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

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

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

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

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

Je pense que l’on se trompe tous.

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

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

TOUT LE TEMPS.

Seventh Observatory Investigation 005: On the weaponization of domestic plumbing, the military capabilities of juvenile imagination, and the regrettable discovery that parents are not always civilians.

The first indication that something was wrong on the planet Vellatrix Minor came when a small citizen named Quib screamed at his bathwater.

Not because it was hot.

Not because it contained a predator.

But because, after precisely eleven minutes of luxurious thermal satisfaction, it became cold.

Quib was seven planetary cycles old, possessed four arms, and had recently appointed himself Supreme Commander of the Secret Defense Forces of the Western Bathroom.

His military experience consisted primarily of ambushing furniture.

Nevertheless, he recognized an act of war when one occurred.

“ASSASSINS!” he shouted.

The bathroom did not respond.

This was suspicious.

Quib narrowed all three eyes.

“NINJAS.”

From the observation vessel hovering invisibly above the residential district, Senior Researcher Threll adjusted his instruments.

“Junior Researcher Voss, are you recording this?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Classification?”

“Domestic plumbing malfunction.”

“Incorrect. We are witnessing the birth of a military conflict.”

“Against whom?”

“That,” said Threll, “is what makes it interesting.”

On Vellatrix Minor, imagination was considered a mildly contagious neurological condition.

Most adults eventually recovered.

Children, however, suffered spectacularly.

A misplaced shoe could indicate interdimensional theft. A suspicious noise beneath the bed might suggest the presence of an underground kingdom. A missing dessert was incontrovertible evidence of treason.

Quib's particular affliction had recently entered what his educators called the Advanced Heroic Delusion Phase.

He believed himself to be the galaxy's greatest secret operative.

His teachers believed him to be a distraction.

Both assessments were technically correct.

Having established that his bathwater had been sabotaged, Quib launched Operation Frozen Vengeance.

First, he secured his equipment.

One ceremonial bathing towel.

Two suction-cup throwing stars.

A toothbrush sharpened against the bathroom tiles.

And a rubber aquatic creature named Admiral Squonk, whose loyalty had never been questioned.

“Stay here,” Quib whispered to the admiral. “If I don't return, tell the Council I died magnificently.”

Admiral Squonk bobbed in the water.

A solemn acknowledgment.

Quib opened the bathroom window and slipped into the darkness.

Unfortunately, Vellatrix Minor was experiencing its coldest seasonal night in eighty-three years.

The towel froze almost immediately.

Quib's determination did not.

“Subject has exited the dwelling,” Voss reported.

“Excellent.”

“Through a second-story window.”

“Less excellent.”

“He is climbing a tree.”

“Natural tactical instinct.”

“He has lost his towel.”

Threll lowered his instrument.

“Oh, for fuck's sake.”

The rooftop of Quib's dwelling was a battlefield of formidable complexity.

There were six ventilation towers, three solar collectors, a chimney-shaped atmospheric regulator, and a decorative statue of the household's ancestral founder, who had been sculpted in a moment of artistic generosity and consequently possessed far more limbs than historical records supported.

Quib navigated these obstacles with extraordinary confidence.

He rolled behind the regulator.

He crawled beneath a solar collector.

He performed a spectacular backward somersault that would later be classified by the Observatory's medical division as an extremely fortunate failure to die.

Then he saw movement.

A dark figure crouched beside the chimney.

Quib stopped breathing.

The figure turned.

Its eyes glowed.

Its body shimmered.

Its hands were occupied with a complicated mechanical device.

A ninja.

An actual ninja.

Quib felt the exquisite satisfaction of being right.

He launched himself from behind the chimney with a battle cry so ferocious that three nocturnal birds suffered immediate reproductive reconsideration.

“FOR THE HONOR OF HOT WATER!”

He struck the figure squarely in the chest.

The figure exploded into six hundred luminous fragments.

Quib landed on his backside.

“Ha!”

The fragments reassembled.

“Oh.”

The figure stood.

It was approximately twice Quib's height, wore black armor, and possessed the sort of posture that suggested considerable experience with killing things.

“Identification,” it demanded.

Quib considered his options.

