Your welcome.

A picture is worth a thousand words. I would usually shower you with lots and lots of descriptive text. But, tonight, I think I'll let you interpret it for yourself.

There's a long one coming later. So, I'll make up for it!

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#sketchbook

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2025-07-10 19:02:37

The past is never dead. It’s not even past.

I'm reflective of romancing Iberia tonight. Which puts me in mind of my 2010 week in Rome. I doubt I'll ever be able to live that time.

I love Roman Holiday. The film is anything but silent, yet when I visited Rome in the fall of 2010, I discovered a quiet reverence that emerges late at night—especially in the piazzas, where mist settles on the cobblestones and the noise of the day finally gives way to stillness.

Rome is so saturated with iconic imagery that no single vision can define it: the Colosseum, the Vatican, Trevi Fountain, Spanish Steps. A city of many faces and thousands of years, it offers as many impressions as it has visitors. But once you’ve walked its streets—smelled the roasting chestnuts, watched lovers linger near ancient stone—Rome distills itself to a single memory.

For me, it was a stenciled portrait of Audrey Hepburn.

We had spent the afternoon beneath golden leaves in the park outside Villa Borghese, then made our way through the winding streets back to our lodging near the Pantheon. It was late, quiet. We passed through an alley when a lime-green graffiti tag caught my eye. There she was—Audrey, staring out from the wall like a ghost of cinema past, etched into the stone like she'd always belonged there.

The first thing I did when I got home was cut my own stencil of Audrey Hepburn.

To most people, it means nothing. But to me, it’s a private seal. A reminder of that trip, that night, that reverent stillness. Of a city always caught between the ancient and the modern—where history echoes, but sometimes whispers.

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#travel #sketchbook #rome #journal #memoir

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2025-07-10 21:00:00

Starcraft Co. 14- Selective Breeding

There were more targets on the UIC list than StarCraft Co. could realistically attack. Renegade laboratories had been identified across several sectors, dormant Zerg swarms were being investigated by teams similar to the one destroyed on Erebus, and new reports of coordinated Zerg attacks arrived almost every week. One target nevertheless moved abruptly to the top of the list after analysts finished examining the data recovered from Canaan and the enthrallment equipment captured during Preclusion. The six Hunter Killers that had nearly turned victory at Kestral into another massacre had not been isolated prototypes. They belonged to a much larger selective-breeding program intended to produce superior strains of virtually every major Zerg combat organism. The renegades were having difficulty reproducing the mutations consistently, but the implications were obvious. Six Hunter Killers had killed experienced soldiers after thousands of ordinary Zerg had failed to break Kestral. If the renegades learned to breed creatures like that by the thousand, the UIC might not possess enough soldiers to stop them.

The commander received the briefing directly from General Harlan Voss, one of the senior officers overseeing the UIC response to the Zerg crisis. Voss appeared on the communications screen with the exhausted expression of a man whose staff had recently discovered that every answer produced two new problems. “Kestral wasn't supposed to happen,” he said. “Neither was Delos. Canaan certainly wasn't. We thought these people were experimenting with Zerg. We now believe they're trying to improve them.” The commander studied the intelligence packet. “We told you that after Kestral.” Voss paused. “You told one of my predecessors that.” “We gave him six corpses.” “And those corpses spent three weeks being transferred between military laboratories before somebody with the appropriate clearance opened the containers.” The commander stared at him. Voss sighed. “You don't need to say it.” “I wasn't going to.” “That somehow makes it worse.” The commander let the silence linger before returning to the report. StarCraft Co. had become accustomed to UIC corruption and institutional paralysis, but patience was becoming harder to maintain. At Kestral, government soldiers had nearly died defending a base hollowed out by neglect. At Delos, an entire city had disappeared while the bureaucracy debated jurisdiction. Canaan had operated for years on a supposedly abandoned world. Now the UIC was admitting that evidence of an existential biological-weapons program had spent weeks sitting in storage because nobody had signed the correct forms.

Voss continued before the commander could press the point. The breeding facility was located on Khamsin, an arid world whose surface consisted mostly of desert plateaus broken by deep erosion canyons. Reconnaissance had identified four major research compounds spread across a broad basin, each associated with a different Zerg strain. A much larger hive existed farther north and appeared to supply ordinary organisms, biomass and genetic material to the experimental sites. “I want the specimens destroyed and every piece of research you can recover,” Voss said. “No orbital bombardment.” The commander glanced at the fleet assessment. “That won't be a problem. We don't have enough capital ships to sterilize an area this large anyway.” “The Navy does.” “Then why are you calling me?” Another pause followed. Voss answered carefully. “Because the Navy can't assemble a strike group without moving ships from three commands, and by the time three admirals agree which one of them owns the operation, our target may have evacuated.” The commander leaned back. “Understood.” It was the most diplomatic answer he could manage. Voss gave him a tired smile. “That's why I'm calling you.”

There would be no subtle approach to Khamsin. The renegades had covered the basin with long-range sensors, and the open desert provided nowhere for a substantial force to hide. StarCraft Co. therefore abandoned stealth entirely and landed an army south of the research complex. Siege tanks, Goliaths, marine companies, firebat detachments, medics, ghosts, science vessels and hundreds of SCVs descended in waves while Wraiths patrolled above the transports. The commander chose a canyon several kilometers south of the nearest breeding compound as the forward base. It contained natural mineral deposits and a rich vespene geyser, but its real value was geography. Sheer walls protected three sides. The northern entrance narrowed into a broad funnel barely wide enough for a major Zerg assault. StarCraft Co. had learned at Kestral exactly what could be accomplished with terrain, preparation and enough explosives. This time they had considerably more than wreckage to work with. SCVs swarmed across the canyon floor. Supply depots and barracks appeared first, followed by machine shops, ammunition stores and layered bunkers. Missile turrets covered the cliffs against mutalisks and scourge. Siege tanks deployed in staggered lines so creatures breaking through one bombardment zone would enter another. Mines filled the approaches. Goliaths occupied firing positions behind reinforced infantry lines. The mineral deposits inside the canyon fed directly into continued construction while gas extraction supplied the heavier equipment. Within hours the empty canyon had become a fortress. The commander knew the renegades could see all of it. That was also intentional.

The northern hive reacted before the fortifications were complete. Science vessels detected movement across the basin, then so many biological signatures that the tactical display began grouping them into masses rather than individuals. Estimates ranged from twenty Zerg for every StarCraft Co. combatant to more than fifty. Zerglings formed the overwhelming majority, but hydralisks moved behind them, mutalisks filled the air, and ultralisks appeared among the larger ground formations. The commander ordered the last SCVs behind the defensive line and waited. The first siege tanks fired while the swarm was still kilometers away. The desert disappeared beneath explosions. Artillery shells landed continuously among the approaching Zerg, throwing zerglings into the air and tearing gaps through formations that closed almost immediately. Hydralisks continued forward through the barrage. Ultralisks absorbed direct hits and kept moving. Then the swarm reached the mines. Entire sections of the approach erupted at once. Thousands died before the first creature came within rifle range, but there were always more behind them. The first zerglings reached the bunkers beneath overlapping Gauss fire. Firebats filled the narrow approaches with flame. Goliaths launched missiles at mutalisks while missile turrets filled the sky with additional fire. Scourge descended toward the siege lines and detonated against defensive matrices projected over the most vulnerable positions. SCVs moved behind the battle repairing bunkers almost as quickly as claws and spines damaged them.

The attack continued for hours. StarCraft Co. gave ground deliberately whenever a position became untenable, pulling infantry back to the next bunker line while siege tanks continued firing over them. An ultralisk broke through the first defensive belt and destroyed two bunkers before concentrated artillery severed one of its legs. Another reached the tank line and killed an entire gun crew before Goliaths brought it down. Mutalisks found gaps in the missile coverage and tore through exposed marines until reserve Goliaths shifted to meet them. Yet the canyon did exactly what the commander had intended. The Zerg could possess fifty times StarCraft Co.'s numbers; they could not bring fifty times the firepower through the entrance simultaneously. Tens of thousands of organisms became a queue waiting to enter the killing ground. Eventually the queue ran out. The last major wave collapsed shortly before dawn. Smaller groups continued attacking for another hour before even those stopped. The desert north of the canyon was carpeted with Zerg corpses, some lying in piles several meters deep where the terrain had funneled them together. Tank crews began replacing barrels. SCVs rebuilt the outer bunker line. Medics worked through the casualties. The commander studied the northern hive on the tactical display. The renegades had tried to crush StarCraft Co. with overwhelming numbers and instead expended a substantial portion of their conventional swarm against prepared artillery. The balance of the operation had changed. “We're done defending,” he told his officers. “Start with Compound One.”

The first experimental complex contained the Devouring One program. Reconnaissance initially made it look almost disappointing. Spawning pools covered a broad patch of creep inside a fortified Terran perimeter, but most of the zerglings moving between them appeared ordinary. Some were actually smaller and less vigorous than wild specimens. Recovered records later explained why. The mutation the renegades wanted was unstable. Most breeding attempts produced normal zerglings or organisms weakened by undesirable traits. Every so often, however, they produced something extraordinary. StarCraft Co. encountered the first Devouring One when the siege tanks began shelling the Terran defenses. It crossed the distance to the artillery line so quickly that the targeting system briefly lost it. The creature was only slightly larger than an ordinary zergling, but its movements were almost impossible to track visually. Marines opened fire. Rounds tore through its carapace and exposed tissue beneath, yet the wounds visibly contracted as it ran. It reached a siege tank, climbed the hull and ripped through armor plating in seconds. By the time nearby infantry killed it, the tank crew was dead and the vehicle was burning. The commander immediately changed tactics. Ordinary zerglings were handled by infantry. Anything moving substantially faster than the others became the target of everything nearby. Devouring Ones were hit with concentrated Gauss fire, grenades, Goliath autocannons and siege shells if sufficient distance existed. They were terrifying individually but rare, and that was the weakness StarCraft Co. exploited. Once the Terran perimeter collapsed, infantry advanced across the hive ground behind firebats and systematically exterminated every organism they found. Spawning pools were destroyed last. The commander refused to leave a single egg intact.

