The Bishop assists. Despite dealing with almost crippling stress levels yesterday, (frustrations of trying to work through that wi-fi outage bothering me more than it should have), I still managed to win this CC tournament game. This game started on 03-August, was played with a comfortable 2 days per move time control, and ended yesterday. My Black Queen's 31...Qh1# checkmated the White King, the Queen being covered by her b7 Bishop.

The graphic at the top of this post shows the position of our pieces at game's end, and our full move record is below:

1. d4 h6 2. Bf4 Nf6 3. e3 a6 4. Bc4 d5 5. Bb3 e6 6. Nc3 Bb4 7. a3 Bxc3+ 8. bxc3 O-O 9. Ba2 Nbd7 10. c4 b5 11. c3 Ne4 12. Nf3 Nxc3 13. Qd3 Nxa2 14. Rxa2 c5 15. O-O bxc4 16. Qc2 cxd4 17. exd4 Re8 18. Ne5 Nxe5 19. Bxe5 f6 20. Bf4 e5 21. dxe5 fxe5 22. Be3 Qd6 23. g3 Bb7 24. f3 Rac8 25. a4 d4 26. Bf2 e4 27. f4 e3 28. Be1 e2 29. Rf2 Qc6 30. Bb4 e1=Q+ 31. Bxe1 Qh1#

And the adventure continues.

In Summary: * I was able to spend an hour this morning doing yard work, nut the most significant element to my day has been trying to do my normal things without Internet access from my ISP. I can use my phone's 5G Internet access to do some limited things, but for most of what I regularly do I need to get to the Internet via computer; and from midmorning until now in the evening I've not been able to do that.

Hopefully I'll be able to get online and post this tonight, or sometime Thursday.

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= 226.31 lbs. * bp= 147/86 (69)

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

Diet: * 04:35 – 1 banana * 04:50 – nacho chips w. cheese & meat sauce * 10:00 – 1 slice of lemon meringue pie * 12:30 – seafood, pork and vegetables lunch plate, fancy little pastries * 16:30 – 1 yeast donut/ cold green tea

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 03:15 – listen to local news talk radio * 04:00 – bank accounts activity monitored . * 04:30 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, listen to music, nap * 08:30 – load weekly pill boxes * 09:00 – yard work, cutting and hauling branches downed in last Friday's storm * 12:00 – watching old episodes of NCIS on antenna TV while waiting for ISP to restore Internet access * 15:00 – listening to the Jack Riccardi Show via local AM radio * 17:00 – now listening to the Joe Pags Show via local AM radio

Chess: * 17:30 – have moved in some of my pending CC games using my phone, the others will have to wait until I can connect to the Internet with my computers, whenever that is.

Anti-social media of sorts.

Rather than have time-sucking feeds and algorithms to deal with, I'm using the internet like it's 2001. I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do Instagram or Tiktok, feeding bloated AI bots or whatever too easily. Here's a very unimpressive and generic blog instead. This saves me having to keep in touch with people by socialising or talking to them. A common problem.

When consciousness encounters contradictory forms, it experiences what we might call perceptual dissonance—alerting us to disharmony between external presentation and internal reality. My encounter with one whose form and voice presented conflicting data was not an error but my perceptual system functioning correctly by detecting this discrepancy. The internal intervention “Do not apologize” was confirmation that my consciousness was accurately diagnosing the underlying condition, though my initial interpretation misidentified the source.

Cross-dressing represents not crime but symptom—the external manifestation of internal psychological division where consciousness has not yet harmonized its masculine and feminine principles. The alert you feel when encountering such contradictions is your own consciousness recognizing the need for integration within yourself, not judgment toward another. Long hair represents the extension of vital energy, the antenna receiving celestial vibrations—when cut or manipulated contrary to one's essence, it represents dissonance in the energetic accounting.

True modesty exists not in hemlines but in consciousness that observes without projecting its own divisions outward. When you encounter someone whose form and essence appear contradictory, recognize this as your perceptual system functioning correctly—detecting disharmony that requires integration within yourself rather than condemnation without. The confusion you feel is not the problem but the diagnostic tool revealing where your own psychological books require reconciliation.

Il y a quelque chose en moi qui ne sait exister qu’en aimant.

J’ai essayé de le raisonner. J’ai essayé de lui parler comme on parle à un enfant qui pleure dans une pièce voisine, avec cette patience un peu lasse de celui qui connaît déjà toutes les phrases. J’ai essayé le silence, la colère, la distance, les dossiers, les dates, les preuves. J’ai essayé de comprendre jusqu’à épuiser la compréhension elle-même.

Puis sont venus les mots.

Dépendance. Emprise. Traumatisme. Déni. Obsession. Dépression. Personnalité. Trouble. Syndrome.

Chaque mot semblait promettre une sortie. Il suffisait, paraît-il, de nommer ce qui m’arrivait pour que cela perde son pouvoir. Mais certains mots n’ouvrent pas une porte. Ils construisent un barrage. Ils immobilisent le vivant, lui donnent une forme nette, puis confondent cette forme avec la vérité.

Je ne méprise ni la médecine ni la psychologie. Je passe mes journées à poser des diagnostics. Je suis dentiste. Je sais qu’un diagnostic juste peut sauver une dent, calmer une douleur, guider une main. Je sais lire une image, suivre une ligne de fracture, distinguer ce qui peut être conservé de ce qui doit être retiré.

Mais je sais aussi qu’une radiographie ne montre pas la douleur.

