most of us we are so numb we are so inflamed we don’t even know

why we keep coughing when we can’t stop inhaling toxins

why we have chronic migraines when we continue to drink diet coke thinking it’s healthy

why our joints hurt when we eat a load of sugar

why we can’t lose weight when we aren’t eating the right food for our unique designs

why we can’t sleep when our sheets reek of a chemical smell

why our hair falls when we don’t eat enough protein

why we have an odor when we don’t practice hygiene

why our skin reacts to the sun when the sun is only bringing our problems to the surface

why we blast music on the beach when the sound of the waves is present

we are overstimulated over-entertained over-dependent on everything but ourselves

In Summary: * As my vision continues to recover from the treatment received yesterday afternoon, I've been very careful not to use my eyes too much. I've used heavy sunglasses every time I went outside, I've used my prescription eyeglasses whenever watching TV, working at the computer, or reading. The only surprising effect today has been an increase of annoying “floaters” in my vision.

I've done more radio and music listening today than usual, and less screen watching of any kind. That's probably good for me in ways other that resting my eyes, truth be told. Listening now to “Oldies” hits from 1966. Soon I'll tune in a radio pregame broadcast ahead of an MLB game, then I'll listen to the radio call of that Rangers vs White Sox game. And that'll end my “recovery” Wednesday.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 224.1 lbs. * bp= 153/90 (62)

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

Diet: * 05:05 – 1 little cupcake * 06:15 – 1 fresh apple * 06:45 – pizza * 12:00 – chicken tenders and gravy, mashed potatoes * 15:30 – 1 fresh tangerine

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:00 – listen to local news talk radio * 04:35 – bank accounts activity monitored . * 05:00 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 09:00 – listen to relaxing music * 12:00 to 13:00 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 13:15 tuned into 107.5 The Fan well ahead of this afternoon's The Ride With JMV Show for even more Indiana sports talk. * 17:00 – listen to relaxing music * 18:00 – tuned into 105.3 The Fan well ahead of tonight's Rangers / White Sox game

Chess: * 10:15 – moved in all pending CC games

18 August 2026

Gendlin gave the name “felt sense” to the unclear, pre-verbal sense of “something”—the inner knowledge or awareness that has not been consciously thought or verbalized—as that “something” is experienced in the body. It is not the same as an emotion. This bodily felt “something” may be an awareness of a situation or an old hurt, or of something that is “coming”—perhaps an idea or insight. Crucial to the concept, as defined by Gendlin, is that it is unclear and vague, and it is always more than any attempt to express it verbally. Gendlin also described it as “sensing an implicit complexity, a wholistic sense of what one is working on”.

Agosto | ¿Por qué tenemos tanto miedo de sentir?

¿Por qué uno tiene que reprimir tanto sus emociones?

¿Por qué no podemos ser intensos? ¿Por qué sentimos que somos demasiado cuando sentimos mucho?

Si te gusta alguien, ¿por qué da tanto miedo decirlo?

¿Por qué me da miedo decirte que te extraño?

Que ya no recuerdo tu aroma, pero que quisiera volver a tenerte cerca para recordarlo. Que quisiera volver a ver esos ojos de cerca, con ese brillo tan particular que tienen cuando hablas de algo que te apasiona. Escucharte hablar de todo y de nada. Volver a sentir tus besos, tus manos. Quisiera simplemente estar existiendo a tu lado, sin hacer nada extraordinario, solamente estar.

Te extraño.

Y me duele admitirlo.

Pero lo más complejo de todo no es extrañarte. Lo más complejo es sentir que no puedo decírtelo.

Porque entonces aparecen todas las dudas.

Tal vez dejaste de sentir lo mismo de la noche a la mañana.

Tal vez te arrepentiste.

Tal vez prefieres que seamos amigos.

Tal vez ya no me piensas de la misma manera en la que yo te pienso.

Tal vez para ti aquello que pasó fue solamente un momento y para mí se convirtió en algo mucho más difícil de acomodar.

Tal vez…

Y ese es el problema.

Que no sé.

No sé qué piensas. No sé qué sientes. No sé si me extrañas. No sé si alguna vez aparezco en tus pensamientos de la misma forma en la que tú apareces en los míos.

Y quizá por eso me da miedo preguntarlo.

Porque mientras no sepa, todavía puedo imaginar cualquier respuesta.

Puedo pensar que tal vez sí me extrañas. Que tal vez también tienes ganas de verme. Que tal vez cuando escuchas alguna canción, recuerdas algo de nosotros. Que tal vez, en algún momento del día, también te preguntas qué estoy haciendo.

