In Summary: * Listening now to the Cubs pregame show ahead of tonight's MLB Game between the Chicago Cubs and the Philadelphia Phillies. By game's end I expect to have wrapped up the night prayers, and be ready to head to bed, putting the wrap on a quietly satisfying Wednesday.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night. Details of that regimen are linked to my link tree, which is linked to my profile page here.

Starting Ash Wednesday, 2026, I've added this daily prayer as part of the Prayer Crusade Preceding the 2026 SSPX Episcopal Consecrations.

Health Metrics: * bw= 235.78 lbs. * bp= 143/75 (61)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups

Diet: * 06:05 – 1 banana, crispy oatmeal cookies * 07:15 – coffeecake * 08:55 – 1 seafood salad & cheese sandwich * 12:15 – fried chicken, cole slaw, mashed potatoes * 16:40 – 1 fresh apple

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:15 – listen to local news talk radio * 05:15 – bank accounts activity monitored. * 05:45- read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap. * 11:00 – listening to The Markley, van Camp and Robbins Show * 12:00 to 13:30 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 13:40 – started following the Guardians vs Cardinals MLB Game, halfway through, score is tied 1 to 1 in the bottom of the 4th inning * 15:17 – And the Cardinals win, 5 to 3. * 15:25 – listening now to Chicago sports talk on 104.3 The Score, the exclusive audio home of the Chicago Cubs, ahead of tonight's MLB Game between the Cubs and the Philadelphia Phillies. Opening pitch for this game is approx. 2 hrs. away.

Chess: * 10:30 – moved in all pending CC games

Our Father Who art in Heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

Count your blessing Each by one In feral truth, a standard of love Quest for worth- This isle and vase The dearest win Of home in Heaven And finding Whale- by ransom The bitter edge- will hold you near To telegraph and pod Mercy for days The sinewy nest With nearest war- to grave you And caution when- you lift to prose And Whale to protect In the Earth’s own heaviest waters A chain went up At random tide The mercy blowing high In truth we met In solemn day The Eucharist will find us first To Gottingen- and paying mire The Earth will have its tree And judgement come In plastic place We’ll blast the shore- in ecstasy.

Before the first line of light touched the ponds at Tingley Beach, Jesus was already there in the dark, kneeling in quiet prayer while the city still felt half-asleep. The air had that cold edge desert mornings carry before the sun has decided what kind of day it will be. A man with a tackle box moved slowly along the path without speaking to anyone. A woman in scrubs sat in her car with the engine running and did not move for so long it looked like she had forgotten where she was. Farther off, toward Lomas, an ambulance siren cut through the stillness and then faded into the great sprawl of Albuquerque as if the city had swallowed it whole. Jesus stayed where He was with His head bowed and His hands open. He was not rushing the silence. He was carrying people in it. He was carrying the ones who had already started breaking before the sun came up.

Elena Morales had not slept. She had dozed in a plastic chair at UNM Hospital with one arm crossed over her chest and the other wrapped around her purse because life had taught her not to fully relax in public. Her father had drifted in and out all night after another bad turn that the doctor did not call a stroke but did not call good either. He had known her at midnight. He had not known her at two. At four he had stared through her and asked for his wife, who had been dead for eight years. Elena had gone to the bathroom after that and stood in the stall with her fist against her mouth because she was so tired she did not trust what would come out if she let herself make a sound. By six-thirty she had walked down to the parking structure, sat behind the wheel, and realized she could not make herself drive home. Home meant bills on the table and a sink full of dishes and a sixteen-year-old son who had been talking to her like every sentence cost him something. Home meant the rent reminder folded under a magnet on the fridge and three missed calls from her sister the day before that somehow managed to sound accusing even when they went to voicemail. So she drove without thinking and ended up on 4th Street because her mother used to take her to Barelas Coffee House on hard mornings, back when hard mornings still felt temporary.

The place was already alive when she stepped in. The room smelled like coffee, red chile, and heat lifted off the grill. The old photographs on the walls looked like they had seen every version of hunger a city could carry. A young mother bounced a baby on one hip while trying to keep a toddler from grabbing packets of jelly off the table. Two construction workers were eating fast because time was money and both of them looked short on both. An older man near the register had a plate in front of him and a handful of coins in his palm that he kept counting like the number might change if he stayed patient enough. Ana, who had worked there for years, moved from table to table with that worn-down skill people get when they no longer need to think about what their body is doing, because all the thinking is being spent somewhere else. Elena knew her face but not her story. Still, she knew exhaustion when she saw it. It sat behind Ana’s eyes the same way it sat behind her own.

Elena slid into a booth near the window and stared at the menu without reading a word. Her phone buzzed with a text from her sister Lupe. Any update? I can maybe stop by later. Elena locked the screen and dropped the phone back into her purse. Later. Lupe always had a later. Later was how some people lived with themselves while other people carried the thing now. Ana came over with a coffee pot and a tired smile that did not quite reach her face. Elena asked for coffee and a breakfast plate, then reached for the cream and knocked it over because her hands were not steady. A little white stream ran across the table. “I’m sorry,” Ana said automatically, like the spill had been hers. Elena looked up at her and something ugly rose in her before she could stop it. “You didn’t spill it,” she said too sharply. Ana flinched in a way so small most people would not have noticed, but Elena noticed because she hated herself the second it happened. She wanted to take it back. She wanted the whole morning back. She wanted the last six months back. Instead she stared at the spreading cream and felt the shame settle on top of everything else.

The man with the coins at the register had started apologizing in a low voice. He was missing enough money that the apology had turned into explanation, and the explanation had turned into embarrassment. He kept saying he must have counted wrong. The cashier was trying to be kind, but there was a line behind him now and kindness gets strained when the room is full and everybody thinks they have somewhere they need to be. Before anyone could say another word, Jesus stepped beside him and placed what was needed on the counter. He did it so simply that for a second it almost disappeared into the noise of the morning. The old man looked at Him with the stunned look people get when mercy arrives without making a speech first. Jesus touched the man’s shoulder once and said, “Sit down and eat while it’s hot.” Then He turned, thanked the cashier, and crossed the room with a quiet steadiness that made the place feel different, though nothing loud had happened. He paused by the young mother and folded the toddler’s dropped spoon into a napkin so it would not touch the floor again. He stepped aside so Ana could get through with a heavy tray. Then He stopped near Elena’s booth and asked, “Is this seat taken?”

She should have said yes. She did not know why she did not. Maybe it was because He did not sound like a man trying to make conversation. Maybe it was because He looked at her the way a person looks at a wound they do not intend to shame. Maybe it was only because she was too tired to guard herself properly. “No,” she said. He sat down across from her and folded His hands around the coffee cup the waitress set in front of Him a minute later. For a little while He did not speak at all. He let the room be what it was. Plates clinked. Somebody laughed too loudly at a joke that was not that funny. A baby fussed and then settled. Outside, a truck rattled past on 4th. Elena kept waiting for the kind of opening line strangers use when they want something, but none came. When her breakfast plate arrived she realized she was not hungry enough to eat it. She tore one piece of tortilla and set it back down. Jesus watched her for a moment and then said, “You needed somewhere to sit before you had to be strong again.”

Elena gave a short laugh with no humor in it. “That obvious?”

“You are tired,” He said.

“Everybody is tired.”

“Yes,” He said. “But not everybody is this close to going numb.”

The words landed harder than she wanted them to. She looked out the window as if the street might offer a better conversation. “I’m fine.”

He did not argue with her. He only lifted His cup and took a drink. “People usually say that right before they start disappearing inside their own life.”

She almost snapped at Him again, but there was no cruelty in His voice to push against. That made it harder. Cruel people are easy to resist. Gentle ones make you hear yourself. “My father is in the hospital,” she said, each word feeling dragged out of somewhere deep and sore. “My son is angry all the time. My sister helps when it’s convenient for her. Rent is late. My car is making a noise I cannot afford. I have had three hours of sleep in two days, and the minute I stop moving, somebody needs something. So if I look tired, that’s because I am tired.” She took a breath she could feel shaking in her chest. “And if I go numb once in a while, maybe that’s what keeps everything from falling apart.”

Jesus looked at her without flinching. “Has it kept everything from falling apart?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it again. The answer sat there plain and miserable between them. No. It had not kept anything together. It had only made her son quieter. It had only made her father look more afraid when she came into the room with her jaw already tight. It had only made her say sharp things to women in diners who were as tired as she was. “I don’t have time for a better answer,” she said.

“You do not need a better answer,” He said. “You need truth.”

She frowned at Him. “Truth doesn’t pay bills.”

“No,” He said. “But lies will drain what little strength you have left.”

That bothered her. It bothered her because it felt unfair. “What lies?”

“That you are only useful when you are carrying something. That your hardness is strength. That your anger is the same thing as honesty. That nobody sees what this is costing you.”

Elena stared at Him. Something in her chest pulled tight. She wanted to ask who He was. She wanted to ask how He could sit there speaking into her life as though He had been watching the last year happen from her passenger seat. Instead she picked up her fork and pushed eggs around the plate. “People see,” she said, though even she heard how weak it sounded.

“Some do,” He said. “But that is not what you mean.”

Her phone buzzed again. She almost ignored it, then saw the school name across the screen and answered before she could think. The woman on the line spoke in a calm voice people use when they say the same difficult thing several times a day. Nico had not shown up for first period. This was not new. They were concerned. Elena looked down at the table and closed her eyes. “I understand,” she said. “Thank you.” When the call ended she did not move for several seconds. Then she laughed once, but this time it sounded closer to breaking. “There you go,” she said. “Add that to the list.”

Jesus said nothing right away. Ana came by with the coffee pot again. Elena looked up at her. “I’m sorry for how I spoke to you,” she said quickly, before pride could stop her. Ana blinked, then gave the smallest nod. “It’s okay,” she said, though both of them knew it had not been okay. Still, something softened in her face. That small exchange should not have mattered much in the scale of everything Elena was carrying, yet it did. It felt like the first honest thing she had done all morning. When Ana walked away, Elena let out a breath and rubbed her forehead. “My son used to talk to me,” she said. “Now it feels like every word between us hits the floor.”

Jesus looked toward the window where sunlight had started to gather on the glass. “Pain does not always come out sounding like pain,” He said. “Sometimes it comes out sounding rude. Sometimes it comes out angry. Sometimes it goes silent and dares the people who love it to come looking.”

Elena looked at Him with tired suspicion. “And what am I supposed to do with that?”

“Go looking,” He said.

She almost said, I am looking. I am the only one who ever looks. But the truth was harder than that. She had been checking boxes. She had been sending texts that sounded like orders. She had been asking where Nico was without asking where he had gone inside himself. She had been feeding him and correcting him and pushing him toward school and chores and responsibility because that felt more possible than opening the door to whatever hurt had been growing in him. She knew all of that the same way people know there is water behind a dam. She just had not wanted the wall broken. “I can’t do everything,” she said, and this time the sentence came out quieter.

“I know,” Jesus said.

Those two words nearly undid her. They were not advice. They were not correction. They were not a speech about faith or endurance or gratitude. They were simply an acknowledgment of what her life had felt like for months. I know. She looked down because her eyes had filled too fast. She was not going to cry in a breakfast place on 4th Street in front of a stranger with kind eyes and impossible timing. She reached for the check instead. Jesus had already paid for His meal and rose before she could say anything about it. “Where are you going?” she asked, surprised by how much she did not want Him to disappear.

“With you for a while,” He said.

She should have objected. She did not. There was something in Him that made permission feel beside the point.

By the time they got back to UNM Hospital, the day had fully opened. The sun had climbed high enough to turn the windows bright. People moved through the entrance with the hurried, hollow focus hospitals pull out of human beings. Some were carrying overnight bags. Some were carrying flowers already starting to sag. Some were carrying the exhausted look of people who had learned that a person can be grateful and terrified at the same time. Jesus walked through the lobby as if He belonged there, not because He was blind to suffering, but because suffering never made Him uncertain about where to stand. Elena kept glancing sideways at Him while trying not to make it obvious. No one else seemed startled by His presence. A volunteer smiled at Him as she passed with a cart of blankets. A little boy in a Spider-Man shirt stopped crying when Jesus crouched long enough to straighten the cape hanging twisted off one shoulder. A nurse who looked five minutes from tears let out a breath when He stepped aside to hold the elevator for her and the gurney she was guiding through the doors. He did not take over the room. He only seemed to restore the parts of it that strain had bent out of shape.