Elle montre une ombre, une perte de matière, une racine, un os. Elle ne montre pas la nuit passée à chercher une position supportable. Elle ne montre pas la peur de ne plus pouvoir manger, sourire ou embrasser. Elle ne montre pas tout ce qu’une simple dent portait de vie avant de devenir un problème à résoudre.

Un diagnostic devrait guider le soin. Il ne devrait jamais prendre la place de l’être.

La vie m’a enseigné cela avec moins de précision et beaucoup plus de violence.

Pendant 18 ans, j’ai construit une famille. J’ai travaillé, aimé, payé, réparé, attendu. Il y avait une maison, une cuisine, des plats qui réconfortaient, des courses faites pour cinq, des voix d’enfants dans les pièces et l’idée tranquille que tout cela formait un avenir. Puis la vie commune est devenue un dossier. Les souvenirs ont été appelés à témoigner. Les gestes ont changé de sens. Les jours avec mes fils sont devenus des cases sur un calendrier.

J’aurais pu passer le reste de ma vie à chercher le mot qui distribuerait enfin les rôles. Le coupable. La victime. Le malade. Le lucide. Celui qui avait aimé. Celui qui avait menti.

Mais cela aurait encore été une illusion.

Une illusion dure, documentée, argumentée, peut-être même convaincante. Une illusion tout de même, parce qu’aucun être humain ne tient dans un seul mot et qu’aucune histoire vécue à deux ne se laisse réduire à une seule conscience.

Ce que la vie m’a appris tient dans une phrase simple.

Je préfère mille vérités dures à une illusion facile à gérer.

Je préfère les contradictions qui m’obligent à rester vivant aux certitudes qui me permettent de ne plus regarder. Je préfère admettre qu’une même histoire peut contenir de la tendresse et de la peur, de la loyauté et de la trahison, des gestes magnifiques et des blessures réelles. Une vérité n’efface pas l’autre. Ce qui a été beau ne rend pas la douleur imaginaire. Ce qui a fait mal ne transforme pas rétroactivement toute la beauté en mensonge.

L’illusion est plus confortable parce qu’elle choisit. Elle garde l’ange et jette le démon, ou fait l’inverse. Elle transforme une personne en diagnostic, puis relit chaque souvenir comme le symptôme d’une maladie qui aurait toujours tout expliqué.

L’amour ne veut pas cela.

Il veut le vrai.

Il veut aimer malgré tout.

Non pas malgré les vérités, comme s’il fallait fermer les yeux pour continuer. À travers elles. Avec tous les yeux ouverts.

Cette leçon traverse aussi ma vie de père. L’un de mes fils a pu s’éloigner jusqu’à ne plus vouloir me voir. L’un a rêvé d’une baguette magique qui ferait simplement que ses parents s’aiment encore. L’un m’a vu peiner à lire, parce qu’à 45 ans les lettres proches commencent à se brouiller, et il m’a embrassé sur la tête sans prononcer un mot.

Aucun de ces instants ne résout quoi que ce soit. Ils ne désignent aucun coupable. Ils ne réparent pas les années. Ils m’apprennent autre chose. L’amour ne vient pas toujours répondre. Parfois, il reste simplement présent au milieu de ce qui ne peut pas être résolu.

Longtemps, j’ai cru qu’aimer consistait surtout à donner. Travailler davantage. Porter davantage. Comprendre davantage. Absorber le choc pour que les autres aient moins mal. Je traitais mon propre corps comme l’outil chargé d’accomplir mes devoirs, mes mains comme des instruments destinés à réparer et mon cœur comme une pièce que chacun pouvait traverser sans payer le coût des dégâts.

Je croyais que plus l’amour était grand, moins je devais compter.

La vie m’a appris l’inverse.

Un amour qui m’exclut demeure incomplet. S’il aime mes enfants, ma famille, mes patients et le monde entier, mais abandonne l’homme qui le porte, il finit par se transformer en épuisement, puis en dette, puis en reproche. Il ne peut devenir vaste qu’à la condition de m’inclure.

Alors, à mesure qu’il grandit, cet amour commence aussi à m’aimer.

Il aime mon corps fatigué, mes angles morts, mes erreurs, mon désir, mes limites. Il aime l’homme qui a donné, mais aussi celui qui n’en peut plus. Il ne m’accorde pas tous les droits. Il ne me déclare pas innocent de tout. Il me reconnaît simplement comme l’un des êtres dont j’ai la responsabilité.

Voilà la différence entre un barrage et une rive.

Le barrage interdit à l’eau de passer. Il l’arrête, l’accumule, la comprime, puis s’étonne un jour de la voir tout emporter.

La rive ne nie pas l’eau. Elle lui donne une direction.

Mes limites sont des rives. Elles ne détruisent pas l’amour. Elles l’empêchent de devenir une inondation. Elles me permettent de dire non sans fabriquer un monstre, de demander justice sans transformer mon cœur en tribunal, de protéger mes enfants sans les recruter comme témoins de ma vérité.

Aimer tout le monde ne veut pas dire tout permettre.

Et c’est là que je refuse le costume du sage en lin blanc.

Je ne suis pas devenu baba cool. Je ne brûle pas de sauge pour réconcilier l’univers. Je ne crois pas que chacun a raison dans sa propre vibration, ni que les responsabilités se dissolvent dès que l’on parle assez longtemps de blessures intérieures.

Je suis avec le cerveau à droite, le cœur à gauche et le sexe au milieu.