Compound Two housed the Hunter Killer program, and nobody underestimated it. StarCraft Co. already knew exactly what six of them could do. The facility contained extensive hydralisk dens surrounded by conventional fortifications, with hundreds of ordinary hydralisks and an unknown number of elite specimens distributed among them. The commander refused to send infantry anywhere near the dens until the artillery had done most of the work. Siege tanks deployed in depth rather than along a single line, allowing the forward batteries to withdraw if Hunter Killers managed to close the distance. Science vessels mapped burrowed organisms while ghosts identified specimens displaying unusual movement patterns. The first Hunter Killers announced themselves with spine volleys that crossed distances ordinary hydralisks could barely reach. One penetrated a marine's armor and the soldier behind him. Another struck the frontal plating of a Goliath hard enough to damage internal systems. StarCraft Co. answered with artillery. Whenever a Hunter Killer appeared, multiple siege tanks fired on the same position. Ordinary hydralisks were dangerous enough to justify shells; Hunter Killers justified craters. The renegades attempted to release the entire breeding population at once, but the deep artillery lines turned the open ground between the dens and StarCraft Co. into overlapping kill zones. A handful reached the forward positions. Defensive matrices bought the soldiers seconds they otherwise would not have had, and those seconds were enough. When the compound finally fell, demolition teams burned the dens, destroyed the incubation chambers and loaded several terabytes of breeding records aboard armored transports.

Compound Three was different. The Skyborne Terror program had been built around a rookery rather than a ground hive, and the renegades had designed the surrounding defenses specifically to make artillery less useful. Mutalisks and guardians nested throughout a maze of reinforced structures while Terran Wraiths patrolled overhead. Missile turrets protected the facility from StarCraft Co.'s own aircraft, and ground defenses prevented Goliaths from simply walking underneath the rookery. Worse, the elite mutalisk strain could not reliably be distinguished from ordinary organisms until it attacked. The commander left most of the siege tanks behind. Goliaths formed the center of the assault while marine companies advanced with SCVs immediately behind them. Missile turrets went up almost as quickly as the force moved. Every captured patch of ground became another anti-air position. The first Skyborne Terror hit before the third defensive cluster was complete. It descended through missile fire at a speed that made ordinary mutalisks look sluggish, swept across a marine formation and killed six soldiers in seconds. Gauss rounds tore into it as it climbed away, but the wounds began closing before it completed the turn. The commander ordered bunkers built everywhere. SCVs constructed them behind each advance, turning the assault into a creeping fortified line. Marines fought from enclosed positions whenever possible while Goliaths saturated the sky with missiles. Guardians attempted to bombard the new defenses from range, forcing StarCraft Co. to push Goliaths forward beneath defensive matrices. Wraiths attacked those Goliaths and found missile turrets waiting behind them. The Skyborne Terrors remained lethal. One tore open a bunker before being killed. Another destroyed two missile turrets and killed their SCV crews. A third survived four direct missile impacts before concentrated Goliath fire finally ripped it apart. StarCraft Co. paid for the compound in people and machinery, but eventually the sky emptied. Marines stormed the remaining Terran structures while demolition teams destroyed the rookery.

Compound Four was where the renegades had put the Tarrasque. The first reconnaissance team thought the scanners were malfunctioning. The ultralisk emerging from the central cavern was enormous even by the standards of its species. Armor covered it in overlapping biological plates thick enough to resemble the hull of a warship. Its kaiser blades were larger than some Terran vehicles. Smaller ultralisks moved around it, many visibly malformed products of the same breeding program. The Tarrasque itself appeared to be the successful specimen. StarCraft Co. attacked cautiously. Siege tanks opened fire from maximum range while infantry remained well behind them. The first salvo struck the creature directly. It continued walking. The second landed around its legs. It accelerated. By the sixth salvo, sections of armor had broken away and exposed tissue beneath. Those wounds were already healing. Machine-gun fire accomplished almost nothing. Goliath autocannons did little better. The Tarrasque crossed ground that should have contained enough artillery fire to kill several ordinary ultralisks and hit the forward siege line at full speed. The commander ordered a retreat. That decision saved the force. Tanks abandoned siege mode while infantry dispersed rather than attempting to hold. Defensive matrices appeared around vehicles nearest the creature, absorbing impacts long enough for some crews to escape. The Tarrasque destroyed three tanks anyway. An ordinary ultralisk accompanying it caught a marine squad and killed most of them. StarCraft Co. withdrew beyond the compound while the creatures returned toward the hive rather than pursue indefinitely.

The commander spent two hours assembling the second assault. This time there would be no attempt to economize. Additional siege tanks arrived from the forward base. Goliaths reinforced both flanks. Science vessels concentrated overhead. SCVs accompanied the formation specifically to repair damaged vehicles during the battle. Marines carried armor-piercing ammunition and demolition charges, although everyone understood that infantry existed primarily to keep smaller organisms away from the artillery. The commander established multiple fallback lines before firing the first shot. The Tarrasque came out again, and every tank fired. The creature disappeared beneath explosions and emerged from them moving forward. Shell after shell struck its armor. Plates shattered. Flesh opened. Flesh closed. Defensive matrices appeared around the forward tanks as the monster approached. The first matrix collapsed beneath a kaiser blade, but the tank underneath survived the blow and reversed while another line fired. StarCraft Co. retreated by design this time. One artillery line fired while another repositioned behind it. Goliaths concentrated on the ordinary ultralisks accompanying the Tarrasque. Marines killed zerglings emerging from the compound. Science vessels continuously shifted defensive matrices onto whatever vehicle the creature was approaching. It still killed people. It still destroyed tanks. Nothing StarCraft Co. possessed could make fighting it safe, but safe wasn't necessary. Only possible. The Tarrasque crossed the first fallback line, then the second. By the third, its armor was mostly gone. By the fourth, one kaiser blade hung uselessly from damaged tissue. It continued regenerating, but the damage was accumulating faster than its body could repair it. Siege rounds struck exposed flesh instead of armor. Goliath fire concentrated on the same wounds. Marines joined in from positions along the canyon walls. The creature reached the final tank line. A defensive matrix absorbed its first strike. Every siege tank still operational fired almost simultaneously. The Tarrasque disappeared beneath the barrage. When the dust cleared, pieces of it covered the desert. Some of those pieces moved. The commander ordered them burned.

StarCraft Co. returned to Compound Four before the renegades could recover from the loss. The remaining ultralisks were dangerous but suddenly ordinary by comparison. Tanks destroyed them from range. Marines and Goliaths wiped out the Terran defenders. Firebats entered the breeding caverns under science-vessel detection while demolition teams planted enough explosives to collapse the entire complex. The commander personally ordered every Tarrasque specimen, tissue culture and genetic sample incinerated before the caverns came down. Four compounds were gone. Only the northern hive remained. Months earlier, the concentration waiting there would have required its own operation. Thousands of zerglings, hundreds of hydralisks, mutalisks and guardians, ultralisks moving among vast fields of creep, spawning pools, hydralisk dens, spires and defensive colonies covered kilometers of desert. It was the kind of Zerg stronghold that could erase a conventional infantry force. StarCraft Co. looked at it and began assigning artillery coordinates. At this point, it was almost clockwork. Science vessels mapped the burrowed organisms. Siege tanks destroyed sunken colonies outside their effective range. Goliaths and missile turrets cleared the air. Firebats and marines handled zerglings that survived long enough to reach the lines. Hydralisks were shelled before they could mass. Ultralisks were isolated and buried beneath concentrated artillery. SCVs repaired the tanks, rebuilt forward positions and converted each captured section of ground into the staging point for the next advance. The hive contracted block by block, defensive layer by defensive layer, until StarCraft Co. reached its center. The spawning pools burned. The dens collapsed. The last surviving organisms were exterminated beneath overlapping fire.

Khamsin was finished. The casualty report was substantial. The Tarrasque alone had cost StarCraft Co. more armor than some previous missions. Skyborne Terrors had butchered infantry before the bunker lines could contain them. Devouring Ones had proven that something the size of a zergling could threaten a siege tank. Hunter Killers remained every bit as dangerous as the six that had first appeared at Kestral. Yet the most important finding came from the research data. The renegades had not perfected any of them. Elite specimens appeared unpredictably. Most breeding attempts produced ordinary organisms, malformed creatures or failures that died before reaching maturity. That was the good news. The bad news was that their success rate was improving.

General Voss called while StarCraft Co. was still loading captured data aboard the transports. “How much survived?” he asked. “Of their research?” the commander replied. “Enough for your people to study.” Voss hesitated. “And the specimens?” The commander looked across the desert. Smoke rose from four ruined compounds and the remains of the northern hive. “None.” Voss visibly relaxed. “Then we got there in time.” “For this one.” The general understood the distinction. “We've already started going through the locations you transmitted. If there are other breeding sites—” “There are.” “You sound certain.” “They built Canaan to produce Zerg by the thousand. They tried to take tens of thousands more on Erebus. They sacrificed a swarm at Kestral to test our defenses. Nobody running an operation at that scale puts all their research on one desert planet.” Voss was silent for several seconds. “We'll find them.” The commander kept his expression neutral. StarCraft Co. had heard variations of that promise before. “Send us the coordinates when you do.”

Voss seemed about to disconnect, then stopped. “There is something else.” A second file appeared on the commander's display, initially marked as a request for contingency support. Voss spoke carefully. “We have a developing security situation on New Carthage. Significant population center. Renegade-associated Zerg activity has been detected outside the metropolitan defensive perimeter.” The commander opened the file. New Carthage wasn't a frontier settlement. It was a major Terran city, home to millions, with industries and transportation infrastructure important to half the sector. “How significant?” he asked. “The situation remains fluid. Local forces are engaged, and Central Command has deployed an appropriate defensive contingent while we assess the enemy's intentions.” The commander scrolled farther. “What's an appropriate contingent?” Voss hesitated just slightly too long. “Enough to maintain the current perimeter while reinforcements are organized.”

