before half-jogging up the steps behind Remere to enter the house.

Remere sighs, not unlike a tired maiden, before ascending the uneven stone stairs. The welcome mat at the foot of the door was certainly welcoming—‘something rotten lives here’ written in some manner of blackletter—as were the scratches upon the wood of the front door.

Upon entering, it became apparent the taste in attire certainly extended to their decor. To their left was a small ritual station, with candles and cauldron alike, and further within was ample space to lounge. Remere points towards the cabinet in the far left of something that resembles a kitchen table, without a designated area for meal preparation.

“I’ve all volumes of Encyclopedia Necromancia, should you need to access them, from Alchemy to Ancients through Zealotry to Zombies. Black to Blood Magic might be the most helpful for our shared quarry, but if you are seeking anything else... it is likely on my shelves. My study is currently being renovated, but I’ve plenty of resources here for your perusal. I’ve ample seating, a fire... The Groundskeeper sometimes lends his hand to play the harp nearby, if silence bothers you, but I also have a music box for when he is occupied.”

They do not at all mention the skull upon a pile of books behind them.

He gently pushes the door shut behind him as he steps forward and examines its casual extravagance; the eccentric ones dabbling in taboo magics always seem to secure the most lavish adornments, he notes with a touch of private bitterness.

Interesting how being tasked with slaying literal monsters leaves one moonlighting as a bard to get by.

For now, he shoves his idle jealousy aside and turns toward Rem, stepping a touch closer. His free hand seeks one of Rem’s to gently lift, and the rose is returned to its grasp. Alexis’ hands cup lightly around Rem’s for a brief moment before he moves to examine the books nearby. “You’re rather accommodating,” he comments, dragging a finger along the spine of one of the books. He glances back to Rem. “I have to wonder, Witch, what led you to such peculiar areas of study?”

Remere stills as the rose is returned to them, the warmth of Alexis’ hands upon their own. Their mind is frazzled once more by the contact, and they still in a manner not unlike that of a frightened deer.

They can’t help but smile as Alexis releases their hand, gazing upon the rose and fiddling with the petals momentarily. After a moment they move to place the rose on the nearby table, and then return to Alexis’ side. “I don't often have guests, but I am glad to be accommodating.”

The question is met with a moment of silence. “I... do not recall.” They answer, honestly for the first time. “Last I remember I was at a memorial, the next I was here. I imagine a ritual must have gone awry. The furniture seemed lived in, and it was all placed as I myself would have placed it, so I imagine I lived here prior. The Groundskeeper was more than willing to answer all my questions. He might be able to answer yours better than I.”

Remere does not delve further on the topic. “Do you need anything to drink while you browse? I’ve a well nearby. The water is clean and comes from a fresh source, I am told. Should it not be, I can purify it for you.”

“I see,” Alexis says simply in response to Rem’s lack of cohesive memory; it’s the first remark stated without any dryness to it. The understanding is genuine. No snide comment follows as he turns to face Remere, seemingly finished with his inspection of the books in their collection.

“Must be very delicate magic you work with, that you’d forget so much. Must leave you wondering to what end you were taking such a great risk?” Alexis is unsure if his own question is rhetorical; there’s curiosity, but he knows Rem likely has no answer to provide. “If The Groundskeeper has already answered all of your questions, then how might he tell me anything you have not already explained?”

The question of water is met with a small, dismissive wave, and blue eyes remain fixed on Remere. Clearly, Alexis is more interested in the topic at hand than any of his human needs.

The shrug that Remere offers in response is uncomfortable in its resignation.

“Perhaps, but I have learned to take precautions in the years that followed. I would not have become... famed, as you so aptly put it, if I did not learn from my mistakes.”

They move to seat themselves on the chair nearby, and blue phantom butterflies take the veil away and drape it over the couch nearby as if beckoned by an unseen command. “There are certain things he withholds, as per my instructions. I am sure he would be more than willing to accommodate a guest. I am not one to question my own judgement, even if I do not remember.”

Their hand drifts restlessly past the golden candelabra towards a half-finished composition. “Oh, I had almost forgotten. There is a volume on undead, as well as a separate volume containing information on the unholy. Should you abide by faith of any kind…” They drift off, not willing to comment again on how the rosary upon Alexis’ person proved to be decorative at best.

“It might be useful to you.”

There’s something almost naturally magnetic in the way Alexis casually turns to follow just behind Remere's steps. With a few short steps, he leans himself against the same chair, half seating himself against the back of it.

That look of deep thought settles into his features again, drawing an intensity to them that seems out of place given his sarcastic, almost indifferent demeanor. It seems, briefly, as though he might press Rem with more questions, but he finally shifts his attention at the mention of books of undead, and holy things, and whatever else they had said—oh, yes, another passive comment on his superficial expression of faith.

“I don't believe in anything,” he says very plainly, not apparently offended, but the flatness of the statement suggests there is nothing to elaborate, or perhaps he does not wish to be questioned further. There’s something about the topic that’s obviously sour to Alexis. A small smile follows, and his voice softens. “But it's beneficial to me that my colleagues think I do—and the things I’m meant to kill, besides.”

Remere does not shift as Alexis settles in closer to lean against their chair. There is a certain comfort in the proximity of another person, one that the Witch is not willing to take the time to analyze. The one thing they elect to is the steady beating of Alexis' heart, content and gentle in the way that it thrummed in his ears.

There is no judgment in the words that follow. It has no place to.

“We are of similar mind, then. As far as belief, or the lack thereof. I draw power from within. From my heart. Sometimes I take from others, but only as is necessary. Consent and autonomy are very important when it comes to practices like these.”