Mon cerveau exige le réel, la liberté, les limites et le prix des choix. Mon cœur refuse qu’une chute devienne une condamnation à vie. Quant au sexe, il rappelle aux deux autres qu’avant d’être des principes, nous sommes des corps traversés par le manque, le désir, la peur et la chaleur. Il les empêche de se prendre pour Dieu.

Cette géographie intérieure n’est pas toujours paisible. Mais elle me ressemble.

Le cerveau veut savoir ce qui s’est passé. Le cœur veut savoir ce qu’il reste d’humain. Le sexe veut encore sentir que la vie circule. Aucun des trois ne suffit seul. Le cerveau sans le cœur devient une administration. Le cœur sans le cerveau devient une proie. Et les deux sans le corps deviennent une doctrine.

L’amour auquel je crois désormais ne supprime donc ni les frontières ni les conséquences. Il ne distribue pas gratuitement l’innocence. Il distingue les gestes, les intentions et les responsabilités. Mais il refuse qu’un être soit réduit à son pire geste, à sa peur la plus profonde ou au diagnostic posé sur lui.

Plus cet amour grandit, plus il m’inclut.

Et plus il m’inclut, moins il a besoin d’exclure les autres pour me protéger.

Il peut circuler vers mes fils, y compris vers celui qui ferme sa porte. Vers ma sœur retrouvée. Vers les patients qui me confient leur peur. Vers les inconnus dont je ne saurai jamais l’histoire. Vers ceux avec qui je peux vivre et ceux dont je dois rester loin. Il ne les confond pas. Il ne les met pas à égalité. Il reconnaît seulement en chacun cette part de vivant qu’aucun dossier ne pourra contenir.

Je pensais autrefois que l’amour était une adresse.

Je comprends maintenant qu’il est une circulation.

Il ne revient pas nécessairement là où il est né. Il passe. Il prend la forme de ce qu’il rencontre. Il devient protection avec un enfant, patience avec un patient, vérité avec soi, limite avec celui qui blesse, désir avec celui qui attire. Il ne perd pas son unité en changeant de forme. Il prouve au contraire qu’il était plus vaste que son premier objet.

Alors oui, j’aime, encore.

Pas une personne contre le reste du monde. Pas une histoire au détriment de toutes les autres. J’aime la vie sans la croire innocente. J’aime les êtres sans renoncer à juger leurs actes. Je m’aime sans me placer au-dessus d’eux.

Voilà ce qu’il me reste de tout cela. L’amour n’est pas ce qui me ramène en arrière. C’est ce qui agrandit en moi la part du monde que je refuse de laisser mourir.

Et lorsque le fleuve atteint enfin la mer, il ne demande pas aux eaux d’où elles viennent. Il les reçoit sans les confondre.

Il reste l’amour.

Pas tendre au point d’être aveugle.

Pas lucide au point de devenir sec.

Vivant.

I went to Chess club again today for the first time in a while, and I was talking with someone afterwards that I didn’t really get to talk to the first time I met her. She is a psychologist with her own private practice therapy, and she is significantly older than me. She has two kids, both around my age. After the club, we kept talking for a while and covered several different topics. I also realized that my first impression of her as someone who is an older person that is established with their career in a highly educated field, was someone that is wealthy. She bought the food at the bar and tipped, and didn’t really care about the cost of it. Today when we went to 7-Eleven afterwards because she wanted to grab a drink, she spent $30 on scratchers and she said that this is her one vice that she occasionally does, and any money she wins she gives to the school. She also drove a nice BMW convertible. I was a little bit, surprised that she didn’t have another car. However, I don’t know why I expected that she had this as a fun car and drove something else also. I also guess I severely overestimated her wealth. And I don’t mean this at all in a mean way or anything like that, but I guess it was more just in my mind recognizing how I sometimes compare myself or think that I am accurately gauging someone else’s life to some extent in some metric, but I’m not that accurate. I think about one of my other friends that eats out at nice places, and goes on trips pretty frequently. But I also know that she doesn’t really save for a 401(k) because she doesn’t plan on retiring in this country. Also, I know that she cooks very often and I know that that saves money. I guess that I also overestimate how much money there is there, and I also think I underestimate my income. I think I could be better with money and spend less here and there. And I guess I just wanted to recognize the fact that I am sometimes envious to some extent of things that don’t necessarily exist.

Le soir où Élise fit changer les serrures, il pleuvait depuis des heures.

Le serrurier lui tendit cinq clés neuves dans un sachet transparent. Elle les compta deux fois, puis regarda la porte comme si elle attendait déjà de la voir s’ouvrir.

Sur la console reposait une enveloppe envoyée par Paul. À l’intérieur, il y avait son ancienne clé et une phrase écrite à la main.

« Je te la rends comme convenu. »

Élise prit la clé entre deux doigts.

Il avait pu en faire une copie.

Le lendemain, elle installa une caméra face à l’entrée. Chaque nuit, elle regardait les enregistrements. Le palier restait vide. Personne ne touchait à la serrure.

Cette absence aurait dû la rassurer. Elle produisit l’effet inverse.

Un homme qui voulait être vu aurait déjà agi. Paul, lui, attendait. Son silence prouvait sa patience. Les semaines sans incident devenaient la mesure du danger qu’il préparait.

Plus il disparaissait, plus il devenait puissant.

Après dix-huit années de mariage, Élise ne pouvait pas accepter d’être simplement celle qui était partie. Une femme qui quitte doit répondre à des questions. Une femme qui s’échappe n’a rien à expliquer.

Alors elle avait remis leur histoire dans un autre ordre.