Arturo Morales was awake when Elena stepped into the room. He looked smaller than he had even the night before. Illness had a way of shrinking the people who had once filled a house with their voice. Her father had been a mechanic for thirty years. His hands had always been blackened at the edges no matter how much he washed them. He used to laugh from the middle of himself. He used to fix things before other people had finished explaining what was wrong. Now one side of his mouth drooped when he got tired and his fingers trembled when he tried to lift the water cup. He turned his head when Elena came in and for a moment there was panic in his eyes. “Mija,” he said. “Did I miss work?” The sentence hit her so hard she had to grip the bed rail. Work. His shop had closed five years earlier. He had not been behind a counter since before the pandemic. Yet there it was, the old fear of failing somebody, still living in him even now.

“No, Papá,” she said softly. “You didn’t miss work.”

He looked ashamed anyway. Shame was one of the last things people know how to carry. “I don’t want to be trouble,” he whispered.

Jesus moved to the other side of the bed and laid a hand over Arturo’s restless fingers. “A burden is not the same thing as a life,” He said. “You are not trouble because you are weak today.”

Arturo’s eyes lifted to His face. Something in the room changed then. Elena could not have explained it if anyone had asked. It was not dramatic. No machines started beeping in a new way. No bright miracle burned through the air. It was smaller than that and somehow more unsettling. Her father looked seen. Not assessed. Not managed. Not pitied. Seen. The fear in his face loosened the way a clenched fist loosens when it finally believes it does not have to fight. “I’m forgetting things,” Arturo said, each word slow. “I can feel them go.”

Jesus nodded once. “I know.”

“My wife,” Arturo said, and his mouth trembled. “Sometimes I think she’s waiting in the next room.”

“Yes,” Jesus said. “Love stays near where it has lived a long time.”

Elena turned her face away because grief had reached up from somewhere she kept sealed and caught her cleanly by the throat. Her mother had been gone eight years, and still the house sometimes felt like it was waiting for her keys in the front door. She had not let herself say that aloud to anyone. There had been no time for that kind of tenderness after the funeral. There had only been tasks. Papers. Food. Work. Cleanup. Then the next need and the next and the next. She had stepped over her own sorrow so many times it had started feeling impolite to mention it. Yet here it was in the room between her father and this man who spoke like the truth had weight enough to steady people rather than crush them.

A nurse came in to check vitals and update the chart. Elena knew her face too. Same floor. Same clipped kindness. Same eyes that were gentle until they got busy. Today those eyes looked worn down to the bone. Jesus thanked her when she adjusted Arturo’s blanket. It was a small thing, but the nurse paused as if the words had reached a place that had not been touched in a while. “Long shift?” He asked.

She gave a dry little smile. “Long year.”

He nodded. “You are still being tender in a place that tries to beat tenderness out of people.”

Her smile faltered. For one second she looked as if she might cry right there by the IV pole. Instead she pressed her lips together, finished checking the monitor, and said, “I’ll be back in a little while.” After she left, Elena sat down hard in the chair beside the bed. She was not even sure what was happening to her anymore. It felt as if all day people had been having parts of themselves named that they had stopped showing. The tired waitress. The embarrassed old man. The overworked nurse. Her frightened father. Her. She had spent so long in a practical world that made no room for the soul unless it was dying. Now this man moved through ordinary places and kept proving there had always been a soul there.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Nico. Not a message. Just one picture sent without any words. It was blurry and taken badly, but she recognized the stretch of Central Avenue right away from the old neon and the storefront angles. Nob Hill. He was not at school. He was not home. He was somewhere in the long bright strip of the city pretending movement counted as direction. Elena stared at the photo until Jesus said, “Go.”

She looked up. “Papá—”

“I’ll stay with him,” Jesus said.

That should have felt impossible. Instead it felt like the first reasonable thing she had heard all day.

She bent and kissed her father’s forehead. He was already drowsing again, but when she pulled back he caught her wrist weakly. “Don’t be hard on the boy,” he murmured, not opening his eyes. “He’s more like us than he knows.”

Elena stood still for a moment. Then she nodded, though she was not sure if he saw. When she walked out of the room she did it with the strange feeling that she was leaving her father in the only hands that had never once mistaken weakness for inconvenience.

Nico Morales had not meant to send the picture. He had taken it while standing outside a thrift store in Nob Hill because the sun was hitting an old sign in a way that reminded him of when his grandfather used to point out things on drives and make even ugly blocks feel like they had stories. He had been about to send it to nobody. Maybe to his mom. Maybe to delete it. Maybe just to prove to himself he still noticed anything. His friend Mateo was inside trying on a jacket he had no intention of paying for. That was how the morning had gone. Drift from one block to the next. Pretend the day had no owner. Laugh at dumb things. Feel sick when laughter ran out. Nico had gotten good at looking detached. People think teenage boys do not feel much when really a lot of them are feeling too much and have no safe place to put it. His mother saw attitude. The vice principal saw absentee numbers. Teachers saw a kid getting lazy. Mateo saw someone who could be talked into staying out longer. Nobody saw how loud the apartment had gotten inside Nico’s head these last months. His grandfather in the hospital. His mother either gone or sharp with stress. His own face in the bathroom mirror looking older and emptier all at once. The shame of needing comfort and being old enough to hate that he needed it.

He came out onto Central and started walking east with his hands in his pockets. Cars rolled past in waves. Neon signs still hung over the old Route 66 buildings even in broad daylight as if the street refused to stop remembering itself. People moved in and out of cafes and shops. A woman came out carrying flowers wrapped in brown paper. Two students from UNM crossed laughing too hard for Nico not to feel irritated by it. Everybody looked like they belonged somewhere. He felt like a loose screw rattling around in the wrong machine. He stopped at a bus bench and sat down without checking what route even came through there. He was not waiting for a bus. He was waiting for the feeling in his chest to either settle or finally tell the truth about what it wanted.

“Your mother is looking for you.”

Nico turned and saw Jesus standing a few feet away. He did not know how long the man had been there. He looked ordinary enough at first glance, which somehow made the steadiness in Him more unsettling. Nico gave Him the look teenage boys give adults who step too far into their space. “You know my mother?”

“I know she is afraid.”

Nico looked away toward the street. “She’s always afraid.”

“No,” Jesus said. “Not always. Sometimes she is just tired. Today she is afraid.”

Something in Nico wanted to get up and leave. Something else wanted to stay because the man’s voice did not sound nosy or accusing. It sounded certain. “She’s at the hospital anyway,” Nico muttered. “That’s where she lives now.”

Jesus sat at the far end of the bench, leaving space between them. “Is that what it feels like to you?”

Nico laughed once and shook his head. “Why ask if you already know everything?”

Jesus looked ahead at the traffic moving up Central. “Because being known is easier to survive when you also get to speak.”

That answer did something to him. Nico hated that it did. He picked at a split thread on the knee of his jeans and stared at it like it mattered more than the conversation. “It feels like if something bad happens, I’m supposed to just act normal,” he said finally. “My grandpa is in the hospital. My mom is mad every time she talks. Nobody says what’s actually going on. Everybody just acts like if I go to class and take out the trash and stop screwing around, then the whole thing is somehow fine.” He swallowed. “It’s not fine.”

“No,” Jesus said. “It is not.”

Nico looked at Him then, really looked. There was no performance in His face. No fake concern. No adult smile trying to ease him back into being manageable. Nico had not known how hungry he was for that until it was sitting beside him on a bus bench in Nob Hill. “Sometimes I think if I disappeared for a week, it would take people a while to notice,” he said.

Jesus answered without delay. “That is not true.”

“It feels true.”

“Yes,” Jesus said. “And some lies are believed because they arrive during pain.”

Nico sat still. A city bus groaned to the curb and then pulled away again when nobody boarded. The shadow from the shelter roof shifted across the sidewalk. Somewhere down the block somebody opened a door and a burst of music spilled out before being swallowed by traffic. “I’m angry all the time,” Nico said. “At her. At school. At myself. At everything. I don’t even know what to do with it.”

Jesus nodded. “Anger is often grief that thinks it has to protect itself.”

Nico let out a breath and looked down the long bright line of Central as if he might find an exit written somewhere on the street. He did not answer. He did not know how. But he did not get up and walk away either.

Jesus stood and waited until Nico stood too, not because He commanded it, but because something in His presence made running feel childish. They walked east without hurry, past old signs and storefront windows that reflected them back in broken pieces. The city had started warming up now. The cool of morning was gone and the light had turned clear and sharp on brick and glass. A couple sat outside a coffee shop with that strained, careful posture people use when they are trying to have a serious conversation in public without becoming a scene. A man in work boots talked too loudly into his phone about being late again and not caring who was mad about it. Near the corner by the Guild Cinema, an older woman had dropped a grocery bag and oranges rolled toward the curb. Nico moved before he thought and caught two of them with his foot. Jesus bent and picked up the rest, then handed them back to her one by one as though even a spilled bag on Central deserved His full attention. The woman thanked them both, but she kept looking at Jesus with a puzzled softness, like she had just remembered something she had not thought about in years.

Nico shoved his hands back into his pockets after that. “You do that a lot?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Notice stuff other people don’t.”

Jesus looked over at him. “Most people notice. They are simply too burdened to stop.”

That answer sat with Nico for a few steps. He had expected something that sounded wiser in a showy way. Instead it sounded true in the plainest way possible, which was worse because it got in deeper. They crossed near Carlisle and kept walking until the noise of traffic thinned just enough for thought to be heard again. “So what,” Nico said, trying to sound harder than he felt, “you think I should just go back and magically be different now?”

Jesus did not smile at the sarcasm. “No. I think you should stop using anger to keep anyone from finding the hurt underneath it.”

Nico stared straight ahead. “People don’t know what to do with that kind of thing anyway.”

“Some do not,” Jesus said. “Some will handle it badly. Some will make it about themselves. Some will try to fix it too fast because they are frightened by pain they cannot control. But being unseen is not healed by hiding more deeply.”

Nico kicked a pebble off the sidewalk and watched it skitter into the gutter. “You make everything sound simple.”

“I make it sound true,” Jesus said. “Simple and easy are not the same.”

They reached Hyder Park and turned in beneath the trees. It was quieter there. A man on a bench was feeding crumbs to birds with the careful patience of someone who needed a reason to sit outside longer. A woman in exercise clothes was walking circles around the path while crying in a way she clearly hoped looked like sweating to anybody who passed too quickly. Children’s voices carried from farther off, bright and careless for the moment, which made the rest of the park feel even more fragile somehow. Nico sat on a low wall near the grass and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Jesus remained standing for a moment, looking across the park as if He could hear every life threaded through it at once without being overwhelmed by any of them.

“My grandpa used to bring me out here once in a while,” Nico said. “Not here exactly. Different places. Tingley. The Bosque. Random places. He always acted like the city was worth paying attention to.” He gave a small, embarrassed shrug. “Most people just drive through stuff.”

“Your grandfather has been teaching you to see,” Jesus said.

Nico swallowed. “He might die.”

Jesus sat beside him then, leaving the same patient space He had left on the bus bench. “Yes,” He said. “He might.”

Nico blinked and turned toward Him. “That’s it?”

“I will not lie to you to make you calmer,” Jesus said. “Peace built on denial collapses the moment reality touches it.”

The answer was so direct it almost made Nico angry, but he could not accuse it of being false. He stared down at his shoes. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

“Love him while he is here. Tell the truth while there is time. Stop pretending distance will protect you.”