“I'm a chimney inspector.”

The figure paused.

“At this hour?”

“Emergencies don't keep office hours.”

The figure studied him.

“Where are your clothes?”

“Classified.”

This answer seemed to satisfy the stranger.

Which should have worried Quib considerably more than it did.

Above the planet, Voss stared at his instruments.

“Sir.”

“Yes?”

“That is not a local citizen.”

“Indeed.”

“It appears to be a Nhar assassin.”

“Indeed.”

“The Nhar have been extinct for nine thousand years.”

“Apparently not all of them.”

“Why is an extinct assassin standing on a suburban roof?”

Threll considered this.

“I suspect,” he said, “we have made an administrative error.”

The Seventh Observatory maintained an extensive catalog of dangerous civilizations.

The Nhar occupied an entire section.

They had been an exceptionally unpleasant species whose military philosophy rested upon a single principle:

Anything worth possessing is worth stealing, and anything that cannot be stolen should be rendered deeply inconvenient.

Their most celebrated invention was the Thermal Extraction Engine.

It could remove heat from any object, substance, atmosphere, or star.

The Nhar had used these machines to conquer thirty-seven planetary systems.

They had also employed them to ensure their enemies never enjoyed a comfortable bath.

The latter practice was generally considered unnecessary.

The Nhar considered it hilarious.

The assassin on Quib's roof was named P'te.

He had been dispatched centuries earlier to retrieve a prototype engine, subsequently trapped in a temporal malfunction, and had only recently reappeared.

Unfortunately, his navigational equipment was damaged.

He had mistaken Quib's household water heater for an imperial thermal reservoir.

He had also stolen its heat.

Every last bit.

“Are you a ninja?” Quib asked.

P'te hesitated.

“I am a shadow operative of the Eternal Nhar Dominion.”

“So yes.”

“I suppose.”

“Did you steal my hot water?”

“I confiscated thermal energy for strategic purposes.”

“So yes.”

P'te sighed.

“Your interrogation techniques are impressive.”

Quib folded his arms.

“I want it back.”

“That is impossible.”

“Why?”

“The thermal extraction process is irreversible.”

Quib considered this.

Then he punched P'te in the knee.

The assassin screamed.

“Remarkable,” Threll whispered.

Voss checked the historical database.

“Sir, the Nhar were immune to plasma weapons, gravitational distortion, and seventeen known neurological toxins.”

“Apparently not to being punched in the knee by an angry child.”

“Should we intervene?”

“Not yet. This is the most valuable research we've conducted in three centuries.”

P'te stumbled backward.

Quib seized the opportunity.

He produced his toothbrush.

“Return the heat, villain!”

P'te looked at the weapon.

“Is that a dental implement?”

“It's a classified dental implement.”

“You cannot possibly defeat me.”

Quib grinned.

“That's what the sofa said.”

The assassin had no response to this.

Instead, he activated his thermal extraction engine.

A tremendous metallic contraption unfolded from the shadows, all spinning coils and pulsing cylinders, resembling a cathedral constructed by an engineer experiencing a nervous breakdown.

The engine began to hum.

The rooftop frosted over.

The air crystallized.

Quib's remaining eyebrows froze into tiny white spears.

P'te raised his arms triumphantly.

“BEHOLD THE POWER OF THE NHAR!”

Then the bathroom window opened.

A voice emerged.

“QUIB!”

Everything stopped.

Even the engine seemed to hesitate.

Quib turned.

Standing at the window was his father, wearing sleep trousers, holding an enormous pipe wrench, and displaying the expression universally associated with parents who have discovered that their offspring are doing something impressively stupid.

“WHAT,” his father demanded, “ARE YOU DOING ON THE ROOF WITHOUT ANY CLOTHES?”

Quib pointed.

“Ninjas stole the hot water!”

His father closed his eyes.

He appeared to be counting.

Possibly to ten.

Possibly to several million.

Then he noticed P'te.

He noticed the enormous machine.

He noticed the frozen chimney.

His expression changed.

“Ah,” he said.

P'te stared at him.

“You.”

Quib looked between them.

His father tightened his grip on the wrench.

“Hello, P'te.”