Pero si pregunto, existe la posibilidad de que la respuesta sea otra.

Y creo que eso es lo que realmente me asusta.

No extrañarte.

No sentir.

No ser intensa.

Me asusta descubrir que todo esto que todavía siento está ocurriendo solamente de mi lado.

Y qué extraño es eso de querer decirle a alguien “te extraño” y, al mismo tiempo, tener tanto miedo de descubrir que quizá tú ya no tienes ganas de escuchar esas palabras.

Sequestered in absentia, notes of wander beckoned notice like the blooded claim of an overtly familiar bite. Too tarnished to maintain an omniscience, her need began The Unraveling. Each tug. Every touch. All sensation became a ripened prayer to yearning's phantom dismemberment, and the obligatory recycling mandated when learning to walk on two broken feet.

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

—

I’m working on a book of erotic poetry. I thought I'd pen some pieces to wander along beside it and wet the appetite. Those who know my writing side well know that I loathe creating titles for poetry. Titles for books are quite exciting, on the otherhand. I already know what this one will be.

hello guess what? I’m on the train again. This time brightly illuminated pale fields of wheat and pine tree forests are zipping by along with a handful of red houses haphazardly scattered like raisins in a müsli

It’s always nice to come home. I felt disoriented when I woke up this morning in the apartment. A disappointment settling inside as I learned where I was.

I think mornings can be harsh, because there’s always a brief moment when you have a clean slate, and as the state is loaded back into the brain, the disappointments and failures briefly forgotten, are reexperienced.

Of course there are good things loaded with the context too, like waking up for the first time next to someone you love etc

Life itself is indeed like a müsli, but sometimes there’s shit in it.

Il existe des regards sous lesquels nous nous corrigeons avant même d'avoir parlé.

Ils n'ont pas besoin d'être hostiles. Une hésitation suffit, un sourcil qui se lève, une présence qui recule à peine. Alors nous baissons la voix, nous rangeons un désir, nous choisissons une version de nous plus facile à recevoir. Nous apprenons à nous présenter comme on prépare une chambre pour un invité difficile, en retirant tout ce qui pourrait encombrer son regard. À la longue, ce regard n'a même plus besoin d'être là. Nous l'emportons avec nous. Nous rangeons la chambre pour personne.

Et puis il existe le regard heureux. Celui qui ne nous embellit pas. Il se réjouit simplement de nous trouver là, et il ne demande pas que nous soyons achevés pour prendre plaisir à notre présence. C'est ce qui le rend si convaincant. La bienveillance est une décision, et nous le sentons. La joie de nous voir n'en est pas une. On peut choisir d'être patient avec quelqu'un. On ne choisit pas d'être content qu'il existe.

Sous ce regard, quelque chose en nous cesse de rentrer le ventre. La voix que nous avions baissée reprend son volume. Ce qui riait trop fort, hésitait trop longtemps ou rêvait de travers retrouve le droit de circuler dans la pièce. Nous n'avons plus à déposer devant nous, comme une carte de visite, une version commode de ce que nous sommes.

Quelqu'un nous accueille.

Pas avec une grande déclaration. Pas nécessairement avec des promesses. L'accueil véritable fait peu de bruit. Il ressemble à une porte qui reste ouverte alors que nous pensions devoir repartir. À une chaise que personne ne retire au moment où nous nous asseyons. À un regard qui ne se détourne pas lorsque notre belle composition se défait un peu.

Être accueilli, c'est pouvoir apparaître sans passer d'abord par l'atelier des retouches. C'est montrer une joie trop vive, une peur mal coiffée, une idée encore bancale, et découvrir que rien ne s'effondre. L'autre est toujours là. Il ne nous confond pas avec notre maladresse du jour. Nos aveux ne deviendront pas, plus tard, des marteaux. Notre vulnérabilité n'est pas versée au dossier à charge.

Il accueille et il observe.

Observer quelqu'un est une forme rare de générosité. Cela demande de ne pas courir vers une conclusion, de ne pas expliquer à sa place ce qu'il ressent. Expliquer quelqu'un est si souvent une manière polie de le ranger. Celui qui observe regarde ce qui naît, ce qui hésite, ce qui revient. Il laisse la personne se révéler à son rythme, comme une couleur monte dans une toile encore humide.

Et surtout, il peut le faire avec gaieté.

L'accueil n'a pas besoin du visage sévère des salles d'attente. La gravité de celui qui écoute risque même de confirmer la crainte de celui qui parle : si l'autre prend cet air, c'est que la chose devait être grave. On peut recevoir quelqu'un avec un sourire, un verre posé sur la table, une plaisanterie qui rend l'air plus léger. On peut trouver charmant qu'un être humain ne tienne pas tout entier dans la première définition venue.