Nico’s throat tightened. There were a hundred things he had not said to his grandfather because boys who are trying to grow into men often mistake affection for weakness. He had never told him that the old truck rides meant something. He had never thanked him for fixing the wobble in his bike when he was ten. He had never said that the only time he felt fully relaxed lately was when his grandfather was in the room watching old westerns with the volume too high. He had assumed time was a wide road. Suddenly it felt narrow. “What if I don’t know how to talk like that?” he asked.

Jesus looked at him with a gentleness that did not lower the standard. “Then do not talk like somebody else. Speak plainly.”

Nico laughed under his breath, not because anything was funny, but because the answer took away another place to hide. He rubbed both hands over his face. “My mom and I keep missing each other,” he said through his fingers. “Every conversation turns bad. She comes in already stressed. I say something stupid. She says something sharp. Then I say something worse. Then she walks away like she’s done with me.” He let his hands drop. “Sometimes I think she looks at me and sees one more problem.”

Jesus was quiet for a moment. Then He said, “She looks at you and sees someone she cannot bear to lose, while also fearing she is failing you.”

Nico frowned. “That’s not what it looks like.”

“No,” Jesus said. “Fear rarely looks like fear once it has been tired for too long.”

The woman walking the path had slowed now, one hand pressed over her mouth as if the tears had outrun whatever excuse she had built around them. Jesus stood and crossed toward her before Nico could even ask why. He spoke to her too quietly for Nico to hear at first. The woman shook her head and gave the embarrassed smile people give when a stranger has seen too much. Jesus said something else and her shoulders gave way. Not in a dramatic collapse. More like a person who has been holding a heavy box too long and can no longer pretend it weighs nothing. She nodded several times while wiping her face. When Jesus returned, Nico looked at Him strangely. “Do you know everybody?”

“I know what pain does to people,” Jesus said.

“What was wrong with her?”

Jesus glanced back once. “Her husband left six months ago and she has been telling everyone she is relieved because the truth feels too humiliating to say out loud.”

Nico stared. “She told you that?”

“She did not need many words.”

Nico leaned back and looked up through the branches. For the first time all day he felt something besides agitation. It was not exactly peace yet. It was closer to the feeling of being near water after walking too long in heat. “So what happens now?” he asked.

“Your mother is coming.”

Nico sat up immediately. “What?”

Jesus looked down the path toward the edge of the park. “Do not run.”

Nico almost laughed because the suggestion made him realize he had in fact been thinking about it. A minute later Elena appeared at the walkway entrance, breathing hard from having parked badly and moved too fast. She stopped when she saw him. The look on her face was not anger. That was what hit him first. It was relief so raw it made him feel ashamed for how often he had treated her like she was made of stone. She stepped toward him, then slowed, like she did not trust the moment not to break. “Nico,” she said.

He stood. He had imagined this meeting several ways while sitting at the bus bench. In most of them he was defensive. In some he was cold. In one he walked away before she got close enough to talk. But now she was standing in front of him with her hair pulled back too quickly and hospital fatigue still on her face and fear still in her eyes, and he could not reach any of those practiced reactions. “I’m here,” he said, which was not much, but it was more honest than the things he usually reached for.

Elena nodded once and pressed her lips together. “I can see that.”

Silence opened. Not empty silence. Charged silence. The kind where one wrong sentence can send two people back to their corners for another month. Nico glanced toward Jesus. He was standing a few feet away near the path, not interrupting, not rescuing them from the hard work of being real. He was present without taking the moment away from them. That steadiness kept Nico from bolting. Elena took another step closer. “The school called,” she said. “Then you sent that picture. I didn’t know if you wanted me to find you or not.”

Nico looked at the ground. “I didn’t know either.”

That answer almost broke her. He saw it. She reached up and rubbed her forehead in the same tired gesture she always made when trying to keep herself together. “I have been so scared lately,” she said. “About Grandpa. About money. About everything. And I know I haven’t been…” She stopped, searching for words that did not sound like excuses. “I know I haven’t been with you the way I should be.”

Nico’s instinct was to say, Yeah, obviously. That was the sentence his hurt had ready. But Jesus had called anger grief trying to protect itself, and now he could hear the protection rising before it spoke. He swallowed it hard. “I haven’t made it easy either,” he said, looking at his shoes because eye contact felt like too much truth at once. “I just… I don’t know what to do with all of it. So I get mad.”

Elena let out a breath that sounded part sob, part surrender. “Me too.”

They both stood there with that between them, and for the first time in months neither of them rushed to explain it away. Some reconciliations do not begin with a hug. They begin with the end of pretending. Elena stepped forward and put her hands on his shoulders as if she had not done that in a long time and was remembering the shape of him again. “You are not one more problem,” she said. “I need you to hear me say that. You are my son. I have been afraid and tired and wrong in how I’ve carried some of this, but you are not a problem.”

Nico’s face tightened before he could stop it. He looked away, then back again. “I thought maybe if I just stayed out of the way…”

“No,” she said quickly. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t disappear to make life easier for me.” Her voice trembled now. “That would not make anything easier.”

He nodded once. It was all he could do. She pulled him into her then, and because he was sixteen and hurting and still half a child under all the noise, he let her. He did not cry much. Just enough to betray how close he had been to carrying too much alone. Jesus looked away while they stood there, giving them privacy even in the middle of a public park.

They left together not long after, walking back toward the car with Jesus between them for a while and then slightly ahead. Elena told Nico about his grandfather asking if he had missed work. Nico laughed softly through the ache of it and said that sounded exactly like him. Nico told her he had been afraid to go to the hospital because he did not know what he would see. Elena admitted she had been afraid too. That helped more than anything. The truth often sounds smaller than a speech, but it reaches further. By the time they got back into the car, the hard shell around the day had cracked enough for tenderness to breathe.

When they returned to UNM Hospital, the lobby felt different to Elena. Not easier. Hospitals do not become easy because one family has spoken honestly in the parking lot. Yet the place no longer felt like a machine chewing through people. She kept noticing faces now. A janitor moving with care around a sleeping man stretched across two chairs. A young doctor staring at the wall for six silent seconds before turning a corner and putting his expression back together. The same volunteer with blankets now kneeling beside an elderly woman and tying a dropped shoe. It was as if Jesus had not changed the building so much as changed how they were walking through it. Nico noticed it too. She could tell by how often his eyes moved.

Arturo was awake again when they entered. He looked from Elena to Nico and then to Jesus, and some quiet understanding passed over his face that neither Elena nor Nico could fully read. Nico went straight to the bedside, suddenly shy in a way Elena had not seen since he was little. “Hey, Grandpa,” he said.

Arturo smiled weakly. “You skipping school for me now?”

The joke was thin, but it was enough. Nico gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Maybe a little.”

“Bad habit,” Arturo whispered.

“I know.”

Then the room grew still. Nico looked at his grandfather’s hands, at the spots on the skin and the tremor in the fingers. He looked at Jesus once, then back to Arturo. “I love you,” he said, too fast at first, like he wanted to get past the sentence before it embarrassed him. Then he said it again, slower. “I love you, Grandpa.”

Arturo closed his eyes and breathed in as though the words had reached somewhere deep. When he opened them again they were wet. “Love you too, mijo.”

Elena turned away and put her hand over her mouth. Jesus stood by the window, the afternoon light falling around Him, and watched them with that same quiet presence that never crowded pain and never left it alone.

The nurse from earlier came back near shift change. Her name tag read Marissa, and now that Elena had slept so little and felt so much, she wondered how many days she had looked at that tag without seeing the person under it. Marissa adjusted the monitor leads and gave them an update in the calm practiced tone of someone who had learned how to deliver concern without spreading panic. When she finished, Jesus thanked her again, but this time He added, “Who cares for you when the day ends?”

Marissa gave a weary smile that said the question itself felt unfamiliar. “Mostly nobody,” she answered before she could stop herself. Then, catching her own honesty, she looked embarrassed. “Sorry. Long shift.”

Jesus did not move to soothe the awkwardness away. “Even strong people become thirsty,” He said.

Something in Marissa’s face softened. She nodded once, blinked hard, and went back to checking the chart. Yet when she left she did not look quite as hollow as before. Elena watched her go and thought about how many people lived inside competence the way others live inside armor. Everybody in the building was carrying something. Some were carrying it well enough to be admired for it. That did not make it light.

Later, when Arturo had fallen asleep again and the room had dimmed with the late afternoon, Jesus led Elena and Nico down to the cafeteria for coffee they did not need and sandwiches neither of them was hungry for. They sat near the windows where the western light had begun to change color. Nico picked apart a bag of chips while Elena stirred sweetener into coffee already too sweet. Jesus let them speak in uneven pieces. He did not force insight out of the moment. Elena admitted she had been angry at Lupe for months, not only because the help came late, but because she envied how Lupe still had the option of a separate life. Nico admitted he had been ashamed at school because once his grades slipped, every teacher suddenly started talking to him with that careful disappointing tone that made him feel finished before he had even tried to explain. Elena told him she had not known that. Nico said he had not wanted to tell her one more hard thing. Jesus listened as if every confession deserved clean space around it.

At one point a man at the next table began arguing into his phone about money, the volume rising with every sentence. Nobody looked over because public strain has become common enough to pass as background noise. Then the man stopped mid-argument and pressed a hand over his eyes. Jesus turned toward him and said only, “You are afraid this will expose you.” The man lowered his hand and stared. For a second his whole face went unguarded. “Yeah,” he said, almost whispering. Jesus nodded toward the empty chair across from him. “Sit down before you decide out of panic.” The man sat. He ended the call. He put his phone face down on the table and began to breathe like someone returning to his own body. Elena watched this happen without surprise now. The day had become too full of such moments for surprise to keep up. Jesus was not wandering through Albuquerque collecting scenes. He was moving through hidden fractures and touching the place where each one had begun.

By the time evening came, Lupe finally arrived. She entered Arturo’s room in expensive flats and a pressed blouse that made her look pulled together in the exact way Elena resented. The resentment came up so automatically Elena almost mistook it for righteousness. Lupe kissed Arturo’s forehead, asked quiet questions, and then looked at Elena with the expression siblings wear when entire decades are standing behind one glance. “I came as soon as I could,” Lupe said.

Elena’s first instinct was to answer with something sharp about how that always seemed to be the phrase. Jesus was standing near the foot of the bed, and though He said nothing, Elena could feel the day pressing on the old wound. She looked at her sister more carefully than she had in months. Lupe’s makeup had not fully hidden the tiredness around her eyes. Her hands shook a little when she set down her purse. This was not a woman floating untouched above the family burden. This was a woman carrying it differently and hiding it better. “I know,” Elena said.

Lupe seemed surprised. Then suspicious. Family history can make even kindness feel like bait. “I had three clients this afternoon I couldn’t move.”

“I know,” Elena said again, and this time she meant more than the calendar. Lupe looked down and nodded, and Elena realized with a dull ache how long it had been since either of them had offered understanding without making the other earn it first. They did not resolve years of strain in that room. Real families rarely do. But something unclenched enough for tenderness to re-enter. Nico shifted his chair to make room for his aunt without being asked. Lupe touched the back of his head as she passed, and even that small gesture felt like a window opening.

Dusk gathered over the city in slow layers. From Arturo’s hospital window, the western sky turned gold and then deeper, and the Sandias in the distance began to lift into that rose color people talk about as if the mountains are performing some trick. The city lights started pricking on below them. Albuquerque always seemed to hold two truths at once in the evening. It could look beautiful from a distance and still ache terribly up close. Jesus stood at the window for a while as the light changed. Elena came to stand beside Him. “Are You leaving?” she asked quietly.

“For tonight,” He said.

The answer hurt her more than she expected. It also felt right. Days like this are not meant to become dependence on visible miracles. They are meant to expose what has been true all along and then ask whether people will walk in it once the voice grows quiet. Elena looked out at the city. “I don’t want to go back to how we were this morning.”

“You do not have to,” Jesus said.

She shook her head. “People say things like that, but then tomorrow comes.”

“Yes,” He said. “Tomorrow always comes. That is why truth must be practiced and not merely admired.”

She let the words settle. “I’m tired of living defended.”

Jesus turned toward her. “Then stop treating tenderness like weakness.”