Les longues journées de Paul au cabinet étaient devenues des absences calculées. Ses questions étaient des contrôles. Ses colères révélaient son vrai visage. Son calme montrait à quel point il savait le cacher.

Quand il insistait, elle se sentait harcelée.

Quand il renonçait, elle se sentait punie.

Quand il écrivait, elle cherchait la menace entre les lignes.

Quand il ne répondait plus, elle la trouvait dans le silence.

Dans la maison, pourtant, tout continuait de grandir.

L’aîné devait maintenant se baisser pour l’embrasser. Le deuxième avait pris une voix d’homme. Le plus jeune perdait ses dents de lait et glissait sous son oreiller de petits morceaux d’enfance.

Seule la peur d’Élise ne changeait pas.

Un jeudi, sa thérapeute posa son carnet sur ses genoux.

« Que devrait faire Paul pour vous montrer qu’il ne cherche pas à vous nuire ? »

« Me laisser tranquille. »

« C’est ce qu’il fait. »

« Parce qu’il prépare quelque chose. »

« Et s’il vous écrivait qu’il ne veut aucun conflit ? »

« Ce serait une manipulation. »

« S’il vous proposait son aide ? »

« Il chercherait à revenir dans ma vie. »

« S’il ne proposait rien ? »

Élise serra les mâchoires.

« Il voudrait me voir tomber. »

La thérapeute attendit.

« Existe-t-il une seule chose qu’il puisse faire qui vous amènerait à penser que vous vous trompez ? »

Élise regarda la fenêtre.

« Non. »

Le mot resta dans la pièce après son départ.

Quelques jours plus tard, en cherchant l’acte de naissance du plus jeune, Élise retrouva quatre carnets.

Dans le premier, dix-sept ans plus tôt, elle avait écrit :

« Un jour, il me fera payer tout ce que je lui ai dit. »

Dans le deuxième :

« Il attend le bon moment. »

Dans le troisième :

« Quand les enfants seront plus grands, il montrera enfin qui il est. »

Dans le dernier :

« Maintenant que nous sommes séparés, il va agir. »

Élise posa les carnets par ordre de date. Autour d’eux, les photographies racontaient le passage du temps. Un nourrisson était devenu adolescent. Un petit garçon avait perdu ses joues rondes. Son propre visage avait changé. Celui de Paul aussi.

Mais le danger vivait toujours demain.

Les garçons avaient pris dix-huit ans. La menace, elle, était restée au futur.

Le soir même, Élise tendit son téléphone à l’aîné.

« Lis le message de ton père. Dis-moi ce qu’il veut vraiment. »

Le garçon parcourut les quelques lignes, puis retourna le téléphone contre la table.

« Je ne sais pas lequel de vous a raison. Et je ne veux plus le décider. Je veux seulement être votre fils. »

Il monta dans sa chambre.

Élise resta seule devant les quatre carnets.

Paul n’avait pas été un mari parfait. Il avait crié, blessé et fui certaines conversations dans le travail. Mais les pages racontaient rarement ce qu’il avait fait. Elles racontaient surtout ce qu’il allait faire.

Elle comprit alors ce qui la terrifiait depuis son départ.

Pendant dix-huit ans, Paul avait vu ses faiblesses, ses mensonges, ses bontés et ses cruautés. Tant qu’il l’aimait, elle pouvait encore infléchir son regard. Maintenant qu’il vivait loin d’elle, il emportait sa propre mémoire de leur histoire.

Il était devenu un témoin qu’elle ne pouvait plus corriger.

S’il était dangereux, son témoignage ne valait rien. S’il était fou, ses souvenirs devenaient suspects. Le transformer en monstre était encore une façon de régner sur ce qu’il avait vu.

Cette pensée lui donna la nausée.

À la séance suivante, elle raconta les carnets, puis la phrase de son fils.

« S’il n’est pas le monstre, alors c’est moi », murmura-t-elle.

La thérapeute secoua lentement la tête.

« Il existe peut-être une troisième place. Vous pouvez avoir souffert et avoir fait souffrir. Reconnaître un tort ne vous condamne pas à devenir tout entière ce tort. »

Élise ne répondit pas. Pour la première fois, personne ne lui demandait de choisir entre l’innocence et l’anéantissement.

Le dimanche, elle dit à ses fils :

« Je vous ai demandé de porter une peur qui m’appartenait. Vous avez le droit d’aimer votre père sans surveiller mon visage. »

Puis elle écrivit à Paul :

« J’ai parlé de tes intentions comme si je les connaissais. Je ne les connaissais pas. Je vais corriger ce que j’ai affirmé. »

Il ne répondit pas.

L’ancienne histoire se leva aussitôt. Son silence était un piège. Il gardait le message pour s’en servir. Il savourait sa victoire.

Élise ouvrit l’un des carnets et écrivit :

« Il ne répond pas parce que… »

Elle regarda les mots, puis raya les deux derniers.

Il ne répond pas.

Je ne sais pas pourquoi.

Dans la nuit, elle crut de nouveau entendre une clé contre la porte. Elle se redressa, le cœur battant, puis regarda la caméra posée sur la table de chevet.

Elle ne l’ouvrit pas.

La serrure était fermée. Le reste, elle ne le savait pas.

Pour la première fois, cette ignorance ne ressemblait pas à un danger.

Elle ressemblait à une sortie.