Their expressions shifts, brows furrowing in something akin to sadness. “Yes. I had almost forgotten. You folk feel you are ‘meant’ to kill. No matter. I hope what I have to offer here is... useful to you.”

Alexis frowns at Rem’s comment; in fact, he’s certain he actually feels mildly offended—not enough to warrant anger, or bitterness, or a sharp retort. If any feeling echoes in his words, it’s a faint sense of remorse.

“I don’t feel I’m ‘meant’ to kill. I never particularly asked for any of this.” He distracts himself with the rosary hanging from his neck, lifting a hand to restlessly fidget with it. Aside from that small detail, he’s otherwise calm as ever. “Change is... kind of a strange thing. I could just give up what I do entirely, but there’s a whole code to it. I’d be killed for treachery. I can’t do any good if I’m dead.”

There’s a pause as he lifts a finger to punctuate his next words. “But! Sometimes change for the better means willingness to compromise one’s own values here and there. I mean, you can find a fucked-up way to justify it to yourself.” He shrugs a shoulder and glances toward Rem. “If I tell myself I only kill the ‘bad’ monsters, then I can pretend I’m not just a murderer with a fancy title, yeah?”

Remere had anticipated disappointment, only to be meant with a profound sense of self-awareness. There’s a warmth that blossoms in their chest, a tingling in their fingers. They shift in their chair, turning to face Alexis with those doe-like eyes of theirs.

They cannot conceal their smile, enamored as they were by the answer. “How succinctly put. Your flexibility in your craft is admirable. I... regret that I doubted you. Pardon my judgment.” A carefully worded apology—habit given their regular visitation of the realms of the fae-folk.

They clasp their hands in their lap. “I would spare you of my curiosity, but…”

A golden plated fang, or the mimicry of one, bites at their lower lip. Its voice lowers in cadence, just a smidge. It was perhaps the first time Remere had decided to return Alexis’ flirtations since their meeting.

“...What do you consider ‘bad’?” Something glistens in their eyes. Witch, indeed.

Alexis smiles promptly at the question, the expression natural and honest; in fact, it’s evident he’s quite flustered, given the way color blossoms across his face to match him perfectly to Remere’s elegant scarlet decor.

He continues to fidget with his rosary, idly tapping the cross against his bottom lip. His position shifts a bit closer to his companion then, body turning more toward Rem as though that innocent, wide-eyed stare had enchanted him to draw nearer to his inevitable doom. His voice echoes to match the same cadence when he speaks.

“You wanna know the truth?” His next words follow with a purr, no pause left to let Rem answer. “We’re all bad. The problem isn’t being bad, just how many consider themselves above their nature. I, for one, am at peace with what I am.”

Remere looks up wordlessly at Alexis and blinks, equally in infatuation and admiration. They are just about to open their mouth to speak when the bell at the door rings, cutting through whatever words happened to be formulating inside of that pretty head of theirs.

Their crimson gazes fell upon the door, then back upon Alexis. An apologetic smile crosses their features before they speak. “Yes?”

The door opens, and The Groundskeeper invites themselves in with the tip of a hat towards their shared guest. “I believe I should take you up on your offer to rest. I do not see a crisis befalling the fuchsia for the foreseeable future.”

A pause, and then the tall figure’s lips curl upward into something of a lopsided smile. “That is, unless you were... engrossed in discussion?”

Remere, now flustered, stands upright, brushing invisible dirt from their skirt. “No, um. No. If you need the space to rest, you need the space to rest. It is quite alright.” They look up to Alexis. “Do you need me to see you off? I know you don’t live far from here.”

Such mesmerizing eyes they have, Alexis thinks as he and Rem seem to incline closer yet into one another's proximity. But then he jolts just the same when the doorbell resounds. The pleasant, heart-fluttering moment deflates with The Groundskeeper’s presence, but Alexis manages to find amusement in the idle misfortune. Soft laughter escapes him, and he presses knuckles lightly against his lips in a half-assed effort to smother the sound.

“No, no, I think I can manage the brief trip in one piece,” he says to Rem. It finally occurs to him to stand upright, that he was still leaning casually against the chair, inclined into Remere’s space rather intimately. He lightly clears his throat. “You’re likewise welcome by any time. Until then... sweet dreams, my dear Witch.” A wink follows before he turns to take his leave.

As he passes The Groundskeeper, there’s a fleeting pause. There it is finally; a chill ripples over him as Alexis brushes by. He stills too quickly for the hesitation to be readily apparent, playing it off with a polite nod of acknowledgement. “Rest well, Groundskeeper,” he says politely, before he pushes the door open and promptly departs, wandering on the path toward his cottage.

---

The above was conjured at my home in Lunamere, a realm of enchantment and mystery. Thank you for indulging us in a safe haven for queer and neurospicy writing shenanigans!

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Si une décision importante ne fait pas naître chez nous une envie évidente de prendre cette direction, alors il faut en prendre une différente.

Au départ, j’étais plutôt d’accord avec cette idée. Aujourd’hui, beaucoup moins.

Est-ce qu’on a toujours le choix ? Est-ce que l’évidence ne vient pas avec l’effort et la constance ?

Est-ce que l’amour vient avant la relation ou c’est la relation et les efforts que l’on met dans notre couple qui engendre l’amour.

Aujourd’hui, j’ai plutôt tendance à me dire que la vie ne me fera pas de cadeaux. Que j’ai fait le tour de beaucoup de choses, que ce soit au niveau des relations ou du côté pro. Et j’ai la presque la conviction aujourd’hui, que le bonheur au travail et dans une relation, cela se crée. Tous les jours. C’est faire le choix, conscient, de marcher sur la bonne voie malgré les difficultés, et les déceptions. Avec pour phare, mes convictions et mes valeurs.

Je pense que l’on se trompe tous.