She nodded slowly. It sounded possible when He said it, not because it would be easy, but because He never asked anyone to pretend the hard road was flat. Nico came over then and stood on Elena’s other side. For a moment the three of them looked out at the city together. So many roofs. So many streets. So many apartments holding private griefs. So many cars moving through intersections with someone inside wondering how much more they could carry. “Will Grandpa be okay?” Nico asked quietly.

Jesus looked at the mountains a moment before answering. “He is held.”

That was not the answer either of them had wanted, yet it reached deeper than the answer they had hoped for. Nico leaned slightly against his mother. She put an arm around him without thinking. They stayed that way until Jesus stepped back from the window.

He went to Arturo first and laid a hand lightly on the old man’s shoulder while he slept. Then He touched Lupe’s arm and told her, “Do not confuse distance with strength.” Lupe looked up sharply, because the sentence had found her too exactly. Then He turned to Marissa, who was passing the room at that moment with a stack of charts, and said, “Go home and let someone ask how you are.” She stopped as if struck gently by the truth of her own neglect, then nodded once. Finally He looked at Elena and Nico together. “Speak sooner,” He said. “Do not wait for fear to do all the talking.”

They followed Him downstairs and out of the hospital, through the cooling air of evening and into a city settling under its lights. He did not choose a dramatic destination. He walked west with them until the streets widened and the sound of traffic changed, until the glow of downtown and the softer darkness near the Rio Grande began to meet. They parted from Lupe in the parking lot after a long look that promised another conversation later, one that might not be easy but no longer needed to be cruel. Then the three of them drove toward the Bosque. Jesus directed them without sounding like He was directing at all. Elena parked near a trailhead where cottonwoods stood in evening shadow and the air held that faint dampness the river gives back when the desert starts cooling down.

They walked under the trees while the last light thinned out above them. Somewhere beyond the brush, water moved with that low, steady sound that never asks for attention yet always changes the atmosphere once you hear it. The city was still there, of course. You could feel it nearby in the distant hum, in the orange haze above parts of the skyline, in the occasional siren carried thin through the dark. But the Bosque made room for a different kind of listening. Nico kicked at nothing now, just leaves. Elena breathed more slowly than she had all day. Jesus led them to a clearing where the trees opened just enough to let the sky be seen. The Sandias were only a dark outline now.

He turned toward them and for a long moment said nothing. Then He took Elena’s hand and placed it in Nico’s. They both looked down at the simple contact as if it were somehow more exposing than a speech. “There is enough pain in the world,” He said. “Do not add to it by refusing one another your tenderness.”

Elena nodded first. Nico followed a second later. Neither tried to make a promise larger than the day. They only let the truth stand there between them, and for once that was enough.

Jesus stepped back then, and the quiet around Him deepened. “Go home,” He said. “Sit beside each other before sleep. Speak plainly. Let love sound ordinary if it must. It is still love.”

Nico looked at Him with sixteen-year-old reluctance to ask for what he actually wanted. “Will we see You again?”

Jesus’ face held that mixture of gentleness and authority that had followed them through the whole city. “You will know where to look.”

Then He turned and walked a little distance away beneath the trees. Elena and Nico did not follow. Something in the moment told them not to. Jesus knelt there in the deepening dark, beside the quiet breath of the Rio Grande and under a sky that still held the last trace of Albuquerque’s fading light, and He entered once more into quiet prayer. He prayed as the day ended the way He had prayed before it began, carrying the city again in silence. He carried the tired waitress on 4th Street. He carried the nurse who had almost forgotten herself inside her usefulness. He carried the old mechanic in the hospital bed and the daughters who loved him with different kinds of fear. He carried the boy on Central who had been drifting close to disappearance and the mother who had been trying to survive by becoming harder than her own heart. He carried the woman in the park with humiliation hidden under exercise clothes. He carried the man in the cafeteria whose panic was eating his judgment alive. He carried the apartments, the parking lots, the waiting rooms, the side streets, the lonely kitchens, the exhausted marriages, the private shame, the thin budgets, the long recoveries, the buried grief, the prayers people could not finish, and the prayers people had stopped trying to begin. He carried Albuquerque the way only He could, without confusion, without distance, without weariness, and without ever once mistaking human weakness for inconvenience.

Elena and Nico stood watching Him until neither of them felt the urge to speak. The day had not fixed everything. Arturo was still in the hospital. Bills were still waiting. School would still need to be faced. Old patterns would still try to return because old patterns always do. But the lie that had ruled the morning was gone. They were not alone inside their lives. They were not unseen. They were not required to harden into survival and call that strength. There in the Bosque, with the city breathing beyond the trees and Jesus bowed in quiet prayer, both of them understood something that would take the rest of their lives to keep learning. Love does not always arrive by removing the burden. Sometimes it arrives by stepping all the way into the burden with you until the weight no longer tells you who you are.

A breeze moved through the cottonwoods and then settled. Nico tightened his hand around his mother’s without looking at her, and she tightened hers back. After a while they turned toward the trail and began walking to the car, not because the holy moment had ended, but because it had entered them enough to travel home. Behind them, Jesus remained in prayer as the night deepened over Albuquerque, calm and near and utterly present, holding the city in the quiet.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Today's second MLB Game in the Roscoe-verse features the Chicago Cubs playing the Philadelphia Phillies. Opening pitch is nearly two hours away, so I've got plenty of time to enjoy Chicago sports talk on 104.3 The Score ahead of the radio call of the game.

And the adventure continues.

[✓] Het lied van De Aanvinkclub

Ik weet pas hoe het gaat Als het in een hokje staat zonder vakje kies ik geen partij er moet voor de zekerheid een vinkje bij alles wat komt is makkelijker te slikken als ik het eerst zorgvuldig aan kan klikken er moeten altijd een aantal opties open tussen liggen, zitten, staan, kruipen, rollen of lopen een netjes goed leesbaar overzichtelijk keuze menu tussen het signaal en de zenuw want zonder een dergelijk vakgebied heb ik geen idee dan is er geen ja mogelijk en ook geen nee ik weet het pas echt niet als ik dat ergens in kan vullen en alleen met vijf betaalopties koop ik die spullen ik moet kunnen kiezen uit kleuren en aantal een optie voor het meest gekozen paardje uit de stal ik wil een keuze lijst voor het beste lied er moet een vinkje bij anders bestaat het niet zonder invulvakjes durf ik niet eens te kiezen dan zal ik waarschijnlijk het overzicht op alles verliezen geef me een vakje en ik weet weer hoe ik me voel een meerkeuze vraag en ik weet weer wat jij bedoeld het al en het bijzondere moet op een rijtje staan dan kies ik zonder twijfel de juiste banaan ik ben een man met een wil om kruizen te zetten zelfs op een kieslijst voor lange afstandsraketten als ik ergens een hokje zie dan vul ik het in dat is dan ook het enigste waar ik goed in ben vraag het niet open maar vraag alles dicht dan worden zware problemen luchtig en licht oorlog en vrede elk in hun genummerde hokje en daaruit kiezen onder druk van een tikkend klokje geluk, ongeluk, pijn, genot, start of stop ieder woord is goed als het komt met een invulknop ik durf wel te zeggen dat feitelijk elke geschreven taal beduidend meer waard is met zo'n helder signaal vinkje er op vinkje er in ja zo gaat ie goed vinkje er bij vinkje er onder ik zou niet weten of ik trouw ben zonder, zo'n hokje met mijn huwelijkse staat hokjes voor vinkjes zijn voor altijd en eeuwig mijn enige echte steun en [✓] toe [ ] ver [ ] laaaaaaaaat

Bent u gelukkiger na het lezen van dit vers?

[ ] Ja [ ] Nee [ ] Weet ik niet

As I made my way home from fitness dance class, I saw a man falling haplessly on the paving stones outside the main entrance to his apartment building.

— are you OK?, I asked

— yes but the PIN code doesn’t work, he said, meaning to the door

— Do you need help getting up? I asked

— I live here, he responded now slowly getting on his feet unsteadily

He’d dropped his pizza, box lay upside down on the ground. And the plastic containers of sauce were spattered on his wallet and his phone which he’d also dropped.

He looked about to fall again, I asked

— Can I pick your stuff up for you?

— No, he replied, but you can hold the door for me.

He managed to gather his stuff, but I took the pizza and handed it to him

— this still looks edible, I said encouragingly

One hand on the door frame, he took the pizza in his hand and I saw then that his arm was incredibly muscular.

— take care now, I said as we parted ways

And with thoughts of the ruined pizza on my mind I went home

I am thinking about it still.

There are moments in life that do not look important from the outside, but they divide everything that comes after from everything that came before. They do not happen under bright lights. They do not arrive with applause. Nobody stands in the room and tells you that this is one of the turning points. It is usually just you, the weight you have been carrying, and a kind of honesty you have been avoiding for longer than you want to admit. You look at your own life without editing it. You stop using noise to cover what you already know. You stop talking around the truth. Something in you gets still enough to hear what has been trying to surface for a long time. Not a dramatic sentence. Not a polished thought. Just a plain realization that lands with more force than you expected. I cannot keep living like this. I cannot keep being this careless with my own life. I cannot keep handing over years to patterns that are draining the strength out of me. In that quiet moment, something begins to shift. It is not yet visible. It is not yet proven. But something real has started. You are no longer only tired of life being hard. You are tired of the part of you that keeps helping the wrong things stay in charge.

Most people know what it feels like to be disappointed by life. Fewer people know how to sit with the disappointment of themselves. That is a harder pain to name. It is easier to talk about what happened to you than to talk about what you have been allowing. It is easier to point to loss, unfairness, bad timing, betrayal, exhaustion, confusion, and all the things outside of you that did in fact leave a mark. Those things matter. Some of them matter more than words can hold. People have been hurt in ways that changed how they breathe in a room. People have been broken in ways that made trust feel dangerous and rest feel unnatural. I am not pretending that pain is small. I am not pretending that struggle is simple. But there is another sorrow that shows up when enough time has passed for you to realize that some of what is hurting your life now is not only what happened to you. Some of it is what you kept feeding after the wound. Some of it is what you normalized. Some of it is what you learned to live beside instead of confronting. That is the kind of knowledge that can make a person feel exposed in their own skin. You start to see that the damage was real, but so was your agreement with it.

That agreement does not always sound dark or dramatic. Sometimes it sounds reasonable. Sometimes it sounds like a tired voice saying this is just who I am. Sometimes it sounds like maybe I am not meant to be consistent. Sometimes it sounds like I have always been this way. Sometimes it sounds like I am too far behind to catch up. Sometimes it sounds like I will start when life calms down. It can even sound spiritual while it keeps you passive. It can dress itself in humility while quietly teaching you to expect very little from your own life. It can make you feel almost noble for staying small. That is one of the strangest things about self-betrayal. It rarely introduces itself honestly. It does not usually say I am here to steal the force out of your life. It does not tell you I am going to keep you from becoming solid, awake, and useful. It comes in softer. It comes as delay. It comes as excuse. It comes as endless internal negotiation. It comes as mercy toward the parts of you that are quietly undoing you. And after enough time, you stop noticing how much ground it has taken.

I think many people imagine the best version of themselves as somebody far away. Somebody cleaner, stronger, sharper, calmer, wiser, and more disciplined than the person they know right now. They picture that future self almost like a stranger standing off in the distance. Maybe one day, if enough things line up, they will become that person. Maybe one day, if motivation finally stays longer than a weekend, life will open up and that better version will step forward. The problem with that picture is that it can make your own growth feel abstract. It turns your future into something you watch instead of something you build. It makes becoming whole feel like a mood or a season instead of a daily act of consent. But the better version of you is not living far away in some unreachable future. That person is being formed right now by what you keep agreeing to, what you keep excusing, what you keep practicing, what you keep feeding, and what you keep refusing to face. The future you want is not hidden from you. It is quietly waiting inside the choices you have not made yet.