The assassin took a step backward.

“You were destroyed.”

“Retired.”

“You commanded the Siege of the Burning Moons!”

“Long time ago.”

“You shattered the Imperial Thermal Fleet!”

“Different priorities now.”

“You are General Varrik the Unyielding!”

Quib stared at his father.

The man who insisted on bedtime.

The man who complained about muddy floors.

The man who had once spent forty minutes trying to assemble a folding chair.

A general?

His father sighed.

“I go by Dad these days.”

The confrontation lasted seven seconds.

General Varrik struck the engine with his pipe wrench.

It made a noise like a dying orchestra.

P'te attempted to escape.

Quib tripped him with a frozen towel.

The engine collapsed into a compact cube, discharged a brilliant flash of violet light, and restored all the stolen thermal energy to its original source.

Unfortunately, it restored the heat somewhat enthusiastically.

Every faucet in the dwelling erupted with steam.

The kitchen kettle achieved consciousness.

A decorative garden pond briefly became a geyser.

And Admiral Squonk, floating peacefully in the bathroom, was propelled through the ceiling into the upper atmosphere.

He would later be recovered by a passing cargo vessel and worshipped as a minor aquatic deity on a distant moon.

But that is another investigation.

The Seventh Observatory subsequently filed the incident under Unexpected Consequences of Parental Secrecy.

Voss reviewed the findings.

“So the child was correct?”

“Entirely.”

“There really were ninjas.”

“Yes.”

“And the father really was responsible for the situation?”

“In a roundabout fashion.”

“Then what is the scientific conclusion?”

Threll watched the household below.

Quib was wrapped in three blankets, drinking something warm while his father repaired the plumbing.

The boy was talking excitedly.

His father was listening.

Every so often, the general who had once destroyed an imperial fleet smiled.

“Perhaps,” Threll said, “that children are occasionally right about the impossible.”

“That's not a scientific conclusion.”

“No.”

“It's barely an observation.”

“True.”

Voss waited.

Threll continued watching.

After a while, the boy asked his father whether they could fight ninjas together again.

The old general laughed.

Then he said something the Observatory's translators rendered as:

“Only after you put some damn pants on.”

Threll closed the investigation.

For nine thousand years, the galaxy had feared General Varrik the Unyielding.

He had defeated armadas, conquered fortresses, and survived the collapse of entire civilizations.

Yet there he sat, defeated by a small, shivering creature who believed that fathers could fix anything.

And for the first time in his extraordinarily violent existence, the general seemed perfectly content to let someone else be the hero.

---

Effort Is Schrödinger’s Cat

Before the box is opened, Schrödinger’s cat is neither alive nor dead; it exists in a suspended state of pure, unbearable potential.

Every meaningful human effort inhabits that exact dark room.

Consider the novelist at three in the morning, staring at a third revision that may never find a publisher; the founder wiring the last of her savings to cover Friday’s payroll; the composer scoring a movement no orchestra has agreed to play. While the work is underway, their labor is simultaneously a masterpiece and a ruin, a triumph and a waste. Nothing has collapsed into fact. There is no applause yet, no verdict, no autopsy—only the unverified act of pushing forward in the dark.

Society has no patience for the closed box. It wants the lid lifted; it wants to know if the cat is breathing so it knows whether to clap or walk away.

We build monuments to the finished artifact and burn the scaffolding that held it up.

Watch a glassblower at the furnace. His cheeks are hollowed, his forearms corded with strain, sweat evaporating before it can reach his jaw as he turns the blowpipe. The chandelier that will eventually hang in a quiet gallery will command a fortune, and critics will speak of its frozen grace.

Yet the true miracle happened in the violent, fragile seconds between breath and fire, when shapeless matter was forced to obey a human will—when the box was still shut, and the glass could just as easily have shattered on the stone floor.

Greatness does not live solely in the museum. It lives in the calloused palms of the quarrymen who hauled the marble for the Parthenon and died centuries before the roof was laid. It lives in the hundreds of canvases scraped raw and painted over before a single brushstroke of the Mona Lisa survived. It lives in the ships rotting at the bottom of the Atlantic that never found the coastline, yet proved to the ships that followed that the ocean could be crossed.