Quelle génération errante... à la recherche d’on ne sait pas vraiment quoi, et d’on ne sait pas vraiment qui. Probablement parce que l’on a été biberonné, d’images, de concepts, qui ne n’auront nous nourrissent pas.

J’ai tendance à me dire aujourd’hui que c’est l’effort qui crée le beau en tout. L’effort sur soi d’abord, et l’effort dans notre capacité à faire ce qui est juste.

TOUT LE TEMPS.

There is a weaver inside us, architect of our reality, custodian of our effort. We are all, in our own ways, apprentices to this ageless artisan.

Consider the hedge maze at Hampton Court Palace. From within its leafy corridors, one sees only green walls and dead ends, but ascend to the palace's highest tower, and suddenly the maze's true nature unfolds: it is a symmetrical marvel. Our efforts are like this – labyrinthine and frustrating up close, but with a grand design visible only from a vantage point.

In quantum physics, particles exhibit a peculiar duality – both wave and particle. Their identity hinges on how we observe them. Effort shares this quantum uncertainty. It exists in a superposition of potential outcomes, collapsing into a definite result only when we pause to measure its impact.

The student burning the midnight oil, the entrepreneur weathering another setback, the artist facing a blank canvas – all exist in this liminal space of possibility. Like Schrödinger's cat, their efforts are simultaneously fruitful and futile until the moment of reckoning. The outcome remains unknown until it unfolds.

Th things is, our society overlooks the inherent value of striving and crafts one hero to eulogise. Picture a master glassblower, cheeks puffed, arms straining, as he coaxes molten silica into a dazzling chandelier. The finished piece may be breathtaking, but is it not equally wondrous to witness his act of creation? The interplay of breath and fire, the transformation of formless matter into art?

The Japanese use 'wabi-sabi' to finds beauty in imperfection. To celebrate the cracks and crevices, the wear and tear that come with age and use. We need a similar philosophy for effort – one that honours the sweat, toil and the sheer grind. While capitalism argues that effort doesn't pay for the bills, it's the very foundation of value creation that capitalism benefits from, yet often fails to adequately reward. This “winner-takes-all” mentality, while generating wealth, has also led to extreme income inequality. Dig deeper, and this systemic unfairness helps explain the growing appeal of far-right ideologies in our fractured world. By undervaluing the spectrum of human effort, we inadvertently sow seeds of division and resentment, driving some towards radical alternatives that promise the recognition and reward they feel they've been denied.

Imagine if we could reward effort as clearly as we reward results. Would we not marvel and celebrate every thread of persistence that went on to make an achievement possible? Would we not stand in awe of the invisible architecture of ambition that underpins every human endeavour?

It’s in the sinews of every worker who ever lifted a stone to build the Guggenheim. It's in every Mona Lisa that doesn't hang in the Louvre. It's in every shipwreck at the bottom of the sea, sunken in the quest for new lands. The marathon runner who came in second. The trembling hands of the surgeon at hour 14 of a delicate procedure. We must celebrate the effort as much as we celebrate the win. It's a fail-proof way for society to cultivate more winners.

Consider your work. Behind every great product launch, every seamless performance, every “overnight success,” every moment of effortless grace, lies an unseen universe of toil and tenacity led by an army of employee IDs. Imagine if we could incentivise the effort of a win across its entire value chain, across all employee IDs. Picture the degree of ownership and spirit of innovation this could foster.

We need far better ways to appreciate the weavers within us, for it is not the product that defines us, but the sum total of our striving – one choice, one action, one moment at a time. Because when we reach the end of the line and look back on the maze of our existence, we should be able to see the interconnected web of our effort that formed the fabric of our reality.

There's a freedom in admitting we don't know. A liberation that comes with surrendering to ignorance. Far from being a void, this darkness of uncertainty is like a door, opening a dirt road into an unimagined forest. We're explorers again, our maps uncharted. To wake each morning not as experts, but as novices, our eyes wide, ready to be astonished by the world and our place in it.

We spin elaborate webs worrying about people’s perception, but truth is, most people are too entangled in their own lives. The banker's thoughts are a ledger of profit and loss; the nurse's mind, a triage of urgencies. Self-absorption isn't a flaw in human design, it is its very foundation. Once we truly embrace our insignificance to others, life becomes raw, real, and endlessly liberating.

Embracing our insignificance in others' lives frees us to say “yes.” It allows us to take a few blind leaps without risking everything. True, trust is a delicate balance, with the shadow of disappointment always hovering overhead. Yet rolling the dice on “yes” and occasionally stumbling still beats the safety of perpetual refusal. One moment of true magic over a lifetime of the mundane.

Uncertainty sparks our deepest passions. We're captivated by the enigmatic. That's why people lose sleep over love, and yawn at periodic tables. The allure of the unknown drives us to make art, chart space, and ponder existence in ways settled facts never will. It is where artists find their muse, and adventurers hear their siren call.

When we join forces, possibilities compound. Ideas collide, weaknesses are braced by another's strengths, and friction breeds invention. We don't just add notes together; we weave a symphony that’s greater than its parts. It breaks us out of the echo chamber of our own heads—and the quiet isolation that lives there.

Rushing through downtown to squeeze out another drop of productivity often means missing the texture that makes a day worth remembering. Giving ourselves permission to pause creates space for serendipity. Waiting often brings clearer skies, both literally and figuratively. A mouthful of sky and some sunshine on our shoulders. Sometimes, the wisest thing we can say is, “Just Do It... Tomorrow.”

Happiness is a ripple effect. When we are genuinely content, it spills over. Our smile becomes contagious, our energy quiet but unmistakable. We find we have more patience, deeper empathy, more to give. Tending to our own emotional life isn't selfish; it's the only way to sustain anyone else. Our joy becomes a gift we can actually afford to share.