Cette gaieté n'efface pas la profondeur. Elle lui donne de l'oxygène. Elle dit : ce que tu es n'est pas une catastrophe. Je peux te regarder sans convoquer aussitôt les pompiers, les juges et les architectes. Tu peux être étrange ici. Tu peux être magnifique et parfois franchement pénible. Tu peux te tromper sans être expulsé du paysage.

Alors quelque chose se détend.

La personne cesse de consacrer toute son énergie à protéger son droit de rester. Elle n'a plus à séduire à chaque phrase ni à préparer sa défense avant même d'avoir ouvert la bouche. Ce qui se tenait caché peut enfin sortir, s'étirer, respirer, regarder autour de soi.

Et c'est seulement là que le changement commence.

Car on ne fait pas grandir quelqu'un en lui répétant qu'il devrait déjà être différent. On obtient parfois une obéissance, une imitation convaincante, une amélioration de façade. Mais la transformation profonde ne pousse pas sous la menace de perdre l'amour. Elle pousse lorsque l'être comprend qu'il peut se transformer sans devoir d'abord se renier.

Ce qui est accueilli n'est pas condamné à rester identique. C'est même l'inverse : on n'est libre de devenir autre que lorsqu'on a le droit de rester tel qu'on est. Ce qui est accueilli n'a plus besoin de s'agripper à sa forme actuelle pour survivre. Il peut bouger. Il peut lâcher une vieille défense sans craindre de disparaître avec elle, essayer, rater, recommencer.

Ce regard ne devient pas pour autant celui d'un sculpteur. Il ne corrige pas chaque angle, il ne polit pas chaque rugosité, et il ne signe pas ce qui pousse. Il offre une présence assez vaste pour que nous puissions nous y rencontrer, et assez libre pour que nous n'en devenions pas la propriété.

Accueillir ne signifie pas tout accepter. On peut poser une limite sans retirer son regard, refuser un geste sans effacer la personne, dire non sans faire de ce non un exil. Un non prononcé sans retrait suppose même que l'autre peut l'entendre sans s'effondrer. C'est encore une forme de confiance. L'accueil véritable ne consiste pas à applaudir tout ce qui apparaît. Il consiste à ne pas confondre l'amour avec une récompense distribuée aux versions bien élevées.

Peu à peu, ce regard reçu devient le nôtre. Nous l'emportons avec nous, comme nous avions emporté l'autre. Nous apprenons à nous offrir cette même hospitalité, nous cessons de nous jeter dehors à la première faute. Nous devenons pour nous ce lieu où rien n'est forcé de mentir pour avoir le droit de rester.

C'est sans doute cela, aimer quelqu'un.

Lui préparer un espace assez doux pour qu'il ose y être vrai, une chambre où il n'ait rien à ranger avant d'entrer. L'observer avec curiosité, parfois avec amusement, toujours avec respect. Ne pas lui demander de devenir meilleur avant de mériter notre présence.

A more typical win.

I won this game yesterday evening when my opponent playing White resigned the game after my 33rd move (33...Rxc3), giving me the win by default. Checkmate was clearly only two moves away at this point and there was nothing he could do to avoid it.

This game began on 27 July and ended yesterday, so he and I moved at a pretty good pace. Even though we were playing with a 2 days per move time control, we kept at it; sometimes taking the full 2 days, other times moving several times in a day.

The position of pieces at game's end is shown above, and our full move record below:

1. e4 a6 2. Nf3 Nc6 3. Be2 e5 4. a3 Nf6 5. Nc3 d5 6. h3 Be7 7. O-O O-O 8. d4 Nxd4 9. Nxd4 exd4 10. Qxd4 c6 11. e5 Ne4 12. Nxe4 dxe4 13. Qxd8 Rxd8 14. b4 b5 15. Be3 h6 16. f3 exf3 17. Bxf3 Bb7 18. c3 Rd3 19. Bd4 a5 20. Rfe1 Rc8 21. Bg4 Rd8 22. Re4 c5 23. bxc5 Bxe4 24. e6 fxe6 25. Bxe6+ Kh8 26. Bg4 Bg5 27. Be2 Be3+ 28. Kh2 Bf4+ 29. Kg1 Rd2 30. Kf1 Rd8xd4 31. Kf2 Rd4d3 32. Rg1 Bg3+ 33. Kf1 Rxc3

And the adventure continues.