The commander reached the force table. He stopped scrolling. There were a handful of regular UIC formations assigned to a city of millions, supplemented by local security units that had never fought anything heavier than civil unrest. Several armored formations listed in the city's defense plan existed only on paper. An orbital-defense squadron had been reassigned months earlier and never replaced. Reserve units were scattered across the planet, with mobilization estimates measured in days. Intelligence was already reporting Zerg concentrations large enough to assault multiple sections of the city simultaneously. “General,” the commander said, keeping his voice carefully neutral, “how soon are those reinforcements actually arriving?” Voss's expression tightened. “We're resolving the deployment schedule now.” “That's not what I asked.” “I know.”

The commander looked again at the numbers. He had seen this before. Kestral had possessed a formidable garrison on paper until someone needed it. Delos had been allowed to disappear because every office assumed another office was handling it. Now the UIC was describing a major city under siege as a developing security situation and a dangerously undermanned defense as an appropriate contingent. The terminology was different. The problem wasn't. Voss finally abandoned the euphemisms. “I need you to finish on Khamsin and be ready to move.” “Are you ordering us to New Carthage?” “Not yet. Officially, Central Command believes the forces already deployed can stabilize the situation.” The commander glanced at the casualty projections accompanying the file. “And unofficially?” Voss looked directly into the camera. “Load your ships.”

The connection ended. Around the commander, StarCraft Co. personnel continued stripping Khamsin of anything useful. SCVs hauled captured data aboard transports. Medical ships received the wounded. Damaged siege tanks were being lifted into cargo bays while engineers argued over which could be repaired during transit. The commander looked once more at the New Carthage deployment table, then forwarded it to his operations staff with instructions to begin planning immediately. The UIC had not asked for help yet. Apparently, doing so would require admitting that one of the largest Terran cities in the sector was being defended by a force wholly inadequate for what was approaching it.

StarCraft Co. had become increasingly good at reading between the lines.

They began loading ammunition.

Aiesha is Lonely

#nsfw #Aiesha

Aiesha sat in her quiet apartment, the whir of the air conditioner and the sounds of the city provided a constant background. She sat in front of her desktop computer, legs spread wide. She was naked, all but her glasses and her curly hair tied back in a bun. She was currently masturbating watching pornography. This was her daily routine without fail.

Today, the audio was low, partly because she didn't want her neighbors to hear, but mostly today, she just wasn't feeling the constraint of her headphones. Fatigued from her call center job, wearing headphones for hours at home just felt out of the question today. In fact now, wearing anything was a burden most days.

Every day of the week, Aiesha went work, talked to strangers, and just checked out mentally until she was needed. She was the manager of a technology call center. Years of help-desk tickets and high scores lead her to the natural path of managing a small army of college graduates trying to get by and meet their numbers to pay off their student loans.

It wasn't glamorous, but it kept the bills paid even if it was almost paycheck to paycheck for her. That's part of the reason why she stayed home with porn. There wasn't much left in her budget worth doing.

She didn't keep up with her old friends. They all had long lasting relationships that all grew into secure marriages and loving homes. Then she lost touch entirely. Half by choice. Other half by circumstance.

Right now, she had no boyfriend or family close by for any real support. Honestly, everything was on her to maintain and figure out. So out of survival, she learned to thrive in isolation, she preferred it that way. She's been through enough.

Her past was a war zone of social and psychological traumas she dare never visit again, no matter how lonely she might be. At least she wasn't triggered or reminded about her past and all the things that went so terribly wrong. At least now she can fuck her dildo harder and it all goes away if she just focuses more on screens with porn playing nonstop.

She had almost no interest in dating anymore. Her last two dates proved one thing. After you turn 40, shit is pretty damn abysmal. Everyone is traumatized, fake, and out of tune with their actions and intentions. She didn't have time for that anymore. Every time she went out to go on an empty date, she regretted not staying home with her toys lost in pleasure.

She realized one fundamental truth. Porn was a better boyfriend. In fact, porn was better than her ex-husband.

A few years ago, Aiehsa was married. It didn't last long. Her first major mistake was she settled. The social pressure from her friends didn't make it any easier. So she listened to them, hoping for the best.

Daniel felt secure enough. He had a job and a small amount of financial security. His ambitions and bad jokes sometimes made her smile. He seemed safer than what she had dealt with in the past. That's what she told herself. Initially, he was dependable, charming, and caring. But after the wedding, things began to change dramatically. And then they went nuclear.

She still remembered after a few months, she started running herself ragged, pretending everything was okay in the marriage. It wasn't. It's as if a switch flipped once they moved in together. Things slowly escalated. The fights started, then got worse, and then he hit her.

That very night, Aiesha didn't hesitate to set her exit strategy in motion.

Being the calculated person she was, Aiesha didn't react when it happened. Of course it hurt her, of course it frightened her. But that wasn't the time to fall apart. Not yet.

She didn't cry. She didn't retaliate; in fact she just locked eyes with him, rubbed her face to make sure there was no blood, and started cleaning again in pure silence. Daniel stood there remorseful, expecting some kind of backlash or some kind of reaction. Aiesha just cleaned in silence. In her mind, the marriage was over. There was no fixing this, her mind was already made up. She just needed a few more steps to be ready.

Every day after that, when Daniel was at work, she used her vacation days to set up her new apartment. She would get dressed, pretend to go to work, grab some breakfast, shed a tear and prepare for her move out. Daniel had a business trip that weekend and the timing was perfect.

She maintained appearances, still silent, moving things he didn't notice, leaving things that didn't matter anymore. Still getting dressed for work like she always did. He didn't know she was spending those 8 hours doing something else. At home, she completely ignored Daniel. After Wednesday he stopped trying to initiate a conversation. Aiesha slept in the guest bedroom.

On Friday, Daniel went on his business trip. Once he texted that he was on the plane, she marked his message as 'read' and picked up her moving truck. Moving alone was her thing. She never bought anything she couldn't move or carry by herself. She had always been hyper-independent. It's a shame she had to use that skill again.

By Sunday evening she finished moving into her new apartment. She left his keys on the kitchen counter, forfeiting the house and their down payment they saved together. A small note saying “It's over.” was left out in the open for him to find.

She locked the door behind her, blocked everyone on her phone that didn't matter anymore, deleted most of her social media, and nuked her savings to pay for a lawyer. She wanted to get this over quickly.

This is also why she never kept up with her friends. They pushed her into this situation. She blamed them for telling her to ignore her gut instincts. Telling her to get married like everyone else in their 30s. They were all blocked now. She wanted a fresh start.

She really thought she had made it, she finally integrated. Finally was winning at life. But she did it for status and because that's what she was told to do, and she paid dearly for it. People were no longer safe. All of them.

Her divorce was finalized in less than a month.

Daniel didn't fight her. She did bare minimum contact to get the legal paperwork done. He was completely blocked soon after. She changed her number and shortly after legally changed her name back to reclaim everything.

The day she got the papers, she felt a weight lift off of her. That same night, she unpacked her last box, finished decorating her apartment. She stood proud. Accomplished. She had closed a chapter.

Suddenly, wave of emotion crashed over her. She collapsed to her knees, curled up in a ball and cried. She never gave herself a chance to process her emotions and what she had gone through... She just had to push through until the divorce was done. The battle was over and the mind finally got the memo from her broken heart.

As she curled and sobbed, her hands roamed her body for comfort. She always did that, for as long as she remembered when she was said. It was something like giving herself a hug. But this was different this time.

She wanted to touch herself, feel bare skin, feel warmth and comfort, not fabric. Through her tears, her hands roamed around, going under her shirt, under her bra, holding her nipples, another hand going down under her panties.

She didn't fight the urge to touch herself. It felt good.

She had not masturbated or done anything sexual for months because of the constant stress before the incident. Even though she was totally out of it, she was equally horny now that she was alone.

Now there was a dull aching call to action for comfort coming from between her legs. She wanted more.

Aiesha took her clothes off, and felt relief almost immediately. Her hands now free to roam her brown naked body. The euphoric rush of stripping hit different. Like it was something new. Something transformative.

Almost immediately, she decided to go back to her old comfort. Something she missed more than anything else. Something would always see her through the dark times. Pornography.

She quit watching porn when she started dating Daniel, thinking she could put it aside to be present for her partner. Thinking he would be everything she needed, she thought she wouldn't have to worry about porn anymore. She regretted it after she moved in with him.

She used to have terabytes of porn saved; she had her own little digital shrine that she quietly deleted. It was curated, documented, and treasured. Everything she collected back then, she had watched and rubbed through at least once. She had many orgasms and many memories. She had that collection since she graduated college, and it was her secret hobby for so long. And she gave it all up for Daniel. She gave up a piece of herself for him.

She wiped the hard drives and sold them for extra cash thinking that chapter in her life was over. Secretly, she missed collecting porn. So many videos lost to time that were no longer online anymore. Not again.

The urge felt different now.

She got up, wiped away her tears, and walked to her computer desk. Leaving her clothes where they were, she sat in front of her PC, settling into her familiar office chair. One hand rested on her throbbing womanhood, still damp from her tears, while the other hand gripped her mouse.

She pulled her old porn sites and bookmarks from backups. They welcomed her home. A tiny time capsule of simpler times before Daniel. She lost hours to the screens before. She decided to do it all again.

“No more,” The thought to herself. “I'm not quitting porn ever again.”

I think it was from a video from Cozy RPG Reviews, and a Solo RPG Adventure from someone else, where the idea of running not as player emulating GM, but as a GM emulating the player’s actions.

Sadly I do not remember which video from Cozry RPG Review, even if it was from him, nor from which channel came the Solo Adventure.

What I do remember, the former described having a group of players, with defined wants and won’ts, that would affect the outcome of the rolls; the later had the GM rolling to decided the “player” character actions/choices, rather than the rolling the outcome of the player’s decisions.

These two gave the idea that maybe it is possible to play as a GM, and emulate the players, and I think Legends in the Mist (LitM) kind have what is needed to make it work.