The reasons we're given for rejection are usually polite fiction, invented to avoid confrontation. Beneath the excuse, rejection almost always comes down to someone else's insecurity or simple incompatibility—one person's view of what works for them, shaped by their own history and blind spots. Thankfully, we don't need universal approval. We only need one “yes” at a time: one employer to see our potential, one partner to love our quirks, one friend to value our company. Rejection isn't a verdict; it's just a mismatch of timing, circumstance, and taste.

In a world that idolises expertise, there's a quiet rebellion in accepting naiveté. When we silence our inner critic and step into things we have no talent for, we earn permission to fail spectacularly—and the rare thrill of trying something new without the weight of expectation. It unlocks a creativity unburdened by the need for excellence, and a sense of humour you simply can't survive life without.

We romanticise travel, curating picturesque cafes and cultural epiphanies while editing out the diarrhoea, lost luggage, endless queues, and pickpockets. That airbrushed version, fed by social pressure, hides what actually matters. The real joy of travel lives in the shared moments, not the destination itself. When we get honest about what we truly value in an experience, our choices finally start to feel like our own.

In the middle of an empty cafe, where the constant hum of traffic mingles with the chatter of countless lives, I sit hunched, my fingers curled in that hawkish pose over my keyboard, searching for words.

Do they fit, sound nice, or are they forced in their usage, bereft of any identity.

It is a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday – the days always kind of blur together, unless you need to remember a specific. The coffee is a bit too hot and the chair a bit wobbly.

A pigeon lands on the windowsill, its feathers missing in patches. It cocking its head at me, one beady eye reflecting my own image back at me. In that moment we are kindred.I see myself clearly. The pigeon’s dream wasn’t the windowsill but here we are, Me, lost for words and the pigeon lost in flight.

Imperfect me, watching an imperfect pigeon on a imperfect windowsill in an imperfect café.

I have a recurring dream. In it, I am always in a forest. The trees are not uniform, but twisted and gnarled, each one unique in its imperfection. I walk amongst them, feeling the rough bark under my fingers, smelling the rich earth and decaying leaves.

I feel a sense of peace.

I see the crack on my kitchen tile and remember that memory of the day when little Yohaan had stumbled and fallen, only to stand up and try walking again. Strangely it’s no longer an eyesore, but a reminder of the day Yohaan took his first steps. The wrinkles around my sister’s eyes remind me of the map of our shared laughter. The messy scrawl of my own handwriting transforms into a testament to thoughts too eager to be contained by perfect penmanship.

I start a journal – not a careful, curated account of my days, but a wild, unrestrained outpouring of thoughts and ideas. I write about my mistakes, my fears, my moments of unexpected joy. I draw pictures with my non-dominant hand, revelling in the awkward lines and the unintended shapes that emerge.

I travel. Instead of carefully planning, I let destiny and others lead the way. We end up on a winding path I have never noticed before, discovering a small pond hidden behind a grove of trees. I hear the sounds of laughter somewhere afar and I stand there, my clothes spattered with mud, my hair mussed by the wind, feeling truly alive.

I often think of that pigeon on the windowsill, when we had too much time to kill. I imagine it soaring above the city, its imperfect wings carrying it to heights I have never dared to dream of. And slowly, day by day, I learn to spread my own wings.

There are still moments of doubt, of course. Days when the old perfectionism creeps back in, reminding me of my inadequacy and failure. Whispering in my ears. But I remember the texture of that gnarled tree and the sound of Yohaan’s uninhibited laughter and it’s doesn’t feel as bad.

As the seasons change, so do I. I become less brittle, more flexible. I learn to bend without breaking, to adapt without losing myself. I begin to see the beauty in the unexpected, wisdom in my mistakes, and strength in my vulnerability.

Unlearning perfection becomes cathartic. It is not an easy path. It is a path of discovery, of authenticity, of true connection – with my own self and with others. And I learn to cherish it.

We are not flawless statues to be admired from afar. We are living, breathing, imperfect beings, each with our own unique cracks and flaws. And it is through these very imperfections that our inner light shines the brightest.

So make some mistakes. Take some wrong turns. Sing some off-key tunes and wear some mismatched socks. Let your laughter be too loud and your dreams too big.

And who knows, one day, you'll find yourself in a small café, watching a pigeon on a windowsill, and you'll smile, knowing that you too have learned to fly with your perfectly imperfect wings.

I work from home now. Whenever I see the talkative collaborators getting enthusiastic about working (on a Saturday no less) and figuring things out for a corporation that only cares about profits, I have a visceral reaction and recoil from embarrassment. That may sound dramatic and don’t worry, it definitely is, but what’s more dramatic to me is how hard they willingly go above and beyond their pay grade. That used to be me from my early to mid twenties. That mentality I held is long gone now that I’m in my late twenties, and trust me when I say there is no going back.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with liking your job and wanting to do the best you can; to each their own, it doesn’t affect me how you want to go about your workdays. I think it more-so has to do with the fact that I’ve experienced this all when I was much younger, trying to find where my place was in all of this. I realized the agenda does not serve me, the employed, it serves the small percent at the very top trying to make as much profit as possible while supplying the workers with the absolute bare minimum. Anything more than the minimum most certainly deems that the employee costs more than they’re worth to keep. And we all know how much companies love to jump at the opportunity to hire anyone they can pay less and offer even less benefits to.

I’m the disillusioned Zillenial the Boomers warned you about; be wary and stay vigilant if you choose to continue reading. You might get triggered by the laziness practically oozing out of my words. You may be thinking: “Young people don’t want to work anymore! Get a job, get a life, and stop complaining. That’s how life is, deal with it.”