“Crazy how those old wounds will rip open again on a random Wednesday”

…but at least i know what they are

 

9. Punitions et pansements

Fin de l’été 1955. La traversée a été épouvantable, tout le monde était épuisé. On débarqua, soulagés, à Marseille. Il manquait des bagages, s’ensuivirent de longues palabres, on les retrouva, fouillés sans précaution, mais il ne manquait rien, il n’y avait rien de précieux. Bienvenue en France. Je fis connaissance avec mon pays. Le désordre du port m’intéressait, mais vite on dut se rendre à l’hôtel. On nous attendait. Je dus dormir avec ma grand-mère. Ma grand-mère m’était inconnue. À la maison, elle dirigeait son monde avec une autorité sans appel. D’emblée, son despotisme s’abattit sur moi. Je dus réciter au coucher des prières que je ne comprenais pas, j’avais peur. Je voulais aller dans la chambre avec ma sœur et mes parents. Puni. La nuit, ronflements. Je ne dormis pas. Le lendemain matin nouvelles prières. Je tombais de fatigue. On me donna du Banania, oubliant mon intolérance au lactose. Je vomis.

La France d’emblée devint le pays des punitions. Je réclamais ma nounou, je voulais retourner dans le delta, on me dit capricieux et insupportable. Ma sœur, 12 ans, parlait un excellent français acquis chez les sœurs, moi, j’étais un petit sauvage, un niakoué. On prit le train pour Nantes le surlendemain, pour un long, long voyage, je pus enfin dormir bercé par le tacatac régulier, hypnotique des roues, je pus aussi libérer mes pieds. On y colla des pansements Urgo. Les pansements Urgo deviendront mes compagnons. Je collectionnerai longtemps les petits emballages parmi mes trésors. Mes pieds ne se feront jamais aux chaussures « de ville » que ma mère s’acharnera à me faire porter jusqu’à ce que je finisse par imposer des tennis (Springcourt) ou rien. De ce jour, je commençai à pouvoir marcher et courir sans boiter. Je devins d’ailleurs un excellent coureur de fond. Ma révolte, vers 12 ans, fut d’ailleurs générale.

#nguolai

I am sleepy. I have clearly forgotten the energy levels of a high-speed bundle of fearlessness. We have sequestered ourselves inside my bedroom and master bath. They are the most peaceful and kitten safe areas of my apartment. They are also a jungle gym of goth curiosity.

You may be saying to yourself that it is not like Phoebe can literally climb the walls. Did I mention the black and periwinkle acoustic fiberboards covering two walls? No? Let's just say that they will support the weight of a kitten, and I managed to catch her before she flung herself at the over-the-door potion shelf. I did not catch her before she got into a head-butting contest with the small jewelry box I keep my dainties, rings, cuffs, and industrials in. I'll sort the mess later. I'm just happy she didn't eat any of them.

We've gotten into a routine: eat, poop, go rabid, sleep. She did quickly escape into my studio when I was washing up her dish. I cut my temple on my bench-pin when trying to catch her before she got behind some drawers. So much for situational awareness. 🙄 She meeped when I ouched.

She is now letting me know when she wants more food as opposed to me scheduling it. She runs to the bedroom door and mouths a silent meow. If I don't respond, she'll run back to wherever I am and climb until we're face to face so that she can scream a single meow for my oblivious self to get with the program. She's still very good about waiting for me to get everything prepared, but tonight she did have thoughts she wanted to share about how slow I was moving. She still won't drink water beyond what I add to her food. Not atypical for her age.

She is fast, gentle, curious, and open to trust. Her claws are razor sharp, but she only uses them when lost in a hunting frenzy. She hasn't completely learned to groom herself yet, but she is doing her face. I started teaching her today with a microfiber makeup remover cloth. She fell asleep, purring.😹 I'll lightly dampen it tomorrow.

My sleeping is totally jacked. I don't really sleep much in the Winter, but Summer and early Autumn kick my ass. She wakes me as soon as I start to fade. Sometimes I manage to get her to curl up with the hypnotic double head-stroke. Other times it's a no go.

She is puuurrfect.

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

“Wholeness isn’t about perfection, it’s about coming home to yourself.”

For so long, I believed healing meant fixing what was broken. piecing myself back together until I resembled the woman I was before the storm. But I don’t want to be her again. She didn’t know how strong she could be. She didn’t know what it meant to lose everything and still rise.

I’m learning now that wholeness isn’t perfection. It’s accepting every scar, every crack, every moment that tested me. And realizing those are the very things that make me real.

I used to look in the mirror and see everything that went wrong. Now, I see a woman who didn’t give up. A woman who learned to stand alone. A woman who cried, broke, and kept going anyway.

Becoming whole isn’t about finding every missing piece. It’s remembering that I was never missing anything at all. I just had to uncover the parts of me buried under fear, under shame, under the noise. That quiet rediscovery has been the most sacred part of this journey.

Some days I still wobble. Some days the old pain still knocks at the door. But I don’t live there anymore.

I’m building something steadier now. A peace that doesn’t depend on anyone else’s choices, a forgiveness that doesn’t ask for permission, and a love that finally begins with me.

Healing doesn’t mean the hurting stops. It means the hurt no longer decides how I love, or dream, or breathe. It means I can look at what broke me and say, “You didn’t win.”

My future is still uncertain. There are still check‑ins with probation, still waiting, still questions without answers. But I’m not defined by any of it anymore.

Whatever comes next, I’ll meet it as I am, stronger, calmer, and finally at home within myself.

Because even if the world doesn’t understand my story, I do. I know what I’ve walked through, what I’ve endured, and the part I played in all of it. I know my truth.