In LitM, your player is characterised by four theme cards, each with three positive attributes/aspects, and one negative, plus a quest. These cards could be about their background, profession, ancestry, important heirloom, etc.

The way it would work, you would create a group of, say, four players, each player is made up of a card, similar to LitM. Each card would have three positive themes, one negative theme, plus a quest. With one of the four themes being the defining characteristic of the hero, that which comes to the mind of a stranger upon first meeting them. It is recommended that this be a positive theme.

An example: Veteran Soldier (major), Noble Born, Learned, Drunkard (negative), with a quest to “Retake his family lands.”

Each one of the themes is a broad as it needs be. The Veteran Soldier could imply the character to be a leader of men, able to rally people behind his sword, as well as imply he has a full armour and weapon set alongside a horse; while Noble Born could mean he knows people of importance and that guards would overlook minor misdemeanour. Finally, the Drunkard could mean he can never say no to alcohol, would always find trouble in taverns, is easily intoxicated.

You as the GM, would present the plot, and decide possible threads for the heroes to follow. If any one hero is strongly linked to it, – based on their themes, they would take certain actions. If more than one hero has a link, and they are conflicting, a roll of dice would determine which would prevail.

For this, the same mechanic for LitM could work, roll two d6s, add or subtract 1 to the result, based on the positive and negative themes. In LitM, the result being above 10, would mean success; between 6 and 10, success with a cost; 6 or under, failure.

This will work for individual challenges, whereas direct confrontation between party members goals, the higher result would prevail, and in case of a tie, whoever had the most absolute number of themes used. I.e: a hero using a positive and a negative theme would win against one using only a single positive.

This is to mean that hero put more of themself into achieving the desired goal. If that is equal, negative trumps positive, for even with the drawback, the hero still pushed forward. If tied still, roll again.

An alternative to this roll, is rolling one d6 and two d8s. Adding/subtracting to the d6 result to get the player result. Equal or higher than both d8s, success, equal or higher than one d8 but lower than the other, success at a cost, lower than both d8s, failure.

A third possible solution, roll two d6s. If the sum higher than 6, success; lower, failure. Double 4s, 5s, and 6s on success roll, critical success; double 3s or 2s roll, success at a cost; double 1s, critical failure. Add/subtract the bonus from themes: A result of [2][2]+2 would mean a critical success. These last way of rolling I just came up with while writing this. It may be too cumbersome and needlessly complicated. Maybe remove the middle doubles, a total of 2: critical failure, while a result of 12: critical success. Bonus do not apply for these).

LitM also have the mechanic of burning a tag. I don’t quite remember how it works in there, but in here, it could be used to give a second wind to the hero, the burnt theme wound not be available for use for the duration of the session/adventure.

I imagine it could work in the case where the adventure would end, or the hero would die. They don’t, but loose something significant. Even in the case of a TPK in a combat situation, each participating hero burns a theme, and they “win”. This might be too much, but it is an idea to keep the story going, and there is just so many themes to burn.

#RPG #SoloRPG #PlayerlessRPG #SoloDM #SoloGM

I woke up about an hour ago. i have nothing interesting to tell you, i am writing now because i know that if i wait until later, i will still have nothing interesting to tell you. at least this way,i can pretend i was productive about it. i already know how today will go. work, the usual. nothing fascinating. nothing worth making a note of, i will do what needs to be done, come back, complain about something insignificant, and somehow convince myself that this was a day worth documenting. thats it. well, besides that. i did notice something, i saw it, i noticed it. she said otherwise. i might be ill. i might be sick. i might be tired enough that my brain has started making observations it has no business making. but im aware. you can claim that im dumb, foolish. call me whatever you like. do whatever you like. i am still aware. i may be slow, miss things. but im not as idiotic as you might think i am. i know what i noticed. i know when something does not quite add up. anyway, Theres something deeply comforting about having a hot cup of tea and pretending the rest of the day can wait until you’ve finished it. i like tea. thats is all.

And to all my coffee drinkers, keep pretending you actually like the taste and arent just drinking roasted asphalt to survive the consequences of your own poor life choices, sponsored by a fragile facade of productivity.

Sincerely, with tea in my hand, your daily headache.

In Summary: * A typically quiet Sunday here. Enjoyed watching the Freedom 250 Grand Prix IndyCar race, and enjoyed following the Rangers in their 5 to 3 win over the Angels. And I've mostly avoided going outside into the weather today.

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.

Health Metrics: * bw= 225.53 lbs. * bp= 140/83 (67)

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

Diet: * 08:10 – 1 banana * 08:45 – 2 little cupcakes * 10:00 – chicken lasagna * 13:00 – 1 more little cupcake * 14:00 – 1 fresh orange * 14:20 – snacking on cheese and saltine crackers * 15:00 – bowl of home made meat and vegetable soup

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 03:30 – wake up * 04:20 – bank accounts activity monitored * 04:40 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 11:00 – watching prerace coverage then the running itself of the IndyCar Freedom 250 Grand Prix * 13:35 – multi-tasking, still following the live running Freedom 250 Grand Prix on the TV, now also following the MLB Rangers vs. Angels game, which is now starting via MLB's Gameday Service on a laptop. * 15:00 – congrats to Kyle Kirkwood, winner of today's Freedom 250 Grand Prix. That was a great race to follow, but now I can concenrate on my baseball game. * 16:25 – and the Rangers win this one. Final score: Rangers 5, Angels 3. * 16:30 – following news reports from various sources, surfing the socials

Chess: * 12:30 – moved in all pending CC games, winning one, losing another, and adding one new game

Chapter 1: The Message You Keep Checking For

You look at your phone again, even though you already know there is nothing there. No apology. No message that says, “I understand what I did.” No sign that the other person has spent even five minutes thinking about the hurt they left behind. You tell yourself not to check again, but some part of you is still waiting for one sentence that might make the whole thing easier to carry. That quiet waiting is where this Jesus-centered message about forgiving someone who is not sorry meets real life, because forgiveness sounds very different when the person who hurt you is still acting as if nothing happened.

Maybe you have tried to be mature about it. You went to work, answered people normally, paid the bills, made dinner, and did what needed to be done. Then something small brings it back. A song comes on. A name appears on the screen. You pass a place that holds a memory. Suddenly the old question is sitting beside you again: How am I supposed to forgive someone who will not even admit they were wrong? That question belongs beside the deeper struggle of forgiving while protecting your heart, because forgiveness becomes confusing when people treat it as permission for the damage to continue.

I think this is one of the places where Jesus is easier to admire than to follow. It is moving to hear Him say, “Father, forgive them,” while He is being crucified. It is much harder to remember that the people around Him were not standing there apologizing. They were mocking Him. Some were gambling for His clothing. Others had helped create the injustice that put Him on the cross. Jesus did not call evil good, and He did not pretend cruelty was kindness. Yet He refused to let their lack of repentance decide what would grow inside Him. Their behavior remained wrong, but it did not receive authority over His heart.

That matters because resentment often begins as a demand for justice. At first, it may not even feel like bitterness. It feels reasonable. You want the truth recognized. You want someone to say that what happened was real and that it hurt you. There is something deeply human about wanting the person who caused the wound to help repair it. The danger comes when your healing becomes chained to a person who may never become willing to do that. Their apology starts to feel like a key, and without realizing it, you hand them the lock to your peace.

Picture the drive home after a long day when your mind starts replaying the conversation again. You think of what you should have said. You imagine what they might finally say if they understood. You rehearse the apology you deserved. By the time you pull into the driveway, the person is not in the car with you, but they have taken the whole ride. That is what unresolved hurt can do. It can keep using your time even when the event itself is over. Jesus does not ask us to deny that pain. He invites us to stop giving it unlimited room.

That freedom does not require you to feel warm toward the person who hurt you. It does not mean the memory stops hurting today, and it does not mean you call them, invite them back into your life, or act as though trust has been restored. Forgiveness is not the same thing as reconciliation. Reconciliation needs honesty and participation from both sides. Trust needs evidence over time. Access to your life can change when someone has shown that they are careless with your heart. Forgiveness can begin somewhere quieter, when you stop making your peace wait on their character.

That may be one of the hardest decisions you ever make. You may have spent months believing that if they would just apologize, you could finally move forward. But some people never understand what they did. Some tell the story in a way that protects themselves. Some avoid responsibility because admitting the truth would require them to change. If your peace depends completely on their growth, you may be waiting for something you cannot control. I do not believe Jesus asks you to hand another person that much power over the rest of your life.

Anger can make us feel as though we are still defending the truth, especially when nobody else seems to recognize what happened. But releasing anger does not erase the wound. God saw it even if the other person never admits it. You can remember what happened without feeding the memory every day. You can become wiser without becoming harder. Forgiveness may begin with one quiet prayer in a room where nobody else hears you: “Jesus, I do not know how to let this go yet, but I do not want what they did to become part of who I am.”

You may wake up tomorrow and feel angry again. You may remember the conversation next week while washing dishes or sitting at a red light. Healing can be slower than the decision to forgive, and that does not make the decision false. Something important changes when you stop waiting for another person’s apology to give you permission to heal. You begin placing your future back into the hands of God instead of leaving it in the hands of someone who may never say the words you hoped to hear.

Chapter 2: What Forgiveness Does Not Give Back

The next morning can be strangely ordinary. The coffee maker clicks off. The house is quiet. You stand at the counter and realize that nothing outside you has changed. The person who hurt you is still not sorry. There is no new message, no admission, no sudden sign that they finally understand. And yet something inside you is beginning to shift, because you are no longer asking the same question. Instead of, “When will they make this right?” you begin asking, “What do I need to do with this pain so it does not keep deciding who I become?”

That question is not a shortcut. Forgiveness does not erase the need for wisdom. If someone has shown you that they lie, manipulate, explode in anger, disappear when you need them, or return only when they want something, forgiving them does not require you to ignore the pattern. Jesus was loving, but He was not careless with trust. He could show mercy and still recognize what was in a person’s heart. We can do the same without becoming cold.