Did you know there are actually a plethora of possibilities in life, all of which are accessible to anyone at anytime, if only they open their hearts and minds to more than what was sold to them since birth? I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but in the United States, if you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you’re immediately fucked. It makes crawling your way out of corporate or blue collar infinitely more difficult. You have to know someone that knows someone that can hopefully get you into the right rooms with the right people. While this certainly works and is the entire basis of successful networking, this isn’t exactly easy for everyone, especially for someone that’s neurodivergent. Again, this is not to say neurodivergent people are not capable of networking and masking successfully their whole lives to push through a job for money, but that’s not a way to live for anyone, any human being, regardless of neurodivergency.

When I was younger my father always told me to try my best to work for myself, that I don’t want to work for other people forever, the goal is to have them work for you. I understood what he was saying, and I carried that with me through all of my jobs. I agreed with him; I hated the idea of working for someone the rest of my life. I worked fast food, I worked retail, I even joined and served the military for 6 years in the field of healthcare. Now I work from home helping the healthcare field, which I genuinely enjoyed at first, but that went downhill as quickly as I expected.

I am capable of a lot of things. I have gone through adversity after adversity, pushing through it all with blood sweat and tears to come out the other side stronger than I was before. That’s normal for me. I was built to withstand immense amounts of pressure, to alchemize and integrate my lessons so I don’t make the same mistakes that keep leading me down a path of no return from a corporate hellscape and a negative attitude toward life. I’m not the only one built for this: you are too! Everyone has it within them to face adversity and have it change them for the better. It’s allowing the change, and allowing the adversity to work through you without losing yourself that takes effort. It’s effort well spent if you ask me, and truly priceless when it comes to growing as a human with the best intentions for themselves, their family, and their community.

It’s time for everyone to think outside of the box. Stay in corporate, stay in blue collar, because whatever is working for you is working and I would never tell anyone to do something different in their lives because that’s simply not my place. What I am saying, however, is there is more to this life than working day in and day out. “We need money to enjoy our lives, to take vacations so we can rest and return ready to work again.”

Have you ever thought of doing what you love instead? Seriously, forget about a normal job for just two seconds. What would you be doing right now if you didn’t have to work a job? Would you pour into yourself, your hobbies, your talents? While doing that, don’t you think life is on your side rooting for you? Don’t you think if you focus on following your joy and passions that opportunities for money for your talents will find you? How would you know if you never tried? How would you know if you gave up too soon?

I’m just a disillusioned Zillenial. No one needs to listen to me, I’m full of it. But… what if we lived for ourselves? For each other and our community? All food for thought, and honestly, I feed on it every single day. I’ll be making it big because I believe in myself when no one else does, or maybe ever will. Prove them wrong, too. Everyone can live a life without the normal 9 to 5. It sounds scary and impossible but it’s only impossible if you don’t even try. It’s my life to live and I’m doing whatever it takes to shine as brightly as I can for myself, for my family, for my friends and my community. I want others to see that they can do the same for themselves. We are all one and the same, we are human beings on this planet meant for greatness in life, not a dull rut in the ground doing the same thing over and over and over again just to make money. We are the money, we are the assets. We are more valuable doing what we love and are passionate about than wasting our time on corporations that don’t care for us in the slightest.

Una giornata allo sportello AMT può rivelarsi un interessante esercizio di antropologia urbana. Si entra per chiedere un’informazione e si esce con un’identità collettiva che nessuno aveva richiesto. Tra un “neger” e un “maranza”, il miracolo della classificazione è compiuto, siamo una comunità MSNA. Non importa che si abbiano storie, provenienze, lingue e vite differenti, basta non assomigliare abbastanza a chi sta dall’altra parte del vetro. La gentilezza è quella arcigna di chi considera ogni domanda un’invasione di campo, la pazienza, invece, quella di Giobbe, da parte di chi aspetta.

Perché “questi qui” vengono qui a chiedere.

Un comportamento sospetto, soprattutto se praticato in uno sportello informazioni, dove si suppone che qualcuno venga pagato proprio per ascoltare, spiegare e, nei casi più fortunati, perfino informare. È il modus dei “burocrati del disprezzo” cui non occorre nemmeno negare un diritto per far sentire qualcuno fuori posto. Basta un tono, uno sguardo, una parola pronunciata con sufficiente fastidio. Siamo a Genova. La città di porto, degli incontri, delle contaminazioni. Quella che ama raccontarsi aperta al mondo, abituata da secoli a vedere arrivare persone da ogni dove. La città che abbraccia come le sue montagne, ma dimentica di raccontare quanta salita ci sia prima di raggiungere quell’abbraccio. Una salita che si fa particolarmente ripida quando il nome sul documento non è facile da leggere. Perché il problema, alla fine, non è la difficoltà di pronunciare un nome straniero. È la facilità con cui si decide che non valga nemmeno la pena provarci.

College Football Saturday.

Today's game of choice in the Roscoe-verse has the (8-1) IU Hoosiers football team (ranked #9 nationally) hosting the (7-2) USC Trojans (ranked #18 nationally). With its scheduled start time of 2:30 PM CT, this game should fit very nicely into my day's agenda.

GO HOOSIERS!

And the adventure continues.

Catatan Umum Tentang RTP

RTP adalah persentase pengembalian teoretis dalam jangka panjang. Angka ini tidak menjamin hasil per sesi karena setiap putaran berdiri sendiri secara statistik. Volatilitas menentukan seberapa liar naik-turunnya saldo.

Pemain yang disiplin menetapkan batas kalah sebelum mulai.

Hello walking in the sun it feels warmer than it is, and the snow brightens the earth and the air is crisp

In listening to Kamelot album: the black halo: one of my favourite albums, without a single bad track. The time was right again for me to listen to this.