That is what makes this subject so personal. It is not really about ambition in the shallow sense. It is not about becoming impressive. It is not about creating a shinier image of yourself so other people can admire your progress. A lot of people already know how to perform improvement. They know how to talk about their goals. They know how to speak the language of growth. They know how to share insights and post quotes and say all the things that sound like movement. What they do not know how to do is sit alone with the truth that they have been leaving themselves behind for years. They have been present in their own life, but not fully there. They have been moving forward in age while staying strangely unchanged in the places that matter most. They have been calling survival maturity. They have been calling familiarity identity. They have been calling their patterns permanent because change would require a level of honesty that feels costly.

There is a certain grief in realizing how often you have been the one walking away from your own life. Not all at once. Not in some big reckless collapse. More quietly than that. A little at a time. In the moments where you knew what mattered and chose what numbed you instead. In the hours you handed over to thoughts that made you weaker. In the conversations where you knew you should have been truthful but chose the easier version. In the habits you kept protecting long after they proved they could not produce peace. In the way you kept lowering the standard just enough to avoid confronting what your soul was trying to tell you. When people think about abandoning a life, they usually picture leaving a place or ending a relationship or giving up on a goal. But there is another form of abandonment that happens within a person. You can remain physically present in your own days while emotionally, spiritually, and mentally stepping away from what your life could become. You can keep showing up to work, to family, to church, to routine, and still be absent from the deeper work of becoming honest, healthy, and aligned.

That is why this kind of decision matters more than people realize. Deciding to become the best version of yourself is not a motivational slogan. It is not a temporary burst of self-belief. It is not one more promise you make to yourself because the pain is strong tonight and your emotions are finally loud enough to sound convincing. It is a much quieter thing than that. It is the moment you stop protecting the life that is making you miserable. It is the moment you stop acting like the familiar version of you deserves permanent leadership. It is the moment you realize that you cannot keep saying you want peace while choosing what tears it apart. You cannot keep asking God for clarity while defending what keeps you cloudy. You cannot keep praying for strength while living in ways that train your spirit to stay weak. At some point the gap between what you say you want and what you keep participating in becomes too painful to ignore. That pain is mercy if you listen to it.

Some people are frightened by honest self-examination because they think it will lead only to shame. They assume that if they really look at themselves clearly, all they will find is failure. So they keep things moving. They stay busy. They stay distracted. They keep themselves surrounded by enough noise to avoid hearing the deeper ache underneath it. But honest self-examination does not have to end in shame. In fact, shame is usually what keeps people from changing. Shame tells you that because you have been weak, you are weak at the core. Because you have failed, failure belongs to you. Because you have drifted, drifting is what you are. Shame takes behavior and welds it to identity. It does not leave room for repentance, renewal, or rebuilding. It does not leave room for the patient work of God. It turns one season of compromise into a permanent verdict. That is not truth. That is bondage dressed up as honesty. Truth does not flatter you, but it also does not bury you. Truth says this must change. Grace says it can.

There is something deeply healing about realizing that the worst patterns in your life are not the deepest thing about you. They may be what you have repeated. They may be what has ruled you. They may have become familiar enough to feel natural. But they are not the truest thing about your existence. The truest thing about your existence is that God created you on purpose, not as an accident moving through time without meaning, but as a person made to reflect something clean, steady, alive, and useful in this world. Sin distorts that. Fear hides it. Pain confuses it. Pride resists it. Habit buries it. But none of those things have the right to define you more deeply than the One who made you. That matters because real change usually begins when a person gets tired of treating their lowest patterns as though they are the final authority on who they are.

Still, getting tired of the wrong version of yourself is only the beginning. Plenty of people become miserable with themselves without becoming different. Misery alone does not transform anyone. It can actually make things worse if it never matures into clear decision. A person can spend years disappointed in themselves and never once become serious. They can feel regret nightly and still keep choosing the same path by morning. They can ache for another life without ever developing the courage to walk away from the one they keep creating. That is why emotion, by itself, is not enough. Emotional pain can open the door, but it cannot carry the weight of transformation on its own. There has to be a moment where a person stops simply hurting and starts deciding. There has to be a moment where sorrow becomes responsibility. There has to be a moment where you say, with whatever trembling still remains in your voice, I am done letting this part of me make my choices.

That decision is rarely glamorous. It usually does not feel like a movie scene. Most of the time it feels almost too plain for how much power it carries. It may happen at the kitchen sink while the house is quiet. It may happen in a parked car when you finally stop scrolling and face your own thoughts. It may happen in prayer after another day that left you feeling hollow. It may happen after one more conversation where you heard yourself say things that sounded wise while knowing you were not living them. It may happen when you realize you are exhausted not just from life, but from carrying the split between what you know and how you live. In that moment, the decision is not loud. It is not theatrical. It is simply real. Something in you stops negotiating with what is costing you your peace. Something in you becomes unwilling to keep betraying what matters most.

I have come to believe that one of the deepest forms of weariness in adult life is not overwork. It is internal contradiction. It is the fatigue of saying you value one thing while repeatedly handing your time, attention, and energy to another. It is the ache of claiming to want wholeness while quietly choosing habits that fracture your mind and thin out your spirit. It is the quiet disgust that comes from knowing you are smarter than what you are doing, older than what you are repeating, and more called than the way you have been living suggests. That contradiction wears people down in ways they do not always know how to describe. They think they need rest when what they really need is alignment. They think they need a break from responsibility when what they really need is to stop fighting reality. They think they need a new environment when what they really need is a new level of truth within themselves. Rest matters. Environment matters. But no amount of external adjustment can bring peace to a life that is being quietly undermined from within.

This is where faith becomes more than comfort. It becomes confrontation in the most loving sense. God does not only come near to soothe you. He comes near to call you out of what is diminishing you. His mercy is not passive permission. His kindness is not indifference toward the things that are making your life smaller. When He deals with a person, He often begins by disturbing what they have made peace with. He puts His finger on the place where they have accepted drift as normal. He brings light to the habits they have hidden under personality. He exposes the agreements they made with fear. He makes the false peace of compromise feel unbearable. That is not rejection. That is love refusing to leave you where you are. A God who truly loves you will not help you feel comfortable while you keep cooperating with what is destroying your strength.

The challenge is that most people want God to help them feel better without changing what keeps wounding them. They want relief without surrender. They want encouragement without exposure. They want hope without the disruption of truth. But the best version of yourself cannot be formed inside that arrangement. You cannot become whole while protecting what keeps you divided. You cannot become peaceful while feeding what keeps you restless. You cannot become strong while treating your weaknesses like honored guests. At some point the life you say you want has to become more precious to you than the coping patterns you use to avoid discomfort. At some point the call of God has to matter more than your attachment to what is familiar. That is a simple sentence to read, but it is expensive to live. It means there are parts of you that cannot stay in charge just because they have been with you a long time.

There is a lonely part of this process that not many people talk about. When you begin deciding to become the best version of yourself, you often do it long before there is evidence anyone else can see. The early stages of real change are mostly invisible. There is no crowd around your inner life. There is no public scoreboard for becoming more honest. Nobody hands out awards because you finally stopped lying to yourself. Nobody claps because you got serious in prayer. Nobody may even notice when you begin resisting what used to rule you. In fact, sometimes the people around you will keep relating to the old version of you for quite a while, because that is the version they know. That can be disorienting. You can feel the new standard rising inside you while everything around you still reflects the old story. That is where a lot of people quit. They start to feel foolish for changing in ways that are not yet visible. They want the outer affirmation too soon. They want proof that the quiet work matters. But nearly everything beautiful in a life starts in private where no one else can yet name it.

Maybe that is why so few people become deeply grounded. Private work feels slow. It feels hidden. It offers very little immediate reward. But hidden work is where character becomes trustworthy. Hidden work is where discipline stops being performance and becomes nature. Hidden work is where you learn whether you really want freedom or only the appearance of freedom. A person can perform transformation in public for a while, but the private life always tells the truth eventually. If you want the best version of yourself, you have to want the private version too. You have to want the version of you who does not need to be watched to stay aligned. You have to want the version of you who tells the truth when lying would be easier and more profitable. You have to want the version of you who can sit alone with God and not feel like a stranger in your own soul.

I think some of the strongest people you have ever met are strong because they got tired, years ago, of being divided inside. They may not talk about it in those words. They may not even fully know how to explain the process. But somewhere back there, they hit a wall with themselves. They saw enough of the cost of drifting. They felt enough of the misery of inconsistency. They tasted enough of the emptiness that comes from continually stepping around the truth. And instead of numbing it, they started yielding to what was being shown to them. Day by day, often imperfectly, often quietly, often without fanfare, they began making decisions that honored the person they were meant to become. That is why they feel steady now. Not because life was easier for them. Not because they were born with unusual discipline. But because at some point they stopped romanticizing the person they hoped to be and began becoming them in private.

If you are listening for some grand secret here, I do not think there is one. The painful beauty of this subject is how ordinary the actual path often looks. You tell the truth. You stop excusing what is hollowing you out. You stop handing the microphone to every mood that passes through. You stop speaking about change as if it were separate from the way you live today. You begin to accept that no one can build your life for you, and that God’s grace does not erase your responsibility to respond. These things sound almost too simple, which is why people sometimes overlook them. But simple is not the same as easy. There are truths that feel small when spoken and immense when practiced. This is one of them.

And maybe that is where this turns from a concept into something much more personal. Because the question is no longer whether people in general should become the best version of themselves. The question becomes whether you are willing to stop walking away from your own life in quiet ways that no one else may fully see. The question becomes whether you are willing to let God interrupt the arrangements you have made with weakness. The question becomes whether you are willing to stop using your past to explain why your future should stay small. Those are not questions you answer once with your mouth. Those are questions you answer in the place where your habits live, where your private excuses gather, where your inner life has learned what it can get away with.

There is more to say here, because the actual turning point is not only the pain of recognition. It is what happens after recognition, when the old self still speaks, the old comfort still calls, and you have to decide what it means to live like you finally mean it. That is where I want to go next.

What makes that stage so difficult is that old ways of living do not go quiet just because you finally saw them clearly. Recognition helps, but it does not automatically break anything. You can have a night of deep honesty and still wake up the next morning with the same instincts, the same temptations, the same emotional reflexes, and the same pull toward what has always made you feel temporarily safe. That is often where people become discouraged. They assume that because the battle is still there, the decision was not real. They assume that because they still feel weak in the places where they want to be stronger, nothing meaningful has happened. But that is not how most transformation works. The real sign that something has changed is not that the struggle disappears. It is that you stop automatically obeying it. The voice of the old life may still speak in the familiar tone. The difference is that now there is another voice present in the room. There is a growing refusal inside you. There is a new seriousness. There is a line that was not there before.

That line matters more than people think. Before that line is drawn, you live in a state of constant internal bargaining. You talk yourself into doing what you already know will leave you emptier. You call it one more time. You tell yourself tomorrow will be different. You soften what should be named clearly. You keep giving the same patterns small permissions, and those permissions quietly become your life. After that line is drawn, the inner conversation changes. It does not become effortless, but it becomes cleaner. You stop asking whether something is technically allowed and start asking what it is producing in your soul. You stop measuring choices only by whether you can survive them and start measuring them by whether they make you more honest, more steady, more awake, and more aligned with God. That is a major shift, even if nobody else sees it yet. It is the beginning of becoming trustworthy to yourself again.

I do not think people realize how much of their pain comes from not trusting themselves. They think they are struggling only with fear or low motivation or exhaustion, but underneath those things there is often a quieter problem. They have seen themselves back away from truth too many times. They have watched themselves make promises and then fold. They have heard their own convictions clearly and then negotiated against them. That does something to the inside of a person. It creates a kind of sadness that is hard to explain because it is not always dramatic. It just lingers. It makes you uncertain in moments where you should be steady. It makes you feel fragmented when you want to feel whole. It makes your own words sound thin to you. Rebuilding that trust is one of the hidden gifts of deciding to become the best version of yourself. You begin keeping small promises again. You begin answering the truth when it speaks. You begin making choices that let your soul breathe. Over time, your inner life starts to believe you again.