There is a weaver inside each of us, working a loom in the dark. From where we sit, tangled in the bobbins and the knots, we see only the frayed ends and the maddening slowness of the thread. Yet there is a quiet nobility in the tension on that thread—in showing up before the lid is lifted, when the pattern is invisible and there is no guarantee the fabric will hold.

It is not the artifact that defines us, after all, but the sum of our striving—one choice, one pass of the shuttle, one faithful hour inside the dark room at a time. When we finally step back from the loom, we may find that the tapestry was never the point.

We were the ones being woven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perché “questi qui” vengono qui a chiedere.

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

An account from the Seventh Observatory, concerning the catastrophic failure of a perfectly respectable mind.

On the planet Orden, thinking was regulated.

Not prohibited, mind you. The Ordenians were a civilized people.

They simply believed that thoughts should occur at appropriate times, for appropriate reasons, and preferably in alphabetical order.

Every citizen was issued a Mind Management Device at birth.

The apparatus ensured that hunger was considered before lunch, existential dread was confined to Sunday afternoons, and sexual fantasies were restricted to a brief seventeen-minute window immediately following the evening meal.

The system was remarkably efficient.

Wars had been eliminated.

Productivity had tripled.

Poetry had become extinct—nobody particularly missed it.

Then, one ordinary morning, anmiddle-aged accountant named Vel discovered a woman living inside his head.

This was most inconvenient.

Vel had never invited her.

He had not submitted the necessary residency application, obtained a psychological occupancy permit, or even received the customary seven-day notice.

She simply appeared.

While he was balancing accounts.

While he was brushing his teeth.

While he was attempting to remember whether he'd left the garage door open.

There she was.

Sometimes smiling.

Sometimes speaking.

Frequently doing absolutely nothing except existing in a manner Vel found deeply distracting.

He attempted to have her removed.

The Ministry of Unnecessary Thoughts examined his complaint.

“Is she physically present?” asked the inspector.

“No.”

“Does she issue commands?”

“Not exactly.”

“Does she threaten you?”

“Only indirectly.”

“Explain.”

“She makes me want things.”

The inspector frowned.

“Things?”

“Impossible things.”

This was serious.

On Orden, impossible things were classified as a public nuisance.

The inspector connected Vel to a diagnostic machine.

His thoughts appeared on a large monitor.

There were the usual arrangements of unpaid bills, professional obligations, household repairs, and minor digestive concerns.

But woven through them was a brilliant, pulsing ribbon of gold.

It entered every thought.

Interrupted every calculation.

Wrapped itself around perfectly ordinary memories and transformed them into something unexpectedly beautiful.

The inspector gasped.

“You're contaminated.”

Vel sighed.

“I know.”

“How long has this been happening?”

“Months.”

“Months? And you've continued working?”

“Badly.”

“Sleeping?”

“Occasionally.”

“Thinking rationally?”

“Not since Thresday.”

The inspector consulted the diagnostic manual.

“Have you experienced sudden happiness without an identifiable cause?”

“Yes.”

“Periods of inexplicable melancholy?”

“Constantly.”

“Have you found yourself smiling at inanimate objects?”

Vel looked away.

“Perhaps.”

“Have you composed imaginary conversations?”

“Several thousand.”

“Do you occasionally experience a peculiar sensation in your chest, as though someone has installed a small, malfunctioning star behind your ribs?”

Vel stared at him.

“That's exactly it.”

The inspector removed his spectacles.

“Oh dear.”

“What?”

“You've developed an imagination.”

Vel was horrified.

At this age, he considered himself much too old for such nonsense.

He had responsibilities.

Deadlines.

A respectable reputation.

He owned several pairs of sensible trousers.

He had spent half a century constructing a life in which everything had its proper place.

And now, some ridiculous creature had wandered into his consciousness and begun rearranging the furniture.

The Ministry prescribed a course of corrective treatment.

Vel was instructed to think exclusively about mathematics for fourteen days.

He attempted this.

Unfortunately, every equation reminded him.

The number seven became the curve of her smile.

Infinity resembled the distance between them.

Even subtraction proved troublesome, since it inevitably suggested absence.