I think this snippet is a good one I think on the loneliness of death which nonetheless is a shared, universal experience:

When your time has come  You know you'll be lonely once again  And the final winter comes to us all  Life is treacherous  But you're not the only who must pretend

Fits my mood just fine!

I love this life sometimes.

I had quite a lot i wanted to write about today, but most of it was discussed with myself in the shower, and unfortunately, i forgot the majority of the conversation. anyway, theres something ive been wanting to talk about, something thats been bothering me quite a bit lately. im not an insecure man in any way. this woman wants me, i want her more than anything, im enough for her and shes enough for me. im quite certain of that. but im a very, very jealous man, and she knows that perfectly well. for the past month, ive had quite a few women trying to contact me privately, adding me on social media, or attempting to become friends. and for that entire month, ive done nothing but reject them. sometimes i ask how they found my account, sometimes i simply say goodbye, and sometimes i dont even bother responding. im not particularly interested. i have one woman in mind, and i dont see much reason to entertain anyone else. im not the sort of man who gives people opportunities to slide into my dms when ive already made up my mind about someone. its always been that way, especially when it comes to her. and then i hear that its a perfectly fine thing for her to have male friends. now, i understand that men and women can be friends. wonderful. congratulations to everyone involved. im aware of the concept. its simply not something i personally feel comfortable with anymore, and maybe thats my problem. perhaps its an outdated way of thinking, maybe im just an old man with an old mind who refuses to become “open minded”. but its a boundary ive chosen for myself. what bothers me is that ive made certain decisions with her feelings in mind, and i dont feel that same consideration coming back. i dont particularly enjoy the thought of someone being around her with intentions i know nothing about. even if she has nothing but innocent intentions, i cant exactly climb inside someone elses head and check, can i? i hate this. you never really know what the other person is thinking, and somehow youre expected to be perfectly comfortable with that. and just hearing about it makes everything ive been doing feels.. rather meaningless. why have i spent the past month avoiding women, avoiding conversations, rejecting people who approach me, and generally making sure i dont entertain anything that could make her uncomfortable? because i put her feelings first. or at least, i thought i was. and it isnt the first time weve talked about this. no, weve discussed it before. she brushes it off, and things continue as they were. i could do the same, of course. i could accept every woman whos been trying to contact me, add them all, have conversations, and pretend theres absolutely nothing to it. but im not interested in playing that game. just because something bothers me doesnt mean i need to find a way to make it bother her too. thats called being mature. maybe shes just young and sees nothing wrong with it. maybe im the one making a fuss over something that shouldnt matter. i dont know. but no matter how many times i try to look at it differently, i dont think its a rule im willing to change for myself. sure, ive done things differently before. ive had my own childish moments, and im not going to pretend ive always been some wonderfully mature individual. but i thought id grown out of certain things. apparently, growing up hasnt made me any less difficult. how lovely. its not even just about the men. its about feeling like something ive repeatedly explained doesnt seem to matter enough for her to consider it. i wish i could tell her these things without having to prepare myself for what comes afterwards. i wish i could simply say something bothers me without it becoming another argument. but whenever i try to explain myself, im arguing. or trying to argue. so eventually you start wondering whether its even worth explaining anything at all. and thats rather unfortunate, because i do want to talk to her. i want to be able to tell her whats bothering me without feeling like ive just started another disagreement. i dont want to keep swallowing things until they become something much bigger than they needed to be. we dont talk as much lately. that was something we both agreed on, changing certain things so we wouldnt end up being as complicated or as toxic as we used to be. and i understand that. i wanted that too. but sometimes i wonder whether we're actually fixing anything or simply finding new ways to avoid discussing it. i dont want to lose her over something that could probably be discussed, but i also dont want to keep pretending things dont bother me just to make everything easier. and thats not even the only thing bothering me. i feel rather lost when it comes to us. i love her, that much hasnt changed, but sometimes it feels like she sees me as a future while im struggling with the present. i cant keep being reassured about tomorrow when i barely know where i stand today. and lately, ive spent so much time trying to figure out whats wrong with me, what needs changing, and how i can become someone easier to love.

I wish she'd told me she liked me as i was, that i didnt need to keep examining myself for things that needed fixing. now im not even sure whether im becoming a better person or simply someone i no longer recognise. i dont want to lose her, but i dont want to lose myself trying to keep her either. how terribly exhausting.

Sincerely, A forgotten version of myself.

Nomadism was in fashion as early as  2000 years ago, but the dawn of digital nomadism probably was  21st-century’s  gold rush without the gold. Here the pickaxes were replaced by the  laptops and the frontier was wherever the Wi-Fi was strong. It was the supernova of wanderlust and work-life integration, fueled by the cosmic convergence of technology, globalisation, and millennial ennui . A new breed of worker-bee-cum-adventurer, ready to pollinate the global economy with their skills while sipping coconut water on a Thai beach.

This trend didn't just walk onto the world stage; it sashayed in with the flamboyance of a peacock at a hen party. Blogs exploded with tales of exotic locales and “four-hour workweeks.” Instagram feeds became highlight reels of laptops perched precariously on hammocks, their owners grinning like they'd discovered the secret to eternal happiness (spoiler alert: they hadn't).

As this subculture grew, it mutated and evolved like a Darwinian experiment. What started as a niche lifestyle for tech-savvy freelancers soon spawned an entire ecosystem.  And then, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis (if butterflies carried MacBooks), the creator economy took flight. Suddenly, everyone with a smartphone and a dream could be a “content creator,” peddling their personal brand to the masses. YouTubers, podcasters, influencers – a new vocabulary emerged to describe this burgeoning class of digital artisans.