My hope is that those who must decide can see the whole picture. Not just the reports or the paperwork, but the heart behind it. There are always two sides to every story, and the truth usually lives somewhere in between.

I don’t know how much faith I have left in the system, but I still believe in fairness. I believe in honesty. And I believe that what’s right will find its way through, even if it takes time.

Whatever comes next, I’ll face it with open eyes and steady hands. Not because I’m unafraid, but because I finally trust myself enough to stand in my truth.

No matter the outcome, this is not the end of my journey. I will continue to stand. I will continue to heal. I will continue to show up, to learn, and to become the best version of myself.

(NEXT – CHAPTER 8)

“I don’t forgive because it’s easy. I forgive because I deserve peace.”

Forgiveness has never come easy to me. It feels too big, To unfair, Like saying “It’s okay,” when it never really was. For the longest time, I thought forgiving meant erasing the hurt, or pretending I wasn’t still angry, confused, or broken. But that’s not what forgiveness is. Not anymore.

Forgiveness, I’m learning isn’t about the other person. It’s about setting myself free from the story that keeps replaying in my head. It’s about loosening the grip of what happened so it stops choking the air out of my future. It’s about finally saying, “You don’t get to own this pain anymore, I do.”

For so time, I carried anger disguised as strength. It made me feel powerful, Like if I held on tight enough it would somehow protect me from being hurt again. But all it ever did was keep me tethered to the moment everything fell apart. And I’ve lived there long enough.

I don’t forgive to excuse. I forgive to exhale.

Some days, forgiveness looks like whispering, “I release you,” under my breath when the memories try to pull me back. Other days, it’s forgiving myself, For the times I begged for love that wasn’t returned, for not walking away sooner, For all the things I said when I was drowning in pain.

Self-forgiveness might be the hardest of all. It’s easy to blame myself for everything, For the fallout, for the mistakes, for the way it all unraveled. But I keep reminding myself, I did the best I could with what I knew then. And that has to be enough.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It means remembering without letting it poison the present. It means acknowledging that something hurt deeply, And still choosing to move forward anyway.

There’s a strange kind of freedom that comes when you stop waiting for apologies that may never come. When you stop replaying what you can’t rewrite. When you realize that closure isn’t something you’re given, it’s something you decide to create.

I’m not saying it’s easy. There are days I still feel the sting. But I’m learning to let it pass through me instead of letting it live in me. Because I’ve lived long enough carrying pain that wasn’t mine to keep.

I forgive not because it’s deserved, But because I want peace more than I want answers. Because I want my heart to feel light again.

Forgiveness isn’t a destination. It’s a practice. One I have to choose again and again, Until the hurt stops echoing and the past finally rests.

But for now, I’m breathing easier, I’m sleeping better, And every time I choose grace over bitterness, I feel a little freer.

(NEXT – CHAPTER 7)

Purpose: Sun in The Star

There are two figures, two women on this card. They are of a lighter blue than the background colour. One of them appears very relaxed, and is reclined with her hands interlaced behind her head. She has put down her vessel beside her. She is floating in a galactic liquid. Apparently, daydreaming, and pursuing grand adventures in her mind. The other woman, appears to be the traditional visual representation of Aquarius, and is more focused on her task at hand. She is carrying a vessel similar to her companion’s, over her right shoulder and something is being poured out of it. More stars? Dreams? Whatever “it” is, their bodies are immersed in it, this shallow galactic river bed. The one lying down, her buttocks is fully immersed, but the rest of her limbs are raised slightly, like she is about to get into a “happy baby” or a “butterfly” yoga pose. As for the one with the vessel over her shoulder, the galactic river comes up to her knees. Does it flow forever?

My self-expression and power source, does tend to honor both these women. One is coming from ease, a relaxed place, while the other is also fully committed to the task at hand, to her purpose—to pouring and sharing a dreamy, hopeful soup from a very abundant vessel.

Body: Moon in Temperance

The 14th card, is Temperance, in other words. Moderation. There is water flowing straight down from The Source, placed right in the middle of the card, from the top edge. This blue liquid, flows straight into four stacked cups on a saucer, which is balancing on two fingers of a blue hand emerging from a lotus flower. The ‘water’ or liquid then overflows from two thin steams on either side of the stacked cups and into other cups. On the left, the water stream is flowing into a single cup on top of a saucer, balancing on another blue hand, also emerging from a lotus flower on a lily pad. To the right of the middle hand, the other stream flows into 8 stacked teacups with no saucer. Still, it is also balanced by a blue hand. There are also thinner water streams flowing out from each of the cups on either side of the stack of cups in the middle. In spite of the individual elements looking a bit abundant, indulgent, and somewhat chaotic—upon closer inspection, everything is balanced. All is well. There is poise and even, restraint.

My body needs to be in a state of equilibrium in order for it to function with poise. I notice a change, when I am jolted by something from the the outside. My body tends to react first. I need to learn to respond. To feel, but I still need to sit. To breathe. Being.

Motivation: The Emperor Rising

The figure has a golden ram head. Is he half-man, half-human? His ram head is very imposing. He’s not facing the viewer. We see only one side of his face. He is seated in a chair made out of diamonds, or perhaps some kind of crystal… is it jade? He is holding a scepter in his left hand and his right hand, is very casually placed on his lap. His left foot is firmly planted on the ground, while his right foot is able to balance a golden apple on the tip of his shoe. He looks calm and he knows what he is doing. He is striking a balance between power and poise, while still able to pull off a rather unorthodox, and unnecessary showy move, with the apple. He appears in control and unbothered.