Starcraft Co. 17- Open War

By the time the UIC formally acknowledged that it was at war, the distinction had become almost academic. Renegade Terran forces were no longer operating through isolated laboratories, hidden breeding farms and deniable research installations. They held territory. They fielded fleets. They controlled Zerg swarms large enough to assault major population centers, and intelligence recovered from Khamsin and Aiur suggested that every previous operation had been preparation for something larger. The discovery that finally pushed the Council into open mobilization came from a captured renegade communications node near the frontier. Analysts found repeated references to a device called a psi emitter, a machine capable of projecting a signal across interstellar distances and drawing Zerg toward it from systems far beyond any conventional sensor range. The renegades had not needed to breed every creature that attacked Kestral or New Carthage. They could summon wild swarms, concentrate them around a chosen target, and then use their developing control technology to point the resulting biological hurricane in a useful direction. The emitter had been located on Niflheim, an otherwise insignificant snowbound planet near the edge of UIC-controlled space. There were no major cities, almost no permanent population and little economic infrastructure beyond automated mineral extraction. The renegades had chosen it because none of those things mattered. Niflheim sat close enough to several known migration routes that the emitter could draw Zerg toward the core while remaining far from civilian interference. Reconnaissance already showed the consequences. Swarms were arriving continuously. Some contained only a few hundred organisms. Others numbered in the thousands. Mutalisks descended from orbit beside overlords carrying ground strains. Scourge appeared in clouds. Ultralisks wandered across the ice beneath them. The biological signatures surrounding the emitter increased every hour.

For once, the UIC reacted with something approaching its full strength. Fleets were pulled from multiple sectors. Army formations mobilized from core worlds. Hundreds of transports moved toward Niflheim. General Voss informed StarCraft Co. that Central Command intended to destroy the emitter with overwhelming force and requested that the company deploy as a supporting reserve. The commander read the operation plan and immediately disliked it. The primary landing zone was an open basin south of the emitter, a broad snowfield surrounded by low ridges. It offered room to land an enormous army quickly and almost nothing else. “You're putting the main force in low ground,” the commander said. Voss answered that the basin was the only area large enough to accommodate simultaneous landings by several divisions. “It also has no natural barriers, no defensible approaches and high ground on three sides.” Voss hesitated. “The Army believes massed firepower will compensate.” The commander stared at the map. “Against how many Zerg?” “Current estimate is uncertain.” “Then what exactly are they compensating for?” Voss sighed. “This plan is already approved.” The commander understood what that meant. Too many generals, too many commands and too many signatures had accumulated behind it for anyone to change course without admitting the obvious flaw. StarCraft Co. was ordered to remain in reserve and arrive after the main assault was underway.

The UIC army landed first. Thousands of marines and medics established bunker lines across the snow while siege tanks deployed behind them. Goliaths formed anti-air belts around the artillery. Battlecruisers hovered overhead. Wraiths and Valkyries screened the approaches. On a tactical display it looked formidable. In person, it looked exposed. The first Zerg attack came before half the supply depots were operational. Several dozen ultralisks formed the spearhead, charging directly across the open snow while artillery fired into them from maximum range. Behind them came an ocean of zerglings and hydralisks. The UIC tank lines inflicted staggering casualties, but there was nowhere to funnel the attackers and no terrain forcing them into manageable concentrations. The swarm simply spread wider. The ultralisks reached the bunkers. Some died within meters of them. Others hit at full speed. Entire defensive positions disappeared beneath kaiser blades and tons of armored flesh. Zerglings poured through the openings. Hydralisks stopped beyond the first line and fired continuously into the exposed infantry. UIC commanders committed reserve tanks early, then discovered that the reserves had nowhere useful to deploy because fleeing troops and advancing Zerg already filled the snowfield. What should have been layered defenses became one enormous firing line, and once sections of that line broke there was nothing behind them except more soldiers.

The air battle collapsed almost simultaneously. UIC battlecruisers moved forward to relieve the ground force and encountered clouds of scourge screened by devourers. Laser batteries destroyed hundreds, but hundreds more came behind them. Corrosive spores coated hulls and weakened armor. Scourge struck damaged sections in clusters. One battlecruiser exploded above the battlefield and fell burning into the snow. Another lost propulsion and was torn apart by successive impacts before evacuation could begin. Goliaths attempted to support the fleet and found guardians drifting beyond effective anti-air angles, launching biological projectiles into their formations while mutalisks swept through the gaps. Within hours, the UIC's carefully assembled assault force had become a disaster visible from orbit. StarCraft Co. arrived while it was still happening. The commander took one look at the tactical display and ignored the designated reserve landing zone. “Mountains,” he ordered.