A woman may forgive a family member who has spoken cruelly to her for years and still decide that every phone call does not need to be answered. A man may forgive a friend who betrayed a confidence and still stop sharing private parts of his life with that person. Someone may forgive a former spouse and still keep communication limited to what is necessary. Those choices are not evidence that forgiveness failed. Sometimes they are evidence that forgiveness has become honest enough to include boundaries.

This is where many people become confused, because they think forgiveness should make everything return to the way it was. But some things should not return to the way they were. If trust was broken, rebuilding it requires more than a warm moment. If a relationship became unsafe, distance may be wise. If someone repeatedly refuses responsibility, pretending the relationship is healthy can become another way of avoiding the truth. Jesus never asked us to confuse love with pretending.

There is also a quieter struggle that happens inside us. You may forgive someone and still want them to understand what they lost. You may imagine them eventually realizing your value, regretting what they did, or finally seeing the situation clearly. That is understandable, but it can keep you tied to them in another way. You are still waiting for their mind to change so your heart can rest. Sometimes freedom means releasing not only the apology, but also the fantasy that one day they will fully understand.

A father may sit alone after everyone else has gone to bed, thinking about an adult child who barely speaks to him. He knows he made mistakes and has apologized for his part, but there are also accusations he believes are unfair. He wants to defend himself. He wants one final conversation where everything is cleared up. Instead, he is left with silence. In that kind of pain, forgiveness can mean resisting the urge to win the case in your own head every night. It can mean giving God the parts of the story you cannot force anyone else to hear.

Jesus knew what it was like to be misunderstood. People assigned motives to Him that were not true. Religious leaders accused Him falsely. Even people close to Him did not always understand what He was doing. Yet He did not spend His life trying to control every person’s opinion. That is a hard lesson for anyone who has been wounded by someone else’s version of the story. You may never be able to correct every misunderstanding. You may never get a fair hearing. Your peace cannot depend on winning every argument that exists in another person’s mind.

Prayer becomes different here. It stops being only, “God, make them see what they did,” and becomes, “God, help me live well even if they never do.” That prayer is not surrendering truth. It is surrendering control. It is admitting that another person’s conscience belongs to God, while your own heart is your responsibility.

There may still be consequences. There may still be conversations that need to happen. You may still need to say no, document what happened, seek counsel, step away, or protect someone else from being hurt. Forgiveness does not cancel action. It changes the spirit in which you act. You can pursue what is right without making revenge your fuel.

Imagine sitting in your car before walking into work because you know you may see the person who embarrassed you in front of others. Your stomach tightens as you reach for the door handle. Forgiveness in that moment may not feel spiritual at all. It may simply mean deciding, “I will not let their behavior choose mine today.” You can be calm without being fake. You can be civil without pretending closeness. You can keep your dignity without needing to punish them.

That kind of forgiveness is not passive. It takes strength. Resentment can feel powerful because it keeps the offense close and keeps us ready to defend ourselves. But carrying anger all the time is exhausting. It keeps the body tense and the mind occupied. Jesus offers another kind of strength: the ability to tell the truth, keep wise boundaries, and still refuse to become consumed by hatred.

You may not know when you have fully forgiven someone. There may not be a clear moment when every feeling changes. Sometimes you notice it later. Their name comes up, and your chest does not tighten the way it used to. You remember what happened, but you no longer spend the next hour replaying it. You stop checking whether they are sorry. You stop hoping life will punish them in some visible way. The memory becomes part of your story without remaining the center of it.

That is often what healing looks like. Not forgetting. Not excusing. Not rebuilding every relationship. Just becoming free enough to live the life in front of you.

If you are carrying someone’s lack of apology today, you do not have to force yourself into a feeling you do not have. Start smaller. Tell Jesus the truth about your anger. Ask Him to help you separate forgiveness from trust, mercy from access, and love from denial. Ask Him to show you where a boundary is needed and where resentment is only keeping an old wound open.

The person who hurt you may never become sorry. They may never understand. They may never give you the words you deserved to hear. But they do not have to own the next chapter of your life.

You can leave the door to apology open without standing in the doorway forever.

Your friend,

Douglas Vandergraph

Explore the complete Douglas Vandergraph Master Index:

https://douglasvandergraph.com/douglas-vandergraph-master-index/

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s faith-based videos on YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Them! – 1954 was nothing compared to real ants!

We fought ants all summer. It started when we came back from Europe and they had discovered the cat’s auto-feeder.

We moved it. So did they. Then we started putting out food, watching cat eat, and putting leftovers away. Like a human would do.

The ants got mad and attacked pantries, drawers, bags, bottles. Hell, we even found a few in the fridge.

They are IMPRESSIVELY industrious.

We tried diatomaceous earth, but they have to walk through it and it only effects a few. If it gets wet: worthless. And it gets everywhere. And it’s indiscriminate: we don’t want to hurts spiders or lizards.

Enter: MOM'S RECIPE FOR ANT DISASTER!

It works. Every time. Feel sort of bad, but in this case, the needs of the few outweigh the need of the many.

Ingredients & Measurements

Warm water: ¾ cup Granulated sugar: ¼ cup (acts as the attractant) Borax (sodium tetraborate): ¾ teaspoon to 1 tablespoon (acts as the slow-acting toxicant)

Instruction: Heat the water slightly so the particulate dissolve easily, but do not boil.

Mix the sugar and borax into the warm water. Stir continually until both are completely dissolved.

Soak cotton balls or paper towels in the sweet, medicated solution.

Place the traps in shallow lids or on small pieces of card near ant trails or entry points.

I put mine in empty jars with holes in the lid.

How it works: The high ratio of sugar attracts worker ants. They ingest the liquid and carry it back to share with the queen and the rest of the colony. The slow action ensures they make it back to the nest before dying.

Keep away from pets and kids: Borax is toxic if swallowed. Place the cotton balls out of reach of dogs, cats, and young children.

Replenish as needed: The cotton balls may dry out after a day or two. Add a few drops of water or fresh solution to keep them moist.

At first the ants go nuts. Then in a day or two, the nest dies and they are gone.

Chapter 1: The Fear of Asking Whether the Rule Is Still Serving Love

You can sit in a church parking lot long after everyone else has gone home and still feel as if you have somehow failed God. Maybe you missed a meeting because your child was sick. Maybe you stopped volunteering because you were exhausted. Maybe someone made a comment that sounded small but stayed with you all week. By the time you turn the key in the ignition, the question is no longer about the meeting, the schedule, or what anybody said. The question is whether being tired, confused, or unable to keep up means you are becoming less faithful.

That is one reason I keep coming back to the moment Jesus confronted religious authority without losing compassion. I do not come back to it because I want an excuse to reject every rule or dismiss every tradition. I come back because there are seasons when a person needs to know that Jesus can challenge a religious expectation without abandoning God. In fact, sometimes He challenges the expectation because He is protecting what God cared about in the first place.

That also connects with the deeper question of what happens when faith becomes more about performance than love. Some people know that pressure very well. They learned how to look faithful before they learned how to be honest. They learned which words sounded spiritual, which doubts were safer to keep private, and which struggles made other people uncomfortable. Over time, they began to wonder whether Jesus was asking them to carry all that weight or whether some of it had been added by people who meant well but had forgotten the heart of what they were trying to protect.

This is where the Gospel stories become personal. Jesus was Jewish. He grew up inside Jewish life, worshiped in Jewish settings, knew the Hebrew Scriptures, and participated in Jewish religious practice. When He argued with Pharisees, scribes, or other religious leaders, He was not standing outside Judaism mocking it. These were arguments inside His own religious world. That matters because it keeps us from turning His confrontations into an attack on Jewish people. It also turns the mirror back toward every religious community, including Christianity. The real question is not, “What was wrong with them?” The better question is, “Where do we still make the same mistake?”

One Sabbath, Jesus entered a synagogue and saw a man with a damaged hand. The atmosphere was already tense. People were watching to see whether Jesus would heal him on the Sabbath. Imagine that room for a moment. A hurting man is standing there, but the attention has shifted away from his pain and toward whether Jesus will violate an accepted interpretation of the rules. The man has become almost secondary to the argument.

That is the kind of moment Jesus would not ignore. He brought the man forward. He asked whether it was lawful on the Sabbath to do good or to do harm, to save life or to kill. Then He healed him. Jesus did not treat the Sabbath as meaningless. He treated human need as something the Sabbath was never meant to erase.

I think about the person who spent three months caring for an aging parent and slowly disappeared from church activities. At first, people checked in. Later, some of the messages changed. “We haven’t seen you.” “You need to stay connected.” “Don’t let this season pull you away.” None of those sentences are automatically cruel. But when that person is sleeping four hours a night, cleaning up medication bottles, answering insurance calls, and trying not to cry in the grocery store, what sounds like encouragement can start to feel like one more demand.

Jesus makes me ask a harder question in a situation like that. Is the goal to get that person back into a routine as quickly as possible, or is the goal to help carry the burden? Are we protecting attendance, appearance, and normal patterns, or are we protecting the person? There are times when love will eventually help someone return to healthy rhythms. But love begins by seeing what is actually happening.

That is what I find so powerful about Jesus in these confrontations. He was not impressed by religious behavior that made people easier to overlook. He could see the rule, the tradition, the expectation, and the person standing underneath all of it. He kept bringing the person back into view.

There is a quiet freedom in that. You do not have to become cynical about faith in order to be honest about religious pressure. You do not have to throw away every tradition to admit that traditions can be mishandled. You do not have to become hostile toward religious leaders to recognize that leaders can become so focused on preserving order that they miss the person in front of them.

And you do not have to be afraid of Jesus when you are tired of pretending. The Jesus who challenged religious authority was not trying to make wounded people feel smaller. He was exposing the kind of religion that could stand next to suffering and still be more concerned about being technically correct.

Sometimes the first step back toward God is not trying harder. Sometimes it is asking whether the weight you are carrying came from Him at all.