That takes patience, and patience is hard when you have already lost time. A lot of people who wake up to themselves later in life feel an immediate grief over the years that went missing. They look back and see what could have been built if they had gotten serious sooner. They think about how many conversations they mishandled, how many opportunities they dulled with inconsistency, how much peace they postponed, how many days they wasted waiting for inspiration while life kept moving anyway. There is real sorrow there, and it should not be mocked or minimized. Wasted years hurt because they were real years. You do not get to pretend they meant nothing. But there is a trap hidden inside that sorrow. If you are not careful, you can spend so much time grieving the old version of your life that you delay the new one even longer. Regret can become one more way of staying stuck. It can make you stare backward so intensely that you keep failing to answer the hour in front of you. At some point even your grief has to become useful. It has to drive you toward decision rather than deeper paralysis.

This is one of the reasons I think honesty has to be joined by mercy. Not soft mercy that excuses what is ruining you, but real mercy that allows you to begin again without turning the past into a permanent sentence. You are not helped by pretending nothing was lost. You are also not helped by treating every lost year as proof that you no longer deserve a strong future. God does not work that way. He is not waiting for your timeline to become neat before He agrees to meet you. He meets people in wreckage all the time. He meets people in the aftermath of bad decisions, long delay, self-inflicted damage, repeated weakness, and the humiliating realization that they have not lived up to what they knew. He does not meet them there to flatter them. He meets them there to bring them back to life. That matters because some people will read about becoming the best version of themselves and immediately feel crushed by the distance between where they are and where they wish they had been by now. If that is you, hear this plainly. Distance is real, but it is not the end of the story. What matters is whether you finally stop increasing it.

There is also the quiet fear that if you truly change, you will lose some version of yourself that feels familiar, even if it has been painful. People do not often say that out loud, but it is there. They worry that if they become more disciplined, more honest, more healed, more grounded, they will no longer recognize themselves. They have lived with their current patterns so long that even the unhealthy parts feel strangely personal. Weakness can become woven into identity if it sits there long enough. You begin to think your anxiety is your personality. You begin to think your passivity is your temperament. You begin to think your inconsistency is just how you are built. So when change begins knocking, part of you resists, not because you truly love the way you have been living, but because the unknown still feels like loss. Yet what you are really losing is not yourself. You are losing what has been in the way of yourself. You are losing the false arrangement that taught you to live beneath your own calling. You are losing what made peace with fragmentation. That loss is worth grieving if you need to, but it is not a tragedy. It is release.

The more I think about it, the more it seems that many people are not struggling with whether they want a better life. They are struggling with whether they are willing to become the kind of person who can carry one. That is a more intimate question. It reaches deeper than wanting relief. Relief is easy to want. A better life is easy to imagine. The harder thing is accepting that different fruit grows from different roots. If you want steadiness, there are things in you that cannot keep being fed. If you want peace, there are ways of living that have to be named as enemies of it. If you want to become a person whose presence brings strength to others, then you cannot keep allowing yourself to be ruled by every appetite, every distraction, every wounded reflex, and every wave of avoidance that passes through you. That is not punishment. That is order. It is simply the way reality works. A person cannot keep planting confusion and then ask God why clarity never seems to bloom.

Still, real growth has a very unglamorous texture to it. I wish more people would say that plainly. It is not always a powerful emotional climb. It is often repetitive. It can feel almost hidden inside ordinary life. You make one clean decision today, then another one tomorrow, then another one when no one knows you were tested at all. You tell the truth in a conversation that could have gone a different way. You shut the door on a habit while it is still asking to be fed. You choose prayer when your mind wants distraction. You get up and handle what needs to be handled even though you do not feel inspired. Then you do it again. And again. Days later, it still does not look dramatic. Weeks later, the old pull is still there in places. Months later, you suddenly realize that while it felt quiet, something major has been taking shape. The room inside you is cleaner. Your reactions are not as chaotic. Your mind does not wander into the same darkness as easily. Your spirit is not as thin. You trust yourself more. That is how hidden change often shows up. It does not announce itself early. It reveals itself after enough truth has been practiced.

I think that is why people who become deeply grounded often seem plain from the outside in the best possible way. There is a simplicity to them that did not come cheaply. They are not fighting for image all the time. They are not trying to sound deep every few minutes. They are not constantly explaining themselves. There is just a settled quality to them. That steadiness usually comes from years of private decisions nobody saw. It comes from choosing what was right without immediate reward. It comes from facing the truth enough times that they no longer need elaborate stories to avoid it. It comes from a long obedience in small places. I have more respect for that kind of strength than almost anything flashy. Flash can be learned quickly. Performance can be copied. But inward steadiness has to be built, and the materials are not dramatic. They are honesty, surrender, repetition, correction, humility, and the willingness to stay in the process long enough for it to become real.

There will probably be points in that process where you get disappointed again. Maybe you thought you had grown past something and then it shows up one more time. Maybe your mind goes back to an old place. Maybe you hear an old voice rise up in you. Maybe you fail in a way that feels painfully familiar. When that happens, the temptation is to treat the moment as proof that nothing changed. But that conclusion is often false. One fall does not erase ten honest steps. One bad day does not cancel the real work that has happened. The danger lies not in stumbling. The danger lies in using a stumble as permission to fully return to what you already left for good reasons. Growth requires a different response. You look directly at what happened. You name it cleanly. You take responsibility without building an identity around it. You bring it to God quickly instead of dragging it behind you for weeks. Then you get up and continue. It sounds simple, but that response separates people who are becoming solid from people who are still ruled by their own emotional swings.

One of the hardest things for people to accept is that becoming the best version of yourself does not mean you stop needing God. In some ways it means you finally realize how deeply you need Him. Not as decoration on a life you are managing well enough by yourself, but as the sustaining presence without which even your best intentions will collapse into self-effort and pride. When people hear language about growth and discipline and becoming stronger, they can sometimes drift into thinking this is mostly about mastering themselves. There is part of that here. Responsibility matters. Agency matters. Your yes matters. But if this process is cut off from surrender, it becomes sterile. It becomes a project of self-construction that quietly centers you as the answer to your own life. That does not end well. The real best version of you is not self-made. It is formed in cooperation with grace. It is the version of you that yields more fully to what God is trying to build than the version that kept resisting Him at every deeper point.

That changes the feeling of the whole journey. Now the process is no longer about trying to become impressive enough to deserve peace. It becomes an act of alignment with the One who knows what your life is meant to hold. You are not inventing a better self out of thin air. You are consenting to a truer self that God has been calling forward all along. That is why this kind of decision has both tenderness and force in it. There is force because some things must be cut off. There is tenderness because what remains is not some harsh machine version of you. It is a cleaner version. A freer version. A more honest version. A version with less noise in it. A version that no longer has to spend so much energy pretending, compensating, or recovering from choices that should never have been fed. The strongest people are often not the hardest people. They are the least divided.

There is also a relational side to all this that deserves to be said clearly. When you decide to become the best version of yourself, you are not only affecting your private inner world. You are changing what other people experience when they encounter you. That matters more than most people think. A person who lives divided brings that division into rooms whether they mean to or not. They bring instability into relationships. They bring confusion into decisions. They bring inconsistency into promises. They bring moods where steadiness should be. They bring self-protection where love should be. They bring avoidance where truth is needed. No one does this perfectly, but it is still real. In the same way, when a person begins to grow solid, others start feeling safer around them. Their words carry more weight. Their presence calms instead of unsettles. Their life becomes a place where trust can land. This is one of the hidden reasons your growth matters so much. It is not just about your own relief. It is about the kind of shelter your life becomes for other people.

You may not see all the ways that plays out. A child might feel it before they have language for it. A friend might sense it in one conversation. A spouse may feel the difference between a person who is finally present and a person who is physically there but inwardly absent. Even strangers can feel the quality of a soul that is no longer as scattered as it used to be. I do not mean that in some exaggerated way. I just mean that people feel the difference between a person who has faced themselves and a person who spends their energy avoiding themselves. One life carries a kind of groundedness. The other carries static. That is one more reason it is worth doing this work even when it is slow and invisible. Your life becomes a different environment for other people once God has more room to govern it.

At some point, though, all of this has to come down to the ordinary shape of a day. That is where every beautiful idea is tested. Not in the abstract, but in the hour you are tempted to drift. In the moment when old comfort calls. In the conversation where it would be easier to stay dishonest. In the private space where your mind starts reaching for what used to numb you. In the tired evening where you want to throw away the standards you know are keeping you alive. That is the real battlefield. Not the dramatic language around change, but the actual places where you either reinforce the old version of your life or strengthen the new one. The best version of yourself is not built once. It is built through repeated agreement with truth in those moments. That can sound exhausting if you picture it wrong. But when you begin to taste the peace that comes from alignment, it starts to feel less like constant strain and more like choosing oxygen over smoke.

That does not mean everything becomes easy. It means some things become clear. There is a huge difference between those two ideas. Clarity does not remove effort, but it removes a lot of inner chaos. Once you really know what keeps stealing from your life, you stop dressing it up. Once you really know what peace costs, you stop pretending it can be built on excuses. Once you really know that God is not asking for your perfection but He is asking for your honesty, you stop hiding behind language that sounds humble while keeping you passive. Clarity makes things cleaner. The pain is still pain. The battle is still battle. But there is less fog around what needs to happen. For many people, that alone is a gift. They have spent so many years half-committed that even a clear decision feels like relief.

You may be waiting for a day when becoming the best version of yourself feels fully natural. That day may never come in the way you imagine. Parts of growth do become more natural with time, but there will always be a need for ongoing surrender. Human beings do not graduate from dependence. We do not age out of temptation. We do not outgrow the need for truth, correction, repentance, and grace. The goal is not to become a person who no longer needs those things. The goal is to become a person who responds to them faster, more honestly, and with less resistance. That is what maturity looks like much of the time. It is not sinlessness. It is responsiveness. It is softness toward God combined with seriousness about what He is showing you. It is the death of your need to keep defending what should be surrendered.

I think that is one of the most beautiful shifts that can happen in a life. You stop experiencing truth as an attack and start receiving it as rescue. You stop viewing conviction as condemnation and start recognizing it as a form of love. You stop treating surrender like loss and begin to see it as freedom. That is when becoming the best version of yourself starts to feel less like climbing toward an impossible image and more like coming home to the life you were always meant to live. Not a flashy life. Not a perfect life. A clean life. A life with less internal argument. A life where your soul is not constantly being split in two by the distance between what you know and what you do. A life where peace can stay longer because you are not quietly undoing it every night.

Maybe that is the most honest way to say it. The best version of yourself is not the most glamorous version. It is the least compromised version. It is the version of you that no longer spends all day helping the wrong things survive. It is the version of you that has become tired enough of contradiction to choose alignment. It is the version of you that does not need to impress anyone because it is too busy staying near to what is true. It is the version of you that knows growth is slower than ego wants and still keeps going. It is the version of you that lets God love you deeply without allowing that love to become a hiding place for passivity. It is the version of you that can be alone without fleeing yourself. There is so much peace in that, and peace like that is not accidental. It is built.

So if you are standing in that place now where the truth has started coming into focus, do not waste the moment by only admiring it. Do not reduce this to one more insight that feels meaningful for a day and then gets folded into the pile of things you almost acted on. Let it become personal enough to cost you something. Let it change what you protect. Let it change what you excuse. Let it change the way you walk into tomorrow. The life you want is not going to appear because you were moved by the idea of it. It will appear slowly through the decisions that prove you have stopped leaving yourself behind.

And if you feel late, ashamed, uncertain, or tired as you read this, I understand that more than you may think. A lot of people are carrying the strange sadness of knowing they have not been faithful to their own life. That sadness can either hollow you out or wake you up. Let it wake you up. Let it become the place where you finally stop asking whether change is possible and start agreeing with the work God is trying to do in you. Not loudly. Not performatively. Not for show. Quietly, honestly, and all the way down where your real life is made.

There are days when the biggest act of faith is not saying something beautiful. It is deciding something true. It is saying no to the old arrangement. It is admitting that your future cannot be built by the part of you that keeps sabotaging your peace. It is turning toward God without waiting to feel stronger first. It is choosing to become trustworthy in small places. It is letting your life get simpler, cleaner, and more aligned, even if nobody is there to celebrate the change in its early form. Those decisions may look small, but they are not small. They are the architecture of a different life.