The Ministry increased his dosage of rationality.

Vel responded by writing a poem about a spoon.

This alarmed everyone.

He was summoned before the High Commissioner.

“You are a grown man,” the Commissioner declared.

“Yes.”

“You have lived more than half a century.”

“Regrettably.”

“You should be capable of controlling your own mind.”

“I agree.”

“Then why can't you?”

Vel considered the question.

He had asked himself precisely the same thing approximately forty thousand times.

Each answer had been unsatisfactory.

“I don't know.”

The Commissioner leaned forward.

“Is this woman extraordinary?”

Vel thought about it.

“No.”

The Commissioner blinked.

“No?”

“Well, yes. But not in any scientifically defensible way.”

“Is she more intelligent than others?”

“Sometimes.”

“More beautiful?”

“More virtuous?”

“Then what makes her so important?”

Vel sat silently for a long time.

Finally, he said:

“She makes the universe feel less finished.”

The Commissioner stared.

This was the most disturbing statement he had heard in dour hundred years of public service.

A universe that wasn't finished implied uncertainty.

Uncertainty implied possibility.

Possibility implied change.

And change was the entire reason Orden had invented the Ministry in the first place.

The Commissioner ordered Vel's Mind Management Device reset.

The procedure required only seventeen seconds.

For the first time in months, Vel's thoughts became perfectly orderly.

His calculations were precise.

His memories returned to their proper compartments.

The golden ribbon disappeared.

He looked around the room.

“How do you feel?” asked the Commissioner.

“Efficient.”

“Excellent.”

“Productive.”

“Wonderful.”

“Empty.”

The Commissioner paused.

“Empty?”

Vel examined the quiet interior of his mind.

Everything was exactly where it belonged.

Nothing interrupted him.

Nothing delighted him.

Nothing hurt.

He was completely, magnificently in control.

It was unbearable.

“Can you put her back?”

The Commissioner nearly swallowed his own tongue.

“Absolutely not!”

“Please.”

“You came here demanding relief!”

“I know.”

“You called yourself a failure!”

“I remember.”

“You said you were much too old to behave like a boy!”

Vel smiled faintly.

“Yes.”

“And now?”

Vel looked toward the window.

Outside, millions of Ordenians moved purposefully between their important destinations, their thoughts perfectly organized, their lives entirely predictable.

He considered the orderly silence inside his head.

Then he said something no Ordenian had ever said before.

“Perhaps the boy was the part worth keeping.”

The Commissioner immediately retired.

The Ministry classified the incident as a dangerous outbreak of sentimental irrationality.

Vel returned to his accounting.

He remained efficient for almost three days.

Then, one afternoon, while calculating depreciation on agricultural equipment, he remembered the sound of laughter.

A tiny golden spark appeared.

Vel stopped working.

He looked at the clock.

He had seventeen important tasks to complete before evening.

The spark grew brighter.

He sighed.

Far above Orden, the Seventh Observatory recorded the event.

“A tragic failure of mental discipline,” concluded one researcher.

“A triumph of emotional autonomy,” suggested another.

The senior researcher watched the little golden ribbon begin winding through Vel's thoughts again.

“Neither,” she said.

“Then what?”

She considered the old creature sitting at his desk, hopelessly distracted by the mere possibility of another human being.

“Puberty,” she replied.

“Very late onset.”

And somewhere in the universe, they lost another perfectly good accountant.

College Football Saturday.

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

GO HOOSIERS!

And the adventure continues.

-

Got tht giant moon done. It looks amazing. Five foot tall. It’ll be a big weird hit.

Ng painted a 7x8’ background.

Fantastique!

Catatan Umum Tentang RTP

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

Pemain yang disiplin menetapkan batas kalah sebelum mulai.

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

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

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

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

Fits my mood just fine!

I love this life sometimes.

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

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

Sincerely, A forgotten version of myself.

I’m going to sleep a little bit early today so that I’m really rested for tomorrow! I’m honestly pretty afraid and nervous because tomorrow is my first real birthday party, and I’ve also done a lot of stuff for it and I hope it goes well. But also I guess I’m just really thankful to have hit late game in real life.