Chapter 2: When Being Right Starts Making Us Less Kind

A man sits at his desk after a difficult meeting and replays one sentence in his head. He knows he defended the right policy. He knows the rule exists for a reason. He knows the other person should have handled the situation differently. Still, something bothers him. The conversation was technically correct, but it was not kind. He won the point and lost the person. By the time he drives home, he is wondering whether being right can become its own kind of blindness.

That question belongs inside faith too. Religious people can become so concerned with correct behavior that we stop noticing what our correctness is doing to the people around us. We can quote the verse, defend the tradition, explain the standard, and still leave someone feeling unseen. Jesus confronted that kind of failure because He understood that truth was never meant to become a weapon for the ego.

In Matthew 23, Jesus spoke strongly to religious leaders who paid careful attention to small matters while neglecting what He called the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faithfulness. The problem was not that details never mattered. The problem was that details had become easier to manage than the deeper work of becoming a person who was just, merciful, and faithful.

That can happen quietly. A parent may become so focused on a teenager using the right language about faith that the parent stops hearing the fear underneath the teenager's questions. A church member may become so determined to protect what is proper that a divorced woman begins to feel as if every room she enters comes with an unspoken judgment. A Christian may spend more energy correcting another person's theology online than praying for the person behind the screen.

None of this means truth is unimportant. Jesus did not lower truth in order to raise compassion. He joined them. That is what makes His example more demanding than either extreme. It is easier to become harsh and call it conviction. It is also easier to avoid difficult truth and call it kindness. Jesus did neither.

He could look directly at hypocrisy and name it. He could also eat with people others considered sinful. He could challenge a religious leader and still make time for someone desperate enough to push through a crowd. He could speak about repentance without treating broken people as disposable.

That gives us a better test for our own religious instincts. When I feel the need to correct someone, I have to ask what I am trying to protect. Am I protecting the heart of God, or am I protecting my need to feel superior? Am I trying to help this person move toward truth, or am I trying to prove that I understand more than they do?

Those questions are uncomfortable because motives are rarely clean. Sometimes we care about truth and our pride at the same time. Sometimes we want to help and also want to win. That is why following Jesus requires more than knowing the right answer. It requires enough humility to notice what is happening inside us while we are giving it.

I have seen this most clearly in ordinary conversations where nobody raises their voice. Someone shares that prayer has felt empty lately. The fastest response is to tell them to pray more. Someone says they are angry with God. The safe religious response is to correct the anger. Someone admits they have not been to church in months. The easy response is to explain why they should return.

But maybe the first faithful response is to stay in the chair. Maybe it is to ask what happened. Maybe it is to let the silence last long enough for the real story to come out.

Jesus often made room for the person before He addressed the problem. That does not weaken truth. It makes truth more likely to be heard because the person knows they have been seen.

There is a difference between standing for God and standing over people. One carries conviction with humility. The other uses conviction to create distance. Jesus kept collapsing that distance. He stepped toward the sick, the ashamed, the doubtful, the unpopular, and the spiritually confused. The people most certain of their own righteousness were often the ones He challenged hardest.

That is worth remembering the next time we are sure we are right. The question is not only whether our position is correct. The question is whether the way we carry it looks anything like Jesus.

Chapter 3: The Kind of Faith That Leaves Room for a Person

A woman stands at the kitchen sink with her phone resting beside a stack of unopened mail. She has been avoiding one conversation for days. Someone she loves has made a choice she does not agree with, and she is afraid that saying what she believes will push them farther away. She is also afraid that saying nothing will feel dishonest. The water keeps running while she tries to decide whether faithfulness means speaking harder or loving more carefully.

Jesus gives us another way to think about that moment. He never treated love and truth as enemies. He did not soften everything until nothing mattered, and He did not turn truth into a reason to become cold. He stayed close enough to people to tell them the truth without forgetting that they were people first.

That matters because many of us learned to measure faithfulness by how firmly we defended a position. Jesus seems to ask something deeper. Can you remain truthful without becoming cruel? Can you remain compassionate without pretending that every choice is good? Can you stay present when another person is confused, defensive, angry, or not ready to hear what you hope they will understand?

Those questions move faith out of theory and into the kitchen, the office, the family group text, the hospital waiting room, and the quiet drive home. It is one thing to admire the courage of Jesus when He confronted religious leaders. It is another thing to let His courage change the way we speak when we feel disappointed, threatened, or certain that somebody else is wrong.

Sometimes the most Christlike thing we can do is slow down long enough to see the whole person. A coworker may be difficult because they are carrying pressure you cannot see. A family member may be resisting faith because their experience of religion was tied to shame. A friend may be asking questions that sound rebellious when they are really trying to find out whether God is safe enough to approach honestly.

Seeing the person does not require approving everything. It requires refusing to reduce someone to the part of their life that frustrates us.

That is one of the clearest lessons I take from the way Jesus confronted religious practice. He kept pulling attention back to what mattered most. When rules became more important than mercy, He challenged the rules as they were being used. When tradition became a way to avoid responsibility, He exposed it. When religious status became a shield for pride, He named the pride. And when ordinary people were pushed to the edges, He kept moving toward them.

That should make Christians careful with power, including the small kinds of power we carry in everyday relationships. A parent has power in a child's life. A leader has power in a room. A longtime church member can shape whether a newcomer feels welcomed or watched. Even a sentence spoken casually can either open a door or make someone feel that they have already been judged.

I do not want a faith that helps me win arguments while making me harder to be around. I do not want to defend Jesus in a way that looks nothing like Jesus. I want a faith strong enough to tell the truth, humble enough to examine itself, and gentle enough to remember that every person in front of me has a story I do not fully know.

That may be the quiet invitation inside these confrontations. Before we use Jesus against someone else, we can let Him question us. Before we point toward another person's hypocrisy, we can ask where our own habits have become more important than mercy. Before we speak, we can ask whether our words are trying to restore, protect, clarify, or simply win.

Jesus did not confront religious authority because He hated religion. He confronted what happened when religion lost sight of God and people. His strength was never separated from compassion. His courage was never an excuse for contempt.

If we follow Him, that same tension belongs to us. We can hold convictions without holding people at a distance. We can challenge what is wrong without enjoying another person's humiliation. We can value tradition without worshiping it. We can keep truth in our hands without turning it into a stone.

And when we are unsure what faithfulness looks like, we can return to the question Jesus kept forcing into the room: Is what I am doing helping me love God and love the person in front of me more faithfully?

That question will not make every decision easy. But it can keep our faith human. It can keep our convictions from becoming pride. And it can keep us close to the Jesus who was strong enough to confront religious power while still making room for the person everyone else had stopped seeing.

Your friend,

Douglas Vandergraph

Explore the complete Douglas Vandergraph Master Index: https://douglasvandergraph.com/douglas-vandergraph-master-index/

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

I

Jo said it took her two years to get the garden just right, said the HOA never did nothin'. Jo dyes her hair a deep auburn — I ask if she's going to the picnic.

II

More than two thousand, maybe more, submitted applications for the Ridglan Beagles.

III

I know it's Fanny as I hear her sneakers squeak outside my condo. She wakes every morning, spends time with her bible, then does her exercises — socks up to her sagging kneecaps.

IV

Jo's succulents are in the back of her bungalow, and I want to ask if she spends time with them. They are so beautiful at night, when the path lights them like gargoyles.

V

A woman who adopted a Beagle had disappeared in a four-man home. She said, when I saw the Beagles I knew our family needed one. She envisions taking B on walks alone.

VI

Fanny walks back and forth on the concrete, beside the wall that separates us from the car condos. They will have full bathrooms, to sleep or do blow in. You can't have both.

VII

Terry sits in a wheelchair, wears a diaper. He's got Jo's broom between his legs, to push dirt off the walk. It ends up under his slippers.

VIII

Another Beagle in Dane County waits, her coat matted and wet.

IX

Fanny doesn't like the HOA people, but she doesn't know how to work them like I do. I bribe them to pull my dead plants, introduce myself.

X

Sometimes I see Terry's wheelchair outside, sitting by itself. There are Hydrangeas all over the complex, — vain, heartless, apologetic.

#poetry

I’ve noticed I don’t care at all if someone takes weeks to message me back on Hinge or something like that because I’m not at all waiting for any messages. I wonder if this is not caring in a good way or in a way that just avoids pain.

When Henry Patton had told his mistress Maevin Maer he wanted to be more of a true lord of the estate, the young Terran had no idea how much paperwork would come with it. It felt like from morning to evening, there was some sort of document being added to his tablet or piece of paper being provided that needed his attention. He did his best not to complain, but Henry had caught the looks of pity on Siv's pretty face a few times already. At the moment, he was looking down at a document that was telling him the status of all the estates under his estate's authority and what they had been up to.

It was boring.

I guess boring is a good thing, he thought to himself. That means nobody is actually gunning for us.

The whole fiasco with Neeza Tavik and Princess Fanina Vaesh was quite a few months earlier. There hadn't been any other attempts that he was aware of, but that didn't mean they weren't coming for him. Henry put down the pad and leaned back in his chair, the soft leather material holding him gently.

How long had it been since he saw home? Henry had promised a year to High Baron Hesh Avernell but hadn't realized he had promised a Victory year. One year on this planet was three years back at home. No wonder his fiance's family were complaining. Henry hadn't realized how much pressure he had put on his family with this choice.

I don't regret it, he thought to himself and before the thought about leaving could come to mind, he quickly banished it.

Sighing, the Terran lord leaned forward to pick up his tablet again when the door of his office creaked open. Looking up, he found no one standing there but lowered his gaze to see a pair of pink eyes looking at him. They were set into the cute face of a young girl who could not have been more than six or seven. She wore a tan shirt with a match skirt that had patches of dark pink in it. It had the distinct asymmetrical cut along the shoulder and skirt that was definitely of Xaltean fashion and what appeared to be sneakers. A large pink bow took up most of her orange hair. She was not dressed like a maid but rather an ordinary little girl.

“ho. nata taveluxilvi. leva benea tavelu mive sabve?“

Henry blinked before his brain kicked into gear as she spoke again.