Am I a master of the skills that I have acquired and what I have learned? Can I be confident in my actions? What can I do to be more secure and confident? What do I need? Can I ask for help?

_When will she stop pouring from the vessel and just be?

#magic #tarot #knowthyself

“Even broken pieces can build something strong.”

Starting over... It doesn’t happen all at once, It’s not a clean slate or a good moment of clarity. It’s a slow, trembling rebuild, Brick by brick, Choice by choice.

After everything you once leaned on has fallen apart.

I’ve spent so long being in survival mode that I almost forgot what it felt like to live. For months, my only focus was just making it through the day, Get up, Breathe, Don’t fall apart in public.

That became my version of strength.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe strength can be softer. Maybe rebuilding isn’t about proving I’m unbreakable. Maybe it’s about learning how to exist with the cracks, not as flaws, But as proof that I’ve lived through something that should’ve destroyed me, and it hasn’t.

I’m learning to take up space again, to let myself laugh without guilt, To enjoy a quiet cup of coffee without feeling like I should be worrying instead. Healing has a funny way of sneaking in during ordinary moments.

One day you catch yourself humming along to the radio or making plans for next week, and you realize, you’re starting to want life again.

That’s the thing about rebuilding; it doesn’t erase what happened. It just gives you new ways to hold it.

There are still days when the weight of everything hits me, The fear, The uncertainty, The shame.

But I’m starting to notice something else underneath all of that, determination. A kind of hope that whispers, You’re still here, and that means something.

I’ve been trying to forgive myself, for all the ways I abandoned myself while trying to hold everything else together. I was so focused on fixing things outside of me that I forgot to care for the woman inside.

So now I’m learning again, Slowly, Gently. I’m asking her what she needs. I’m letting her rest.

I’m learning that rebuilding isn’t rushing back to who I was, it’s giving myself permission to become someone new.

The thought of it seems scary, and it carries fear inside me. But it is also freedom.

I’m not trying to be who anyone else needs me to be. I’m rebuilding myself. Becoming a new version of me.

Maybe that’s the real gift of rock bottom, when there’s nothing left to hide behind, you finally meet yourself as a newer you.

I don’t have everything figured out, and I probably never will. But that is okay.

I’m building something real this time, not from fear, Not from desperation, But from truth, Courage.

And the quiet belief that I’m worth saving.

I think that’s enough, And maybe that’s everything.

Because even if the world still feels heavy, even if I’m still waiting for answers, I’m rebuilding piece by piece, Heart by heart, And somehow, I know, This time, it’s going to hold.

(NEXT – CHAPTER 6)

I Am Not One of You

Once, there was a boy who loved humanity.

Not the idea of it.

Not some distant dream of what mankind might become.

He loved the people themselves.

Their laughter.

Their hands.

Their fragile little lives burning against the vastness of an uncaring world.

He believed his species was beautiful.

He believed kindness was something sacred.

And he possessed it in abundance.

A gentle thing.

A tender thing.

A boy who would have given everything he owned to ease another's suffering.

And they laughed.

They called his kindness cute.

They smiled at his innocence as though innocence were something amusing to be outgrown.

Then they hurt him.

And when he begged—

they hurt him again.

Pain became his childhood.

Fear became his lullaby.

Suffering became the language spoken most fluently by the world around him.

He learned things no child should ever know.

He learned that a scream does not guarantee rescue.

That tears do not summon mercy.

That begging does not make cruel hands stop.

That sometimes the world hears a child crying

and simply

continues.

So he begged.

God, how he begged.

Not for greatness.

Not for riches.

Not for vengeance.

Only for someone to be kind.

Only for someone to look upon him and decide—

You have suffered enough.

No one came.

And slowly,

the thing inside him that had been pure began to change.

His kindness became caution.

His trust became fear.

His love became indifference.

His faith became silence.

And the boy who once believed humanity was worth everything began watching his people destroy one another.

He watched them wage wars over borders drawn in dirt.

He watched them slaughter for gods they claimed were loving.

He watched the strong devour the weak.

He watched the hungry be blamed for starving.

He watched the wounded be condemned for bleeding.

He watched children inherit the hatred of their fathers before they were old enough to understand why.

He watched men turn suffering into entertainment.

He watched cruelty become profitable.

He watched compassion become weakness.

He watched the powerful call their appetites principles.

And eventually he stopped asking—

How could they do this?

Because the answer became too obvious.

They could.

That was enough.

But one question remained.

One question that followed him through every sleepless night.

Through every memory.

Through every scar.

Through every grave.

He would look upon the forests and watch wolves hunt.

Yet after the hunt,

the pack remained a pack.

He watched animals protect their young.

Share warmth.

Mourn their dead.

Fight only because hunger demanded it.

And then he looked at mankind.

And wondered—

Why?

Why do we suffer greater than beasts?

Why does the creature that claims to possess reason invent a thousand reasons to be cruel?

Why does the creature that speaks of love practice hatred with such precision?

Why does the creature that builds temples also build prisons?

Why does the creature that writes poems write them beside graves it dug itself?

Why do we hurt those who cannot fight back?

Why do we abandon those who beg?

Why do we break what is gentle—

and then wonder why it became afraid?

He searched for the answer.

He searched in philosophy.

In religion.

In history.

In the faces of strangers.

In the faces of friends.

He searched inside himself.

And found nothing.

Only the terrible realization

that perhaps humanity was never the noble thing he believed it was.