StarCraft Co. transports redirected toward a range west of the battlefield, where narrow valleys and elevated plateaus provided exactly what the UIC deployment lacked. Dropships landed infantry and SCVs first. Siege tanks followed. Goliaths occupied ridgelines. Missile turrets began appearing before the final transports touched down. Battlecruisers remained above the mountains rather than descending into the air battle over the basin. Valkyries and Wraiths operated beneath their protection. StarCraft Co. had fewer forces than the UIC army being annihilated below, but it possessed something the government force had thrown away at the moment of landing: terrain. The commander ordered no rescue assault into the basin. That decision drew immediate protests from surviving UIC officers. Thousands of government troops were still fighting below. The commander refused to commit StarCraft Co. into the same killing ground. Instead, he opened evacuation corridors through the western slopes and transmitted coordinates to anyone capable of reaching them. UIC units began retreating toward the mountains in fragments. Marines arrived without officers. Tank crews abandoned damaged vehicles and climbed through the snow on foot. Entire companies had been reduced to dozens of survivors. StarCraft Co. medics received them behind prepared positions while SCVs turned mountain passes into fortifications.

The Zerg followed, which was precisely what the commander wanted. Ultralisks that had crossed the open snowfield without obstruction found themselves entering narrow mountain approaches where only a handful could advance at once. Siege tanks firing from elevated terraces concentrated on the lead organisms. When one fell, its corpse became an obstacle for everything behind it. Zerglings climbed over the bodies and entered interlocking Gauss fire from bunkers cut into the rock. Hydralisks attempting to establish ranged positions discovered that StarCraft Co.'s artillery could see farther down the slopes than they could fire upward. Mutalisks and guardians approached the ridges and encountered Goliaths, Valkyries and layered missile-turret coverage. Science vessels moved continuously behind the defensive line, projecting matrices onto exposed positions and irradiating dense biological concentrations in the passes. The contrast with the basin was brutal. The same swarm that had shattered entire UIC divisions spent the next several hours dying in corridors of rock and snow. StarCraft Co. gave up individual positions whenever necessary, collapsed passages with demolition charges and forced the Zerg to find another route into yet another prepared kill zone. UIC survivors who reached the mountains were rearmed and folded into the defense. Some of them had spent the previous day fighting under generals who still believed a straight line of bunkers could stop enough Zerg if the line was thick enough. Now they watched StarCraft Co. deliberately surrender ground, force attackers into narrow approaches and destroy them a few hundred at a time.

By the end of the second day, the concentration that had destroyed the main UIC army was gone. Tens of thousands of Zerg lay across the approaches beneath the mountains. The surviving government force was a fraction of what had landed, but enough personnel had escaped that StarCraft Co. could use them to reinforce the newly established forward base. The commander did not waste time celebrating. Science-vessel scans showed more Zerg entering the system. The emitter remained active. Everything they had just killed was being replaced. That made the next objective obvious: destroy the emitter. The problem was reaching it.

The renegades had expected someone eventually to understand how important the device was, and they had built accordingly. The psi emitter stood on a mountainous island rising above a vast frozen lake north of the primary Zerg concentration. Terran fortifications surrounded the summit. Siege tanks covered the approaches. Bunkers and missile turrets formed overlapping defensive rings. The lake itself eliminated most conventional ground routes, while the surrounding valleys had been deliberately saturated with creep and Zerg structures. Sunken colonies existed in layers. Spore colonies made low-altitude air operations suicidal. Hydralisks were burrowed throughout the approaches. Every hour the emitter remained functional brought more organisms into the system. Worse, the renegades had hired Protoss. They were not Ara. Intelligence identified them as mercenary detachments drawn from several independent tribes willing to sell military service for resources or political favors. Scouts patrolled above the emitter. Corsairs provided rapid interception against lighter spacecraft. Carriers remained farther back under the protection of defensive structures, their interceptors capable of shredding anything attempting to linger above the installation. Most concerning were several arbiters moving between the air formations. Their presence complicated targeting and offered the defenders tactical options StarCraft Co. did not fully understand. Whatever the renegades had paid, they had purchased one of the strongest air-defense networks the company had ever encountered.