“Hi. I'm lost. Can you help me find my mom?” she said again, her eyes getting bigger and more nervous. Henry smiled at her and stood. Having grown up around a lot of large families, children were not something strange to him.

“Of course. Do you know where you last saw her?”

“No,” she said with a shake of her head causing the curls to bounce.

“What about your dad?”

“He's in the military somewhere else.”

“Do you know where she works?” Henry asked walking up to her and crouching down. The girl shook her head again though her eyes grew a bit watery.

“Don't worry,” Henry said crouching down to eye level. “We'll find her. What's your name?”

“Vevet.”

“Well, Vevet. I'm Henry. Let's go see if we can find her.”

As Henry pushed the door open, Vevet grabbed his hand and held on tight. Who knew how long she had been wandering the hallways, and how did she get past the maids? As he walked down the gray marble hallways, he found that there were almost no maids around. Glancing at his watch, he saw it showed the numbers 3.0.4.0. That placed the estate in the middle of their shift change which meant briefings and getting things ready. A very good chance a small child could have slipped through unnoticed.

Henry really didn't have any idea where to go next, so he just walked towards the outer patio in hopes that maybe Vevet would spot her mother but as the sunshine hit his face, he found nobody there. Further up the path that wrapped around towards the Grand Cellars, he could make out a two maids ripping out a dead bush that must have died from the heat.

“What's your mom's name?” Henry asked.

“Shinka,” Vevet said watching the two maids in the distance. Another maid showed up, a male wearing the longer robes of an estate maid while the two others were a scullery and harvester. Then the idea struck him. The Terran Lord pointed to the three maids.

“Does your mom dress like any of them?”

The young girl studied them carefully and nodded pointing towards the woman with the simple pale pink tvekel skirt and sleeveless wrap around top. So, her mother was a harvester, that narrowed it down from four thousand to what, three or four hundred? If memory served Arch Maid Vindik Mal, who was in charge of the Ground Legion, would be outrunning his inspections. Maybe Henry could catch him and get an idea where to look next.

“Let's go see if we can find Mister Vindik. He should know where your mom is,” Henry said giving her a hand an encouraging squeeze.

Leading the way, Henry decided that the best option was to take the walk path from the inner estate and to make his way down the main road towards the Northern Fields. That was his guess where the leader of the Ground Legion would be. The Terran lord knew that the tending of the vines of the famous blue grapes would be in full swing as the harvest would be necessary to produce the wine in the fall.

Vevet. That means blue, Henry thought to himself thinking about the girl beside him. For the little one, Vevet seemed to be at ease skipping along beside him as they walked down the dirt path. It was a gradual change from the manicured lawns and hedges to the long, dusty road flanked by fields of grape vines, their little blue berried shimmering in the light of the sun. In the distance in a lot of these fields Henry could make out the small huts and the figures working. Machinery hummed along spraying water while in other areas, the eemodae were harvesting by hand for the special stock.

“Where are you from?”

The question from Vevet broke Henry out of his thoughts and he glanced down at the large, curious eyes.

“I'm from a planet called Pax Aeterna.”

“You're human?”

The Terran lord braced himself. He honestly didn't know how strong the stereotype of his people had been among the Xalteans.

“I am.”

“You have brothers and sisters?”

“Two sisters and a brother.”

“You miss home?”

Did he? That was a good question. When he first had come here, Henry had been extremely anxious and scared. He had been thrust into the middle of a culture he had no clue about and who were so different from his own, he had felt like he was lost and drowning. Now? Blue Blossom felt more like home and where he came from a distant memory.

“I miss my family.”

Vevet nodded her head sagely as they continued, the sun's heat warm against their heads. “I miss home too.”

“Where's home?”

“Fuvusheemee. It's a planet far from here. Mommy got promoted and invited here as she's an expert on horti-something.”

“Horticulture?”

“Yes!” Vevet said nodding her head excitedly causing her curls to bound.

“Long trip?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you get lost?” Henry finally asked realizing he hadn't known. The girl looked a bit embarrassed.

“I was playing in the dorm yard and was chasing dayflitters. I...got lost.”

Ah, yes. The iridescent, sparkling insects that flew around in the daytime. They reminded Henry of dragonflies from Earth but with much more gossamer wings and slender bodies.

“Am I in trouble?” Vevet asked tentatively.

“No, not at all,” Henry smiled reassuringly.

The conversation dwindled into comfortable silence as they began to approach a collection of buildings nestled on both sides of the road. Henry could make out figures moving around and realized it was a staging point for the harvesters and others. Standing at the primary station providing instructions to a team, Vindik's dark eyes glanced over and saw Henry coming. There was a flicker of confusion before the professionalism took over. He strode over while the other maids, seeing who it was, scattered to their jobs.

“My lord,” Vindik said bowing, his shaved head glinting in the light. “I didn't expect you.”

“It's alright. This young lady got lost, and we're looking for her mom. Do you have a Shinka working for you?”

“There are quite a few Shinkas,” Vindik said looking at the little girl who appeared stressed again at the thought of so many.

“She's a horticulturist from Fuvumeeshee,” Henry added.

“Ah,” Vindik said with a sharp nod. “Shika Aeshma, she's a 5th Order harvester. I have her working in the southern fields today. Signs of a possible blight cropping up there.”

The young man nodded as he squeezed Vevet's hand again. “See! We know where your momma is. Everything is going to be alright.”

“Shall I fetch her, my lord?” Vindik asked reaching to tap his gauntlet with the communicator built in.

Henry Patton was about to answer when Vevet tugged on his arm. “Can we hang out, Mister Henry?”

Vindik opened his mouth, probably to correct the girl's improper title, but the Terran waved him off. He smiled at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I don't want to go back to the dorms. I have no friends and the other kids don't like me.”

Henry crouched down and smiled at her. “Maybe they just haven't had a chance to meet you yet. You know it's pretty hard to meet new people.”

“Maybe.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

Nodding his head like he made a decision, he stood and smiled at Vindik. “I'll take her for now. We're going to get something to eat. I don't think we need to worry her mom. If you can let her know that she's with me when it's appropriate, that'll be fine.”

“As you will, my master.” The ground legion Arch Maid said with a bow. He then signaled towards a small powered cart that a maid was driving. It had an open trunk behind it loaded with tools.

“Nushi,” Vindik said and the female maid driving it stopped the vehicle. “Take our lord and this young lady back to the estate, and then you can deliver those parts to Section 3-B.”

“Yes, Arch Maid,” the girl said with a nod from her seat.

---

The electric cart rattled its way back up the dirt road, Vevet perched between Henry and the trunk full of tools, her curls whipping in the wind. She kept glancing at him probably not sure if this was real and Henry found himself grinning despite the mountain of paperwork waiting on his tablet.

By the time Nushi dropped them at the steps of the mansion, Vevet had declared “the best thing that happened all week,” which made Henry smile. Vevet finally looked like she was having a good time.

“Alright,” Henry said, offering his hand as she hopped down. “Let's get you fed.”

He led her around to the shaded patio that overlooked the eastern gardens, the one with the low stone table and the cushioned benches Siv liked to complain nobody ever used. A passing maid, young, dark-haired, froze mid-step at the sight of her lord walking a strange child through the estate.

“Could you bring us something to eat?” Henry asked. “Something a child would like. And tea, if we have the mild blend.”

“Of...of course, my master,” she stammered, and hurried off.

Vevet settled onto the bench, swinging her legs since they didn't reach the ground, and looked around at the gardens, the marble columns, the fountain trickling somewhere out of sight. Her expression had gone soft and a little dazed.

“This is really your house?”

“Part of it. It's a big house.”

“It's so pretty.” She smoothed her hands over the skirt of her tan dress. “I feel like a lady.”

Henry looked at her, at the too-big eyes and the bow that had slid halfway down her hair and the way she was trying very hard to sit up straight. He grinned at her.

“You know,” he said, leaning forward with a serious nod. “I think you're right.”

Vevet blinked at him.

“As Lord of Blue Blossom,” Henry continued, straightening in his seat, “I hereby declare that for the remainder of this day, Miss Vevet of Fuvusheemee shall be recognized as a shivkihanxa, Lady of Honor of this household.”

For a moment she just stared at him, working out whether he was joking. Then her whole face lit up.

“Really?”

“Really. It's official.” He nodded.

“Do... I get a title?”

The young man nodded. “Lady Vevet, I think.”

Somehow, the little girl found a way to sit up even straighter.

Nish Kevet appeared from the direction of the kitchens before Henry had even settled back into his seat, a tray balanced against one hip and her usually practiced quiet, though the glint in her eye said she'd caught every word of the declaration from somewhere just out of sight.

“Lady Vevet,” she said, coming to a stop before the bench, placing the tray on the table, and giving a low bow. “An honor to serve you.”

Vevet's mouth fell open.

“I heard my masters' order,” Nish Kevet went on, beginning to set out the food from the tray as if royalty had been present. Flatbread, a little dish of fruit cut into careful pieces, a small pot of tea steaming faintly in the afternoon light. “I hope you find the food to your satisfaction.”

“I've never had anyone bow to me before,” Vevet whispered to Henry, her eyes large as saucers.

A hint of a smile showed up in the corner of Nish's mouth as she finished pouring the tea for Henry and grape juice for the little one.

“Is there anything else, master? My Lady?”

“Thank you, Nish. That'll be all.”

The afternoon went on as Henry and Vevet finished their food and began to explore the house itself. The wide-eyed curiosity reminded him of his little sister Annabelle when they were gallivanting around the fields and barns in search for adventure. At the library, she had fun climbing the ladders and examining the books. What started out as a quest to find more information on Dayflitters turned into an hour's worth of pulling books off of shelves, flipping through the references, getting distracted by the pictures in a short story collection, and then playing with the globes and tracing fingers on maps. At the kitchens, Burdak made sure to stuff her full of more sweets and candy which probably was Vevet's favorite room. They made their way back to the library as Henry felt that was the best place to keep her out of everyone's hair, it was quiet, and he avoided the paperwork that was probably growing.

Henry was in the middle of showing Vevet his home world on a holographic projector on the desk located here when he heard the tapping steps of someone approaching. The door swung open and Maevin strode in.