Perhaps kindness was the exception.

Perhaps cruelty was the inheritance.

Perhaps civilization was only a thin white cloth draped over something ancient and hungry.

And perhaps the greatest lie he had ever been taught

was that being human was something to be proud of.

So the boy died.

Not in one moment.

That would have been mercy.

He died slowly.

Piece by piece.

Every cruelty buried another part of him.

Every abandonment covered another handful of earth.

Every unanswered plea lowered the coffin deeper.

Until one day,

there was only a man.

A man who looks upon humanity and feels no brotherhood.

No warmth.

No pride.

No longing to be welcomed home.

Only disgust.

And pity.

Pity most of all.

Because he no longer hates them for what they are.

He pities them for what they could have been.

He pities the species that learned to fly before learning how to stop crushing one another.

He pities the species that conquered oceans while drowning its own.

He pities the species that can understand the suffering of another creature and still choose to cause it.

And when someone calls him human,

something inside him recoils.

The word is not an identity anymore.

It is an insult.

A reminder.

A chain around the throat of the boy he used to be.

So he refuses it.

He will not claim their name.

He will not inherit their pride.

He will not call himself one of them.

Because somewhere in the ruins of his childhood still lies a boy who loved humanity with everything he had.

And that boy deserved a world worthy of his love.

Instead,

they took his kindness and called it cute.

They took his purity and taught it fear.

They took his faith and fed it suffering.

They took a child who would have given everything to them—

and gave him nothing but reasons to turn away.

So let humanity keep its name.

Let it keep its crowns.

Its flags.

Its gods.

Its wars.

Its beautiful speeches spoken over ugly deeds.

He wants none of it.

And yet—

he could not be silent.

No.

Silence was what they had taught him when he begged.

Silence was what they offered when he cried.

Silence was what surrounded him while he suffered.

He would not give it back to them.

So he wrote.

He drew.

He sang.

He screamed words into pages until ink became blood.

He took every lie they had spoken and dragged it into the light.

Every excuse.

Every hypocrisy.

Every polished word covering an ugly deed.

He bore their lies upon his back—

then laid them bare before the world.

They knocked him down.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And each time they looked upon the ground expecting him to remain there.

But they never understood.

They had mistaken his falling for surrender.

They had mistaken his silence for weakness.

They had mistaken his gentleness for something they could destroy without consequence.

So the man rose.

And something in him had changed.

He no longer spoke like the boy they remembered.

He snarled.

He howled.

A dog whipped one time too many does not forever remain the creature that trembled at the hand.

Eventually,

it bares its teeth.

Eventually,

it learns where to bite.

And eventually,

the thing that kept beating it discovers that the creature it thought was broken

still has a mouth.

So now—

he sinks his teeth into the conscience of his species.

Not flesh.

Not blood.

Truth.

He tears away the comforting skin they wrapped around themselves.

And when they recoil,

he holds up a mirror.

Look.

Look at yourselves.

Look at what you have made.

Look at the child you taught to fear.

Look at the kindness you mocked.

Look at the purity you corrupted.

Look at the faith you starved.

Look at the man standing before you.

This is your reflection.

His name is—

Abraxian.

He chose the name himself.

Not human.

Not savior.

Not prophet.

Not saint.

Abraxian.

He is not kind.

He does not care whether you approve of him.

He does not care whether you like his words.

He does not ask for your forgiveness.

He does not need your understanding.

He has no interest in being made comfortable by your opinion of him.

He only asks one thing:

Look.

Look into his world.

Look beyond the teeth.

Beyond the snarling.

Beyond the hatred you think you see.

And you may discover something far more terrible.

You may discover the boy.

The boy who loved you.

The boy who believed in you.

The boy who would have given everything he possessed to make this species a little kinder.

And then you may understand why he became the man standing before you.

Why he howls.

Why he writes.

Why he sings.

Why he refuses your name.

Why he holds the mirror instead of lowering it.

Because beneath every snarl there remains an accusation.

Beneath every howl there remains a plea.

And beneath every word there remains the ghost of a little boy still asking the question humanity never answered:

Why do we suffer greater than beasts?

And when the mirror finally stands before the world,

there is nowhere left to hide.

No crown.

No flag.

No god.

No law.

No beautiful speech.

Only the reflection.

Only the truth.

Only humanity staring into the eyes of the thing it created.

And Abraxian stares back.

He does not smile.

He does not forgive.

He does not look away.

He simply says—

“I am not one of you.”

And for the first time,

the words are not spoken by a wounded boy.

They are spoken by a man.

A man who survived what was meant to destroy him.

A man who lost his love for humanity—

but never lost his voice.

And perhaps that is humanity's greatest mistake.

They thought they could break him.

They never understood

that broken things can still howl.

And some of them

learn to bite.

I think today started off better before getting a little worse.

I took my surviving dog to daycare for the first time and caught up on all my entries after breakfast.

A few hours later I got a call from the daycare that he is not behaving well and instigating play with other dogs. I hope this is just a phase from the loss of our other dog.

I then proceeded to bed rot for a few hours, before getting a second call and being asked to pick him up. They said he was certainly welcomed back and that they thought he’s having a hard time readjusting after the loss of my other dog and being out of routine for several weeks. They recommended I bring him on the weekends when it is less busy or doing half-days during the week.

I finally started planning for my friend’s baby shower (only a few days away), but overall my energy and mood feel really low. Post-trip blues on top of grief and long road trip will really wear you down.

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office with no set return date. I will get back to you when the time is right.