Yet, for all its sound and fury, this global digital renaissance is yet to produce its Michelangelo or da Vinci. While the tools of creation have been democratized, the Sistine Chapel of the internet age remains unpainted. We've traded the artisan's workshop for the co-working space, the patron's commissioned masterpiece for the algorithm-driven content farm and yet we find ourselves in a curious limbo—a world brimming with creative potential but often prioritizing quantity over quality, and novelty over depth. The creator economy represents a seminal shift  in redefining work, creativity, and the very notion of home in our increasingly interconnected world- but is the creator or the economy strong enough to redefine the middle class time tested trend of careerism. What then becomes of the concept of home or family or indeed value creation.   

So while we contemplate the digital nomads of today, tapping away on keyboards in Bali beach bars and Lisbon cafés, it's worth casting our gaze back through the sands of time to their spiritual predecessors: the Bedouin nomads of the Arabian and North African deserts. These two groups, separated by centuries and vast technological divides, might seem as different as camels and cloud computing. Yet, beneath the surface, there are intriguing parallels and stark contrasts that illuminate the essence of nomadism and how it has evolved in our digital age. The Bedouins, with their deep connection to the land and their resilient, community-oriented lifestyle, offer a compelling counterpoint to the often individualistic and screen-centric existence of modern digital wanderers. By examining the practices and philosophies of these traditional nomads, we gain valuable insights into what the current trend of digital nomadism might be missing, and perhaps, what it could aspire to become. 

The modern-day equivalent of wandering the Sahara with a MacBook Pro instead of a camel definitely has it perks. But let's peel back the Instagram filters and examine what this trend really means for our society. Like a mirage in the desert, reality can be as gritty as sand between your toes. 

The original nomads were masters of adaptation, roaming vast landscapes in harmony with nature's rhythms. But at the root of their nomadism was their flight to find safety, earning opportunities and drive trade. Today's digital nomads may more likely  be found frantically searching for power outlets in airport lounges or haggling over the Wi-Fi password in a Balinese cafe, but the core is the same. To find a way to earn a living. Safety, security and regular existence is hard wired in both lifestyles. Yes, the methods and compulsions are totally different but the core need is not very divergent.

Over the past 100 years as industrialisation and then the internet defined the global economy, it was the rise of the middle class that  scaled automation and execution which gave rise to the 9-5 job. And to support the 9-5, an entire ecosystem of suburbia, rent, home ownership,  education, universities and colleges followed suit.  But that is changing. Employment as we know it, will change drastically in the next ten years. Humanity’s greed for more and artificial intelligence will replace a lot of humans from time tested means of earning an employment and they will have to start thinking of nomadism. The parallels are not that far away.  In many ways the first tranche of digital nomads are the early adopters who have shown us that there is another way. The early harbingers of change as you may. A way we need to recognise and pay heed to,  because times, they are a changing. 

Beneath the surface-level trappings of laptops and lattes, there's a kernel of wisdom in this lifestyle that we can all learn from, even if we're more “homebody” than “world traveler.” This wisdom is like a seed that can germinate in any soil, whether it's the fertile ground of a globetrotter's experience or the well-tended garden of a settled life. It's a philosophy that transcends mere travel, offering insights into how we can all live more fully, regardless of our geographical coordinates.

The essence of nomadism isn't about constant movement; it's about adaptability and presence. It's about carrying your home within you, rather than being tied to a physical structure. In our hyper-connected world, we can all benefit from cultivating this nomadic mindset, even if we never leave our zip code. Think of it as being a mental chameleon, able to adapt to any environment while maintaining your core identity. It's about being as comfortable in your own skin as you are in your favourite armchair, whether that chair is in your living room or a café halfway around the world.

Consider the nomad's approach to possessions. They carry only what they need, valuing experiences over things. In our consumerist culture, that's a revolutionary idea. What if we all adopted this mindset, treating our homes not as storage units for stuff we rarely use, but as base camps for life's adventures? Imagine your life as a backpack: what would you keep if you had to carry everything you own? This isn't just about decluttering; it's about reevaluating our relationship with material goods. It's the difference between being weighed down by possessions and being lifted up by experiences.

Then there's the nomad's relationship with time. Without the artificial construct of a fixed schedule, nomads live in tune with natural rhythms. While we can't all abandon our calendars, we can learn to be more present, to value the quality of our time over its rigid parceling. Think of time not as a linear progression but as a series of moments, each rich with potential. It's about being as attuned to the passage of time as a surfer is to the ebb and flow of waves, riding each moment for all it's worth rather than constantly checking the clock.

The nomadic perspective on community is equally enlightening. Traditional nomads form deep, if temporary, connections with those they encounter. In our world of superficial online interactions, we could all benefit from cultivating more meaningful, in-the-moment relationships, whether with our neighbors or the barista at our local coffee shop. It's about creating a tapestry of connections, each thread unique and valuable, rather than a monochrome blanket of shallow acquaintances. Imagine treating each interaction as if it were a campfire conversation under the stars – intimate, engaging, and potentially transformative.

But perhaps the most valuable lesson from nomadism is the art of embracing uncertainty. In an uncertain world obsessed with planning and predictability, the nomad's ability to thrive in flux is a superpower. It's about being comfortable with not knowing what's next, finding opportunity in change rather than fearing it. Think of life as a jazz improvisation rather than a classical clarinet – the joy is in the spontaneity, the unexpected riffs that arise from embracing the unknown. It's about developing the resilience of a palm tree in a hurricane, flexible enough to bend with the winds of change without breaking.