“There you are,” Maevin's started and then stopped entirely.

Henry turned to find her standing in the doorway of the study, one hand still on the frame, staring at the small girl currently perched in his lap staring intently at the slowly rotating holographic globe.

“My master?” Maevin's eyes moved from Vevet, to the empty dishes, to the half-dozen books stacked haphazardly on the reading table, and back to Henry. “There is a child here.”

“This is Lady Vevet,” Henry said, with formality, but he couldn't keep the grin off his face which caused Maevin's delicate eyebrow to raise in consternation. “She's visiting.”

“A lady,” Maevin repeated.

“Lady of Honor Vevet of Fuvusheemee,” Vevet said but when she looked up, her voice had gone smaller, and she'd gone very still probably realizing who was there. She glanced at Henry, then back at Maevin.

“Ah.”

“She got lost early this morning, she's new to the planet. Her mom works for Vindik. She asked for help and well...we got distracted.”

“I see.”

Vevet's relaxed a bit. “Am I in trouble?”

“Of course not,” Maevin said a warm smile crossing her face. “This place is big, and I can understand getting lost.”

The Mistress turned to Henry and sighed. “That would explain why Arch Maid Mal and a harvester are here.”

“Mommy?” Vevet asked.

“I believe so. Shall we go check?” Maevin offered extending her hand. The young girl scrambled off of Henry kicking him a few times with her shoes in the effort to escape and skipped out the door with the Mistress. Henry followed close behind.

The three of them came down the main staircase together, Vevet still chattering about star charts, one hand tucked into Henry's and the other in Maevin's. They found Vindik already there, standing beside a woman who looked like she hadn't taken a full breath in the last several minutes.

She was still in her field clothes, the pale pink of her harvester's wrap dusted with dirt at the hem. The moment her eyes landed on Vevet, something in her face cracked open with relief, and then, a half second later, seemed to collapse entirely as she registered exactly who was holding her daughter's hand.

“Mommy!” Vevet let go and bolted the last few steps across the marble, and the woman dropped to her knees to catch her, burying her face briefly in her daughter's hair.

“Vevet, sweetheart, oh.” She pulled back just enough to look her over, hands running along her shoulders, her arms, as if checking for herself that nothing was broken or missing. “How did you wind up here?” Her voice caught as her gaze lifted past her daughter's head and found Henry standing a few paces back.

“It's a long story,” Henry laughed.

She went very, very pale.

“My master,” She was on her feet in an instant, Vevet still gathered against her side, and dropped into a bow so low and so fast Henry half worried she'd overbalance. “Shinka Aeshma, my master, I am so, I don't know she had left the dorms or that she found her way in to the estate...”

“Shinka.” Henry said trying to be gentle. “Accidents happened and she asked for help. I'm proud of her for that.”

“I understand if there are consequences, I'll accept whatever.” The words were coming too fast now, her eyes darting between Henry and Maevin, who had come to stand a little behind him, and Shinka's bow deepened further at the sight of her, if that were possible. “Mistress. I am so sorry, I never meant for her to be underfoot!”

“Ease, harvester,” This time it was Maevin who spoke, and something in her voice, level, unhurried, entirely without the edge Shinka seemed braced for, cut through the spiral.

“Your daughter is safe, and our master has spent time with her to keep her that way,” Maevin said. “You have not committed anything egregious worth punishing. All I ask is you take steps you need to keep your daughter comfortable at the dorms.”

Henry knew that it wasn't actually a request but a command.

“But make sure she has a chance to meet the other children there. Only the best for my Lady of Honor.”

Shinka blinked. Blinked again. Looked down at Vevet, who was practically vibrating with the need to confirm this herself.

“It's true, Mommy! I'm Lady Vevet! Arch maid Kevet bowed to me and I had grape juice and Arch Maid Rikol gave me candy and Mister Henry let me play with the globe in the library. I had so much fun!”

The words tumbled out of her in one long breathless rush, and somewhere in the middle of it, Henry watched the terror mount as her daughter listed off three of the most powerful people on the estate.

“I'm so sorry,” she managed again.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Henry said, crouching briefly to Vevet's level one last time. “Your daughter's good company. She's welcome here anytime, through the front door this time, not by accident.”

Vevet giggled at that, and even Shinka managed something close to a laugh, still shaking from the adrenalin.

“Take her home,” Maevin said ordered. “I imagine it's been a long day for both of you.”

Shinka bowed once more, took her daughter's hand and led her towards the door. At the door, though, Vevet twisted back around, pulling her mother to a half-stop.

“Bye, Mister Henry!” She lifted her chin with all the dignity she'd been practicing since the patio. “It was an honor to be your lady.”

“The honor was ours, Lady Vevet,” Henry said, with a small bow of his own.

Vevet beamed, and let her mother lead her out into the evening light, still clutching her twist of candy like a trophy, already talking a mile a minute about globes and star charts and dayflitters all over again.

As the place grew quiet and maybe a bit duller, he turned to Maevin who was studying him.

“What? She was lost.”

“You could have just had a maid take her home.”

“Well...”

“The things you get yourself into, Master,” Maevin laughed softly. “Now, I think it's time you get back to your paperwork.”

This afternoon, IndyCar racing. We'll be following FOX coverage of the Freedom 250 Grand Prix. Prerace coverage is airing now, and the green flag to start the race is scheduled to drop at 12:10 PM CTD.

And the adventure continues.

Chastity exists at the middle point between lust and repression; Temperance exists at the middle point between gluttony and asceticism; Diligence exists at the middle point between laziness and obsession; Patience exists at the middle point between wrath and apathy; Charity exists at the middle point between greed and self-neglect; Kindness exists at the middle point between envy and indulgence; Humility exists at the middle point between pride and self-abasement.

We are anonymous. We are everywhere. We choose to forgive. We choose to remember. Here we are: As above, so below.

Self-awareness is crucial in understanding virtues and vices. All virtues are the middle point. Any virtue in excess becomes its opposite deficiency, yet a vice remains a vice. It's important to recognize when we self-identify with an excessive virtue, as this creates the very imbalance we seek to resolve.

Desire and aversion are two opposite poles. Neither desire nor aversion represents the middle point. I state that desire and aversion are both expressions of egoic attachment—opposite manifestations of the same error. Comprehension is the middle point that leads one to liberation; desire is attachment, and aversion is rejection.

Chastity, diligence, humility, patience, charity, temperance, and kindness are all virtues. Chastity in excess becomes repression; diligence in excess becomes obsession; excess humility becomes self-abasement; excess charity becomes self-neglect; excess temperance becomes asceticism; and excess kindness becomes indulgence. Excess (as we know) is an adjective that transforms virtue into its opposite deficiency. Any vice (namely lust, laziness, pride, greed, gluttony, and envy) propels one toward the opposing deficiency.

To restore the balance within oneself is to comprehend these two opposing errors to discover what is true: Both man and woman are humble. Humility is the middle point between pride and self-abasement. A man and a woman who embody humility never take titles. Titles create bipolarity—either prideful or self-abasing; both are errors.

Virtue is the middle point, the law of balance. Embracing life's challenges with this understanding brings centeredness in all aspects of existence.

Matthew 23:12 clearly states that he who exalts himself will be humbled, yet he who humbles himself will be exalted.

A hero recognizes himself as a work in progress, as we are all transforming before our Innermost. All fornicators begin as unconscious beings.

In the name of truth, no one is born a hero. A hero emerges through genuine love for humanity and countless sacrifices for others.

This consciousness does not enter automatically. One earns the right to be a hero through deeds of goodness, including genuine sacrifice for others. The right to be a hero is also measured by how much love others have given you as a result of your work.

It is never enough to say, “I am a hero.” One must prove oneself worthy of genuine love and sacrifice for others to be recognized as a hero.

A hero transcends duality, neither good nor evil, but beyond both. There is no good or evil, only purity and impurity. Even a hero knows that the path with excellent intentions leads one to the Abyss. This identification with heroism leads to knightfall.

A hero becomes a protagonist to those for whom he has sacrificed and loved.

There is a woman who is also a protagonist. She sacrifices herself through genuine love for others. She is a heroine.

How blessed are the hero and heroine in romantic love, working together to sacrifice themselves for the love of others.

There exists another type of hero that transcends the everyday. He possesses magical powers, driven by genuine love and commitment to sacrifice for others. He is a magician, or a superhero; a woman is also a magician, or a superheroine.

“Jesus said to his disciples: 'Things that cause people to stumble are bound to happen, but woe to anyone through whom they happen'” – Luke 17:1

There exists an antithesis of a hero. It is he, a fallen hero, who consumes the forbidden fruit, thus turning himself to impurity. The hero who fornicates enters knightfall. It is he who turns to wickedness and works for the flesh. In the name of truth, he is a villain.

When a heroine falls into impurity and works for the flesh, she is a villainess. A woman who has lost her way is a villainess.

A villain calls others villains while believing himself to be a hero. These are true traits of a sorcerer.

Even a rightful hero or heroine (even a superhero or superheroine) might be called a villain, and the one who calls a rightful hero or heroine a villain is himself a villain.

These fallen individuals, formerly heroes and heroines, are the true antagonists.

These antagonists are those who awaken impurity in response to impurity. They perceive only the impurity within others, never the goodness within others.

One must never underestimate these antagonists, for they possess sharp and sly intellects.

Beware of their talents in the arts of sorcery and witchcraft. A villain who possesses these powers becomes a supervillain. Watch out for a sorceress, a villainess who wields these magical powers, for sorcery and witchcraft are often associated with supervillainesses. These super-antagonists are the most dangerous people alive, yet they subject themselves to their second death.

The sorcerer's archenemy is indeed a magician; yet, a magician's archenemy is a sorcerer.

Now you know, my friend, the knowledge of a hero and a villain. No one is born a hero or a villain; you will know them by their fruits. A pure fruit is a hero or a heroine. An impure fruit is a villain or a villainess. The right to be a hero emerges within ourselves through genuine love and sacrifice for others.