The command staff spent most of a night considering alternatives. A ground assault was discarded first. Even if StarCraft Co. could cross the outer Zerg lines, the ice surrounding the mountain forced vehicles into predictable approaches covered by siege tanks. Assaulting uphill through creep against Terran artillery while hydralisks and ultralisks attacked the flanks would turn the operation into the UIC landing all over again. An airborne strike looked almost as bad. Dropships would have to pass spore colonies, missile turrets, scourge, Scouts, Corsairs, carriers and whatever defensive effects the arbiters could produce. Enough aircraft might get through, but whatever infantry survived the landing would arrive beneath an intact fortress. Someone suggested nuclear weapons. For a moment, the room went quiet. StarCraft Co. possessed them. One ghost reaching firing range could theoretically end the problem without sacrificing an army. The commander asked the science-vessel staff to map detection coverage around the emitter. The answer killed the idea. Protoss observers, Terran missile systems, science-vessel equivalents and Zerg overlords created overlapping detection fields extending far beyond the target. A cloaked ghost might penetrate the outer line. Getting close enough to paint the emitter before being discovered was another matter. “We could send several,” one officer suggested. The commander looked at the casualty estimate. “We could send all of them. That doesn't make it a plan.”

The debate returned to air power because every other option was worse. The commander eventually reduced the problem to the same principle StarCraft Co. had used since Ardea. They did not need to defeat every defender. They needed to create one route to one target for long enough to fire several weapons. Battlecruisers could do that. Probably. The plan was ugly enough that nobody tried pretending otherwise. StarCraft Co. would mass its available capital ships, including the newer Minotaur-class vessels, reinforce them with every science vessel capable of generating defensive matrices, and attack through the narrowest practical corridor. Valkyries and Wraiths would clear scourge and smaller fliers immediately ahead of the formation. The battlecruisers would ignore targets that did not physically prevent forward movement. They would not attempt to win the air battle. They would punch through it, reach Yamato range, destroy the emitter and withdraw whatever remained. Losses were not a risk. Losses were part of the plan.

The commander looked around the briefing room after the final simulation. “We are sacrificing ships.” Nobody argued. The projections showed several battlecruisers unlikely to survive long enough to retreat. “Crews?” an officer asked. The commander had already decided. Skeleton complements would operate the vessels expected to take the heaviest fire. Nonessential personnel transferred to other ships. Damage-control teams remained because without them the formation might collapse before reaching the target. Every crew member received the choice to transfer out. Most stayed.

The assault began before dawn over the northern mountains. StarCraft Co. battlecruisers climbed from behind the ridgeline in a tight formation while Valkyries surged ahead. The defenders reacted immediately. Mutalisks and scourge rose from the Zerg lines. Terran missile turrets acquired targets. Protoss Scouts accelerated toward the formation while Corsairs swept around the flanks. Carriers released clouds of interceptors. The commander ordered the fleet forward. Valkyrie missiles saturated the space ahead. Scourge vanished by the hundreds. Wraiths engaged Scouts while science vessels moved dangerously close to the capital ships, wrapping defensive matrices around whichever hulls were taking the heaviest fire. Battlecruiser lasers ignored most of the fighters and concentrated on scourge slipping through the screen. The first devourers reached effective range and coated a Minotaur in corrosive spores. Its armor began failing almost immediately. The formation kept moving.

Protoss interceptors swarmed across the lead ships. Corsairs cut into the Wraith screen. Missile fire rose from the mountain. A battlecruiser on the eastern edge of the formation lost propulsion after repeated scourge impacts and began falling behind. Its captain reported that the ship could no longer maintain formation. “Can you still fire?” the commander asked. “Yes.” “Then keep firing.” The damaged vessel rotated toward a carrier and charged its Yamato cannon. The blast struck the Protoss ship while interceptors tore into the battlecruiser's exposed hull. Seconds later, another swarm of scourge reached it. The transmission ended. StarCraft Co. continued forward. The defenders had expected the Terrans to turn away when losses became severe. They had misunderstood the objective. Every ship destroyed after the formation entered the corridor had already accomplished part of its purpose by absorbing weapons that were not hitting the vessels behind it. Another battlecruiser lost its forward armor and continued under two overlapping defensive matrices. A third took direct fire from siege batteries on the mountain as it passed low enough for their trajectories to reach. Its port weapons failed. The starboard batteries kept firing.

The emitter appeared on targeting displays. Still too far. The commander ordered the formation tighter. Scourge struck the central ships. One Minotaur disappeared behind consecutive explosions, emerged burning and continued forward. Wraith losses crossed fifty percent. Valkyries were almost out of missiles. Science vessels began losing power from continuous matrix projection. Then the first battlecruiser entered Yamato range. “Fire.” Energy gathered along the ship's forward weapon assembly. A Protoss carrier crossed the firing line. The captain ignored it. The Yamato cannon discharged. The blast struck the outer shielding around the emitter. It remained standing. A second battlecruiser fired. The defensive field collapsed. The third ship began charging. Scourge hit it before the weapon discharged. The ship rolled sideways, losing altitude. The cannon fired anyway. The shot missed the emitter by less than fifty meters and obliterated a section of the surrounding installation.