That life is not reserved for some rare kind of person. It is not only for people who started early, learned discipline young, or have unusually stable histories. It is available to the person who is finally willing to be honest. It is available to the person who is tired of excuses and ready for truth. It is available to the person who has enough humility left to admit that grace is needed and enough courage left to respond to it. It is available to the person who no longer wants to keep surviving in a shape that feels false. It is available to the person who has decided that quiet integrity is worth more than noisy appearance. It is available to the person who finally understands that God is not asking for their performance. He is asking for their surrender.

So maybe the real beginning is not dramatic after all. Maybe it is simply this. You stop leaving your own life in the hands of what has already proven it cannot carry it well. You stop mistaking familiarity for identity. You stop asking your weaker habits to create a stronger future. You stop waiting for a version of yourself to arrive that can only be built through present obedience. Then, with all the ordinary trembling of a real human being, you begin to live as if truth is now more precious to you than comfort. That is not everything, but it is enough to begin. And beginnings like that, however quiet they seem, often become the dividing line between a life that keeps circling the same sorrow and a life that slowly, steadily, becomes whole.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Cardinals vs Guardians.

We've finished our lunch at home, the wife and I. She's now on her post lunch nap, and I've found a baseball game to follow: the Cleveland Guardians playing the St. Louis Cardinals. The teams are tied as they play through the middle innings, the score now is 1 to 1 in the top of the 6th inning.

And the adventure continues.

saw a swan. Not by choice. It was just there, occupying space like it paid rent for the lake. People like swans. That’s not surprising. They’re easy to understand if you don’t look too hard. That white, quiet, curved in all the right places. Very cooperative aesthetically. Doesn’t challenge anyone’s thinking. Just floats and lets people project whatever they need onto it.

Grace, apparently. It moved across the water like it had somewhere to be. Spoiler: It didn’t. None of them do. But it commits to the act, which is more than most people manage.

Didn’t bother getting close. Im aware of how that goes. You step in, it drops the act, suddenly it’s loud, aggressive, deeply offended by your existence. Then everyone acts surprised. As if “looks calm” ever meant “is calm.”

Consistent mistake. From a distance, though, it’s perfect. Clean lines. No visible effort. Nothing to question unless you’re already the type to question things, which most people avoid for obvious reasons.

It went back to drifting after a while, as nothing happened. Like nothing ever does. An efficient way to exist. seriously. Minimal explanation, maximum assumption.

I left it there. Seemed like I preferred the misunderstanding.

There was a mouse. There was time. So here’s one

Then another. Don’t read into it.

It’s still just a swan

You get the idea.

Sincerely, Ahmed.

'What is your home?' A stranger asks.

Home (for you, my love)

Home?

No. Not what I once named it. Not walls, nor roads remembered by the body’s tired return.

Home has slipped its geography. It no longer answers to maps.

Listen, I will tell you, my friend, of a home with no address, no door, no fixed sky...

only a mind.

The mind.

Yours.

Where I wander like a pilgrim without sleep, touching the edges of your thoughts as if they were holy cloth.

I left a place once called home; a source, perhaps, a well I drank from without ever being quenched.

What is a home if the heart refuses it? If it does not loosen there, does not lay down its armor, does not breathe?

No—

Home is not where a man hangs his hat.

It is where he loses himself entirely.

And mine... mine is not here.

Not fully.

It is cleaved. like light through glass, like a prayer spoken in two languages—

here, and there, and in the terrible distance between.

You...

You are my home.

I have driven whole nights through the dark of myself to reach you,

whispering your name like a rhythm against the wheel, like a vow I could not break if I tried.

I would come to you in the hour when breath is deepest, when the world forgets itself—

not to wake you, but to feel you there, to exist in the same quiet as your dreaming body.

That would be enough. God— that would be everything.

There:

in that imagined room, in that borrowed closeness,

I am unafraid.

My demons do not follow. My doubts cannot cross the threshold.

There is only the heat of being known, the slow unraveling of all I pretend to be, the dangerous relief of becoming myself in the presence of you.

Amber-eyed, ocean-removed, twelve hundred leagues of absence and still

you are nearer to me than my own hands.

What is this place we make without touching?

What is this fire that asks nothing and takes everything?

I live there in the thought of you, in the shape of your name inside my mouth, in the quiet confession of wanting.

And one day—

if the world is merciful, or cruel enough

here and there will collapse into one,

and I will stand beside you with nothing left to lose,

and say, at last,

not as metaphor, not as longing—

but as truth:

I am home.

---

#poetry #wyst

It’s been a while since I wanted to start a blog. Years really. I kept telling myself that I’m not ready, no one will care, I’m too busy etc. It really is just standard stuff when it comes to starting something new or when you put yourself out there. You make up any excuse just so you can delay the whole thing until you either forget about it or you just don’t care about it anymore. Pretty neat defence mechanism.

You try to justify the whole delay so you can plan out everything in advance, everything can be perfect so you don’t make a mistake. It doesn’t work like that. I should know this by now that I’m 34 years old. Year by year I feel like I lie less to myself but it still happens daily. At least I’m aware. That is something I guess.

Okay so like I said I’m a 34 year old guy. I was born in Hungary but I moved to England in 2014 when I was 23. To this day I don’t know if that decision was good or bad. Probably never will. Because of this, English is my second language and that means I’ll make mistakes. This was another excuse I liked to tell myself. I mean my English is not perfect but I can convey my thoughts pretty well I feel like and I hope it adds some uniqueness to my posts. I don’t want to run through all my stuff through an AI or spellchecker. I’ll obviously try to minimise mistakes especially spelling ones but I don’t want to sound like a robot. I honestly despise this whole new era of “everything is AI”.

The biggest thing that helped me get started was when I realised I don’t have to share this blog with anyone. No one needs to know who I am. It doesn’t matter if anyone reads it or not. I just like writing. I always have. I wrote very basic stories when I was a kid. Okay I admit they were heavily mimicking existing ones. I remember one that was basically Robinson Crusoe but written by a 12 year old.

I really started rambling here. I didn’t think I will write about that Robinson story, I honestly even forgot about it until 2 minutes ago. It is funny how much stuff comes to surface when you are trying to organise your thoughts so you can put them down in a readable fashion.

I have loads of interests and I like taking walks whilst I think about a lot of stuff. I used to have a car but I sold it. I walk to and from work too. I really don’t want to get lazy and I hate driving. I’ll write posts just about anything I think. My plan is to write at least one post per week. (I refuse to call my work an article because it feels pretentious.) I might even write multiple a day. Who knows? I just want to get going.

Without trying to give you the whole list below is the stuff I like the most from the top of my head. This doesn’t mean I’ll only write about these but perhaps it gives you an idea of what kind of guy I am.

1. Guitar – Especially Rock and Roll, Blues, Hard Rock, Metal (Been playing since 2007.)

2. Football and Formula 1 – Favourite teams: Arsenal and Ferrari. Pain. I know.

3. Books – Andy Weir is my favourite author.

4. Films – Mainly horror, action and science fiction. I have a newfound love for old black and white Japanese films. I like the Human Condition trilogy, okay?

5. Philosophy – I was always interested and last year I’ve found stoicism which is probably the one I read the most.

Obviously I like ton of other stuff too. Gaming, cooking, hanging out with people, whatever. You get the gist. I really don’t know why I’m trying to make this into a list.

Anyway I think it is time for me to say goodbye and I hope, future me will be very happy that I started this blog.

Thanks,

Blip-A

I found a moth inside my elevator. I scooped it up with my hands shaped like a bowl and brought it out to my balcony. Then I started imagining what it would tell its moth friends afterward. Like, how she (yes, I am calling her SHE) suddenly entered this brightly lit moving box and got trapped there, no water, no food, and every now and then a giant would appear, absolutely terrifying her.

Until one day or some hours, she cannot really precise, but it felt like an eternity, a giant with long hair and a weird looking white horse (that's Livi in case you missed the ref) showed up, grabbed her with giant hands, and everything went dark again. She was sure that was the end. But then the hands opened, and there she was, at the highest height she's ever been in life, she was back outside, but outside this time was so enormous, she could see all the buildings and the city from above, all this happening as if she’d been teleported to freedom. Her moth friends would probably call the whole thing an abduction.

She’d be invited onto moth podcasts to share her testimony. The hater moths would say, “Fake. She just wants attention, next thing you know, she’s auditioning for Too Hot to Handle”, etc. Eventually, she’d write a book compiling testimonies from other moths who claim to have been abducted, trying to find patterns. Some would say, “My giant had short hair.” Others: “Mine was bald.” Some would insist there was no giant at all, just a huge transparent glass thing, and at the bottom, something that looked like a piece of Spar flyers. Other moths would never swallow the theory of the giant jar with Spar flyers at the bottom. “This is obviously a marketing move from Spar!” they would say.

Damn it's so hard to be a believable moth.

/Apr26

I recently watched the seventh season, second episode of Star Trek: DS9, Shadows and Symbols. The character Benny Russell (played by Avery Brooks) is in a psychiatric room writing his story on the walls. He does this because the doctors refuse to give him paper.

A psychiatrist, Dr. Wykoff (played by Casey Biggs) offers Benny a paint roller to erase his writings so he can be “cured” of his delusions. I won’t spoil any more so go watch. After watching that episode it gave me an idea.

Inside my home I have blue, white, and yellow walls. What color wall would I choose? Or would I write on all of them? Unfortunately, white and yellow walls are too bright even in low lighting. Blue walls are easier on my eyes and still bright enough when there’s not enough light.

However, all of this doesn’t matter. The real question is: how long can my kids and I write on the walls before my wife goes berserk and makes me clean and repaint them?

#writing #blue #ds9 #startrek #walls #white #yellow

#shuacantikharem

Sialan kan Wonwoo jadi kepikiran.

Kalo dibilang apa Wonwoo nyesel nyium bibir Joshua karena sekarang dia jadi buronan di kalangan temen-temennya sendiri (dan entah berapa juta manusia di luar sana yang Wonwoo nggak kenal tapi sama keselnya karena bibir Joshua udah direbut cowok anonim), jawabannya tentu aja enggak ya gaes yaaaaa ☝️

Wonwoo NGGAK AKAN pernah nyesel karena KAPAN LAGI BISA NYIUM BIBIR JOSHUA HONG WOI, MAU DUNIA KEBELAH KEK BODO AMAT YANG PENTING DIA UDAH NGERASAIN BIBIRNYA JOSHUA JISOO HONG‼️‼️‼️‼️

(eit nggak usah ngiri☝️)

Cuma, yeah, tetep aja Wonwoo kepikiran. Kalo reaksi temen-temennya aja udah radikal begitu, apakah bakal ada ekstrimis-ekstrimis lain yang siap nyulik Jeon Wonwoo pas tau dirinya lah perebut ciuman Joshua, terus Wonwoo dihanyutkan ke sungai Gangga? Ato, worse, ditunjuk jadi duta MBG?? 😨 (ih najis)

Dikernyitkannya dahi, auto hidung bangirnya ikut mengerut. Wonwoo berjalan memasuki perpustakaan di area pusat kampus seperti tiap sore dengan kedua lengan melipat di dada. Parasnya kelewat serius buat isi kepalanya yang random saat ini. Kayaknya better Wonwoo agak jaga jarak sama Joshua deh. Nerapin beberapa rules personal yang ketat. Jangan deket-deket biar nggak khilaf ciuman lagi. Jangan berduaan doang di ruang sepi. Jangan—

“Ikh...”

...Yaelah. Langsung muncul itu Joshua-nya depan mata. Baru juga mau dijauhin bjirrrrr. KENAPA SIH??!! SEGITU PENGENNYA SEMESTA INI COMBLANGIN WONWOO SAMA JOSHUA, HAH???!!! YAUDAH DEH KALO MAKSA MAH!!!