So, while we may not all be cut out for a life of perpetual travel (let's face it, some of us just really like our own beds), we can all inject a little nomadic wisdom into our souls and outlook. It's about cultivating flexibility in our minds, even if our bodies stay put. It's about finding adventure in the everyday, carrying our sense of home within us, and being open to the possibilities that each moment brings. Imagine your mind as a tent – easy to pitch anywhere, providing shelter and comfort, yet always ready to be packed up and moved when new horizons beckon.

In the end, whether you're a globe-trotting digital nomad or a committed homebody, the true spirit of nomadism isn't about where you go, but how you approach life. It's about living with intention, adaptability, and presence. And that's a journey we can all embark on, no passport required. Think of life as a vast desert – the nomadic spirit is the compass that helps you navigate its dunes, find oases of joy and meaning, and leave your footprints in the sand of human experience.

It's greenest where you water it. And with a nomadic mindset, you can turn any patch of ground into fertile soil for growth and adventure. Your life is your own personal Promised Land – the nomadic spirit is what helps you make the most of it, whether you're crossing continents or just crossing the street.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go on a nomadic journey to find where I left my car keys. In this micro-adventure, I'll channel the spirit of ancient explorers, treating my living room as uncharted territory, my couch cushions as unexplored caves potentially hiding treasure. Who knows? This quest for keys might lead to unexpected discoveries – a long-lost sock, spare change, or perhaps even a moment of clarity about the true meaning of home. After all, isn't that what the nomadic spirit is all about? Finding the extraordinary in the ordinary, and realising that sometimes, the greatest journeys are the ones we take within our own four walls.

Imagine our existence in the form of a loom. Each of us would be a thread, unique in our identity. Progressing through life, we would weave in and out, creating patterns of connection that would go on to form various motifs. We would cite these as experiences. Like in the art of creating fabric , the intricacy of weaving would define the complexity of these relationships. The deeper the relationship, the more each thread would need to resonate, with the aesthetic.

But what truly synthesises this harmony ?

Consider a weaver sitting at her loom. She selects each thread with intimate care. Some threads are vibrant and bold, demanding attention, while others are subtle, providing depth and nuance. The same way threads define the visage of our society, people define its culture and and historical permanence. Some people burst into our lives with the brilliance of a golden thread, immediately catching our eye and altering the pattern of our existence. Others have a more subtle entrance, like a strand of fine silk, their impact only becoming apparent over time. We cannot chose their arrival, but we can chose their permanence.

The process of weaving is tensile – the warp threads must be pulled taut to allow the weft to pass through and create the fabric. Our most significant relationships similarly, involve a degree of cathartic tension. Navigating this requires a degree of commitment which is only visible in a friendship that weathers misunderstandings, a love that endures distance, or a familial bond that survives conflict. These are the threads that create the most durable and intricate patterns in our life and it is where the true strength and beauty of our connections get revealed.

But like in many things its the outliers who shape the strongest narratives.

Some of the most fascinating, fleeting encounters profoundly shape our lives, while some of our closest relationships barely leave a lasting mark. You remember that missed connection on a delayed flight, the waitress on that sidewalk cafe or the guy at the library who was searching for that same book. But you stop talking to the brother you were born with over some disagreement.

What magic, makes us resonate with some people and not so much with others? Why is this chemistry so weird and unexplainable? Sometimes the threads merge and the stitch becomes imperceptible. Sometimes you pull one extra strand and it all unravels .

A weaver can introduce a variant of metal into a wool cardigan, creating a shimmer that catches light in surprising ways. A composer can blend a minor fall with a major lift creating a tune that becomes immediately hummable in our subconscious mind. It is the unexpected connections that add the most intriguing dimensions to our everyday experiences. The chance encounter with a stranger that leads to a lifelong friendship, the colleague from a different department whose perspective transforms our work, or the author who speaks directly to our soul – these are the metallic threads in our life's tapestry, adding unexpected yet visceral sparkle and joy.

Consequently not all threads work harmoniously together. Some combinations clash, disrupting the overall aesthetic of the piece. Some threads are beautiful in their own right but don't contribute positively to a particular pattern. Discerning which threads enhance our design and which ones tangle or distort the aesthetic is incredibly important. Because ultimately its the final symphony that matters.

Stand too close, and you might see only a chaos of colours and textures. Step back, and a coherent image emerges.

In the day-to-day, we might focus on individual interactions and relationships, but it's only when we gain some perspective that we can appreciate the intricate patterns in unexplained relationships conditioned over time that control a lot of our emotional happiness.

The metaphor of weaving extends into our professional realm as well. Each of us, with our unique experiences, skills, and perspectives contribute irreplaceable acts that impact the lives of others. The teacher who inspires a student to pursue a passion, the activist who sparks a movement for change, the artist whose work touches hearts across cultures – individuals across our society, weave threads that extend far beyond their immediate circle, creating ripples that alter the entire fabric of our society.

We are like the numbers in a number matrix. The numbers are part of the matrix, but the numbers also define the matrix. When the numbers move the matrix moves. Every interaction, no matter how brief, has the potential to alter another pattern. A kind word to a stranger, a moment of vulnerability shared with a friend, an idea exchanged in a professional setting – each of these actions merges millions of threads, potentially changing larger designs in ways we may never fully comprehend. It's thereby crucial to be open, to experiment with new combinations, and to unravel sections that no longer serve the overall composition. It allows for growth, learning, and the evolution of our personal and collective narratives.

Rigidly adhering to predetermined designs often leads to flat, uninspired pieces.

Every thread has value, every pattern tells a story, and every weaver has the power to create something truly extraordinary. By embracing the complexity of the unknown, we remain open to new possibilities, which only go on to enrich the collective design of our life.

Don't define what you don't have to. Not everything has a name. Just respond to your instincts.

You only get one chance to sit at that loom.