The commander watched the remaining ships closing. “Again.” Yamato systems began recharging. There was no guarantee they would survive long enough. The Minotaur at the center of the formation reached firing range with half its outer armor gone. Missile impacts struck continuously along its hull. Interceptors swarmed around it. A science vessel projected a final defensive matrix over the forward section and immediately lost power. The Yamato cannon charged. The psi emitter continued broadcasting. More Zerg were already entering the system. The Minotaur fired. The emitter disappeared inside white light. For several seconds the sensors showed nothing. Then the signal stopped.

Across Niflheim, Zerg behavior changed almost immediately. Not dramatically. There was no sudden collapse or mass death. But the continuous influx from orbit ceased. Swarms already approaching the planet began dispersing. Some Zerg under renegade control continued fighting normally. Others became erratic. The strategic equation that had made the entire operation impossible changed in an instant. The commander ordered the surviving fleet out. The withdrawal was almost as expensive as the approach. Protoss mercenaries pursued. Scourge continued attacking. One battlecruiser that had survived the firing run lost engines before reaching the mountain cover and was abandoned after its crew transferred to nearby ships. Another made it back with enough structural damage that the engineers eventually declared repair economically irrational. The fleet that returned to StarCraft Co.'s forward base was substantially smaller than the fleet that left. The emitter was gone. That was enough.

Without endless reinforcement, the Zerg surrounding the mountain became finite. Finite problems were StarCraft Co.'s specialty. The counteroffensive began two days later. Siege tanks moved out from the mountain base beneath science-vessel detection. Marines and medics protected the artillery from zerglings while Goliaths handled the remaining air threat. The first hive complex received almost the same treatment as the northern hive on Khamsin. Sunken colonies were destroyed from outside their range. Spore colonies were shelled until Wraiths could operate safely overhead. Hydralisks attempting to burrow around the siege lines appeared on scanner sweeps and died before surfacing. The difference was scale. Niflheim contained enormous numbers of Zerg accumulated during the weeks the emitter had operated. Destroying them took months.

StarCraft Co. did not rush. The company established permanent forward positions throughout the mountains and gradually expanded outward. Each captured mineral field supported additional SCVs and fortifications. Siege lines advanced kilometers at a time. When resistance became too dense, the army stopped, built another base and resumed bombardment from there. The remaining renegade Terrans fought alongside the swarm. Their siege tanks forced StarCraft Co. to conduct counterbattery operations. Ghosts infiltrated defensive positions and locked down armored units before artillery advances. Renegade bunkers were isolated and destroyed. The Protoss mercenaries withdrew gradually once it became clear the psi emitter had been lost and the renegades could no longer guarantee victory. StarCraft Co. did not pursue them. The contract concerned Niflheim, not settling every score in the system. Winter became irrelevant on a planet where winter never ended. Weeks became months. One hive disappeared, then another. The frozen plains became covered in blackened creep and crater fields. Entire canyon networks were burned clean. Tens of thousands of Zerg died under artillery fire. Thousands more were exterminated by infantry advancing behind the siege lines. StarCraft Co. replaced losses. The UIC mostly sent paperwork.

Government reinforcements eventually arrived, but never in the numbers promised. Some formations fought effectively once integrated into StarCraft Co.'s operational structure. Others spent weeks securing areas that had already been cleared or refusing operations until orders arrived from commands several systems away. More than once, Central Command attempted to redirect StarCraft Co. units already engaged in the campaign because another department had decided the UIC retainer entitled it to priority access. The commander began rejecting those requests without discussion. General Voss intervened where he could, but his ability to protect the campaign from his own government was plainly limited. By the fourth month, StarCraft Co. was technically fighting under UIC strategic authority while operationally making almost every important decision itself.

Six months after the disastrous UIC landing, the final major hive on Niflheim was destroyed. The last spawning pools burned beneath a snowstorm. Science vessels scanned the region repeatedly and found only scattered biological signatures, remnants too small to constitute an organized force. Local teams could eliminate those over time. The planet no longer represented a strategic threat. The cost was enormous. The UIC had lost the majority of the forces committed during the initial assault. StarCraft Co. had sacrificed battlecruisers worth fortunes to destroy the emitter and then spent months feeding ammunition, replacement vehicles and soldiers into the ground campaign. Entire veteran formations had been rebuilt more than once. But the alternative had been worse. Recovered data from the emitter facility showed that the device's effective range encompassed multiple star systems simultaneously. Had it remained operational, the renegades could have continued drawing wild Zerg toward Niflheim until the swarm numbered in the millions. Once gathered, enthrallment systems could have redirected portions toward populated worlds throughout the core. New Carthage would not have been an exceptional siege. It would have been one of dozens.