Wonwoo menghampirinya. Tapi Joshua juga nggak nyadarin kedatangan Wonwoo sih. Dia tengah sibuk berjinjit sambil ngulurin lengan setinggi mungkin, berusaha menggapai salah satu buku tebal di rak paling atas. Wonwoo diem aja ngeliatin dia dari koridor. Kayak biasa, perpustakaan di jam bubaran kampus gini udah tergolong lengang. Hampir nggak ada orang lain di sekitar mereka. Mungkin ada 1-2 orang yang ngumpet, tapi nggak tau deh lagi pada ngumpet di mana tepatnya.

Joshua berusaha jinjit lebih tinggi lagi. Suatu pemandangan yang separo bikin Wonwoo pengen ketawa soalnya Joshua lucuuuuuu bangettt, separonya lagi kesian pengen bantuin. Padahal beda tinggi badan Wonwoo sama Joshua juga nggak jauh-jauh banget, tapi mayanlah, selisih tinggi itu berperan besar dalam situasi kayak gini. Sementara itu, Joshua udah gemeter sebadan-badan, berusaha mengerahkan seluruh inci tingginya biar tangannya nyampe ke buku itu. “Dikit, uh, lagi...,” gumamnya tanpa sadar.

Alangkah kagetnya Joshua pas ada tangan lain menjulur santai, mengambil buku yang dia maksud tanpa kesulitan sama sekali. Arah pandangnya berputar dari lengan ke wajah orang itu yang lagi dongak kayak dia sebelumnya. Jeon Wonwoo. Lengkap dengan kacamata bingkai hitamnya dan wajah serius nan ganteng yang akhir-akhir ini menghantui pikiran Joshua. Salting, Joshua pun perlahan berbalik badan, menatap Wonwoo yang masih berkutat sama buku di rak atas dan membiarkan degup jantung nggak beraturan dalam dada serta rona merah melalap kedua pipinya.

Joshua menelisik satu-persatu fakta: mereka berduaan (lagi) + semburat jingga dari celah jendela jatuh menerangi perpustakaan sore itu + lorong rak di pojokan yang sunyi sepi + jarak tubuh mereka terlalu dekat + Wonwoo tetep seganteng pas nyium dia waktu itu. Deg degan, Joshua lalu memejamkan mata dan mengangkat sedikit dagunya.

Posisi Joshua yang seperti itulah yang Wonwoo temui saat dia akhirnya menunduk, berniat memberikan buku yang baru dia ambilkan. Namun, niat tersebut sirna seketika. Joshua dalam kukungannya jelas menantikan sesuatu, meminta sesuatu dari Wonwoo dengan tindakannya. Degukan ludah membuat jakun Wonwoo naik-turun. Dia yakin dia tau apa yang Joshua minta darinya, tetapi dia nggak berani ngambil kesimpulan segitu cepetnya.

Masa sih...? Masa cowok secantik ini—makhluk seindah, sesempurna, se-enggak nyata ini—nungguin ciuman dari Wonwoo?

Detik berlalu, meleleh menjadi menit. Nggak kunjung datang sentuhan yang diharapkan, Joshua (dengan penuh tanda tanya) perlahan membuka sedikit celah mata, mencari tau di mana kah keberadaan Wonwoo. Rupanya dia masih ada di hadapannya, masih mengukung Joshua, memojokkannya ke rak buku, tapi sekarang dia menatap Joshua lekat-lekat. Tatap mereka bersirobok dan, spontan, Joshua merasa malu. “Ah, ini, mm,” terbata-bata, sembari mukanya begitu merah bagai tomat kematengan. “A-aku enggak—”

“Mejemin mata gitu maksudnya apaan nih?” seloroh Wonwoo, sengaja. Sumpah deh, Joshua Hong itu kenapa bisa begitu gampangnya mancing sisi jail Wonwoo sih? Minta digodain banget?? “Lo nungguin gue ngapain?”

Makin dan makin kebakar aja pipi Joshua. “Eng-enggak kok, nggak gitu...,” balasnya dalam gumaman rendah, saking lembutnya sampe hampir nggak kedengeran andaikan perpustakaan lagi nggak sesepi itu. “Cuma...muka kamu deket banget, aku kan jadi keinget...lagi...”

...Sumpah.

Cantik. Cantiknya pake banget. Cantiknya nggak ngotak. Wonwoo harap Joshua sadar sepenuhnya kalo dia tuh cantik luar biasa dan bahwa dia berhak banget dipuja-puji, disembah bak ratu berlian pemilik hati para budak cinta. Joshua, sumpah lah...

“Terus, emm, jadi aku mikir apa kamu nggak mau—”

Wonwoo majuin kepala buat nutup mulut Joshua pake bibirnya. Refleks, juga dengan sentakan napas, Joshua mejamin mata lagi. Ciuman itu ringan. Hanya bibir ketemu bibir buat beberapa detik. Suara kecupan lah yang tertinggal kala kedua bibir dipisahkan paksa.

Bagai terhipnotis, Wonwoo mengelusi bibir atas Joshua. Lembut. Merah delima. Sedikit lengket, mungkin sisa lip balm yang masih menempel. Mata yang sayu. Pipi yang merona. Bener-bener secantik—bahkan jauh lebih cantik—di foto-foto majalah itu. Ibu jari Wonwoo turun ke bibir bawah Joshua, menekannya sedikit hingga terbuka, memperlihatkan geligi dan sekelebat ujung lidahnya. Turun lagi hingga membelai rahang dan menangkup dagu. Bisikan yang semakin rendah, semakin berat.

“Cantik...”

Dagu Joshua diangkat. Tangan Wonwoo yang lowong bertumpu pada rak di belakang Joshua. Nggak bisa menahan diri, Wonwoo kembali mencium bibir manis itu. Alih-alih Wonwoo merundukkan badan sedemikian rupa, kini Joshua lah yang harus menegakkan lehernya agar bisa mencapai bibir cowok itu. Dia pasrah, membiarkan Wonwoo terus menerus memberikan kecupan-kecupan kecil pada bibirnya. Sesekali, tautan bibir mereka sedikit lama, sedikit nggak rela harus terlepas meski sedetik kemudian akan langsung terpaut lagi.

Hati Wonwoo bagai melambung ke atas awan. Joshua Hong yang diidamkan cowok dan cewek sekampus kini berada di bawahnya, dengan bibir begitu penurut mengikuti gerak bibirnya. Wonwoo melepaskan ciuman dengan napas agak memburu, berniat memberikan kesempatan pada Joshua untuk menenangkan diri. Mungkin dia kelewat tergesa-gesa. Mungkin Joshua overwhelmed dan butuh time out untuk mengambil napas.

Di luar dugaan, Joshua malah menaikkan kacamata Wonwoo ke rambutnya, merangkulkan kedua lengannya ke leher Wonwoo dan menarik bagian belakang kepala cowok itu untuk menyatukan bibir mereka kembali. Kali ini bukan lagi kecupan naif yang mereka bagi, melainkan segala yang selama ini dibendung baik oleh Wonwoo maupun oleh Joshua. Bibir Joshua mencumbuinya, secara aktif mengajak Wonwoo untuk melepaskan segala hasrat yang dimilikinya. Ciuman demi ciuman yang mereka bagi semakin panas. Tangan Wonwoo menemukan pinggang Joshua, merangkulnya erat dengan harapan menghapus memori akan Seungcheol di sana. Tangannya yang lain menelusuri punggung Joshua melalui bahan kemejanya yang halus. Bagian depan tubuh mereka menempel nggak kalah lekat dari sepasang bibir.

“Mmh,” suara-suara geraman tertahan menemani bunyi cumbuan yang basah. Di satu momen, Wonwoo menggigit perlahan bibir Joshua, berbagi helaan napas bersama, sebelum memasukkan lidahnya ke celah yang tercipta. “Hng!” Joshua mendesah agak kencang, tapi untungnya lidah Wonwoo keburu menemukan lidahnya dan berhasil membungkam keributan tersebut. Decakan terdengar. Peluh menitik di kening Wonwoo. Kaki Joshua hampir nggak tahan untuk mengalungi pinggul Wonwoo, mengundang cowok itu untuk mencumbuinya terus seperti ini di sudut terpencil perpustakaan sampai malam turun.

“Uhuk, uhuk!”

Suara batuk seseorang. Bagai disiram air dingin, Wonwoo langsung melepas Joshua, hampir-hampir melompat mundur menjauhinya. Segera diturunkannya kacamata agar indra penglihatannya kembali. Dia memandangi Joshua—bibir bengkak dan basah, mata sayu, wajah memerah, serta napas memburu—lalu meneguk ludah. Dia. Dia yang udah bikin Joshua kayak gini. Jeon Wonwoo.

Tapi,

nggak di sini juga anjir. Kalo ada yang liat, gimana? Terus kalo sampe kesebar rumor kalo dia lah cowok yang udah nyium Joshua, gimana? Minimal digebukin, lebih mungkin digantung terbalik di pohon beringin di halaman belakang kampus. Screw that, nggak peduli nasib dirinya deh, tapi nasib Joshua? Wonwoo nggak mau kalo nama Joshua jadi jelek gegara ulahnya. Dia suka Joshua. Suka banget. Cinta. Karena cinta, makanya—

“Ah, Wonu—”

—sebelum Joshua sempet ngomong apapun, Wonwoo udah berbalik dan pergi (sambil doa nggak ada yang nyadar akan jendolan di celananya, amen), meninggalkan Joshua yang berusaha menenangkan dirinya sendirian sambil menyentuh bibirnya, masih terlena oleh ciuman bergairah dari cowok itu.

Terhalang oleh rak-rak buku, Joshua nggak sadar sama sekali kalo ada orang lain yang merhatiin mereka sejak bercumbu tadi. Orang lain yang menyeringai jahil karena suatu rencana udah terangkai manis di dalam kepalanya. Orang lain yang juga merupakan 'musuh' Joshua Hong akhir-akhir ini.

Instead of only criticizing “AI” (when in fact, the commercial LLM services are really the main issue), here is a more optimistic list of things I support 💪 (followed by a list of bad smells 🦨 in AI):

💪 Smarter machine learning models that do more with less: less data, less energy, less waste.

💪 Building models that are better, not just bigger: reliable, effective, and resource-conscious.

💪 Ethical innovation: training AI without exploiting creators or trampling intellectual property rights.

💪 Practical AI use cases that truly help people and society, not just corporate bottom lines.

💪 Sustainable business models that support fair, circular industries instead of endless extraction.

💪 Respect for language and culture – preserve diversity, don’t erase it.

...therefore, I stand against:

🦨 Bloated generative AI systems with bottomless appetites for data, energy, and water.

🦨 The expanding footprint of data centers swallowing land and resources.

🦨 Predatory tactics to grab training data at the expense of human rights.

🦨 Turning AI into a tool for surveillance capitalism and exploitation.

🦨 Pretending to care about AI safety while dodging real accountability.

🦨 Systems that funnel power to a few tech giants, making the rest of us renters in their digital empires.

🦨 Human suffering in AI’s hidden labor force – those forced to filter the internet’s worst as cheap, disposable labor (usually in the Global South).

🦨 Schemes to dodge taxes and skirt regulations, while claiming to build the future.

🦨 Generative AI services aren’t tools – they’re just content repositories, trained on a vast and murky pool of internet data. But the internet is a mess: full of errors, bias, satire, and outright lies. These systems can’t tell truth from fiction, and they strip away context and source credibility. There’s no metadata to distinguish fact from sarcasm or disinformation. It all looks the same to an AI. That’s a disaster waiting to happen.

🧠 The most sustainable, creative, and ethical model isn’t an algorithm. It’s the human brain. If you want art, writing, or ideas, hire a human being. You’ll get quality and originality, not a regurgitated mashup from a statistical prediction machine.

The right place for AI is in support – statistical prediction, maintenance, and optimization. That's proper tools. But generative AI services won’t help us work less or better. They’ll push us to go faster, sacrificing quality, creating stress, and robbing us of agency. To build a future centered on humans, we must focus on human well-being – not just on making tech billionaires richer.

(btw, I have nothing against skunks, the icon just represents “bad smells” 😀)