The UIC paid accordingly. The final settlement was larger than any single transfer StarCraft Co. had ever received. Lost battlecruisers were compensated at replacement value. Combat bonuses, casualty payments, equipment losses and six months of operational expenses were added on top of the original contract. The government also increased StarCraft Co.'s standing retainer, ostensibly recognizing that the company now represented a strategic military asset rather than an ordinary PMC. On paper, the relationship had never been closer. In practice, both sides were beginning to understand that money was becoming the easiest part of it.

General Voss arrived in person for the final briefing. He walked through the company's mountain base past memorial plaques listing ships lost during the emitter run and soldiers killed during the campaign. The commander met him inside an operations room whose walls still displayed six months of shifting battle lines. Voss studied the final map. “All clear?” “Clear enough.” The general nodded. For a while neither man spoke. Then Voss said, “Central Command considers the operation a strategic victory.” The commander looked at him. “The operation where they landed an army in a bowl and lost most of it?” Voss winced. “That portion is being reviewed separately.” “I'm sure it is.” The general almost objected, then stopped. They had moved past pretending.

“There is going to be a formal inquiry,” Voss said. “Senior command wants testimony concerning the opening assault.” The commander looked at him. “Mine?” “Among others.” “Are they investigating who approved the landing zone?” Voss's hesitation answered before he did. “The inquiry has a broad mandate.” “That's not what I asked.” “No.” The commander leaned against the operations table. “Then I'm not especially interested in helping them determine which dead colonel should have objected more forcefully.” Voss's expression hardened slightly. “Careful.” It was the first time the general had spoken to him that way. The commander met his eyes. “I am being careful.”

The silence that followed was different from their earlier disagreements. Voss was still an ally, perhaps the closest thing StarCraft Co. had inside the UIC hierarchy, but he was also a general of that hierarchy. The distinction mattered more every month. “There are people in Central Command,” Voss said eventually, “who think your company is becoming too independent.” The commander almost smiled. “They hired us because we were independent.” “They hired you because you could do things quickly.” “Those are related.” “Not to everyone.” Voss glanced toward the tactical map. “You've ignored deployment orders, conducted operations without authorization and established direct relationships with foreign powers. You now possess capital ships, nuclear weapons, experimental infantry and a private intelligence network. Some people are asking where a contractor stops and an army begins.”

The commander considered the question. “Did any of those people make it to Niflheim before the shooting stopped?” Voss's jaw tightened. “That's exactly the kind of answer that worries them.” “Then they should worry more about why the answer is no.” Neither man raised his voice. They didn't need to. For years, StarCraft Co. had needed the UIC far more than the UIC needed StarCraft Co. The retainer, procurement access and government contracts had financed its transformation from a handful of mercenaries into a military organization. Niflheim made it increasingly difficult to say which side now possessed the greater leverage.

Voss looked again at the casualty figures and some of the tension left his expression. “I know what you think of us.” “I don't think that's a productive conversation.” “Probably not.” He paused. “But I also know we'd have lost this planet without you.” The commander folded his arms. “You might have lost more than this planet.” “Yes.” That admission mattered. Voss turned toward him. “This isn't going away. The renegades are stronger than we believed. They're coordinating with forces outside Terran space. They can breed Zerg, modify them, control them and attract them from systems away. And my military…” He stopped. The commander waited. Voss eventually finished. “…is not adapting quickly enough.” It was the first time a senior UIC officer had said it plainly. “No,” the commander replied.

Voss nodded once, then slid a datapad across the table. It contained the authorization for StarCraft Co.'s payment and increased retainer. Beneath it were several new conditions Central Command wanted added to the agreement: greater reporting requirements, tighter controls on independent deployments, mandatory notification before acquiring strategic weapons and a provision allowing the UIC to place liaison officers aboard StarCraft Co. capital ships. The commander read them without comment. “Those weren't part of the contract,” he said. “They're proposed revisions.” “We won't accept them.” “I assumed you wouldn't.” “Then why bring them?” Voss looked genuinely tired. “Because if I didn't, somebody less reasonable would.”

The commander pushed the datapad back. “They can keep proposing.” Voss took it. “And you can keep refusing. Eventually somebody is going to decide this arrangement needs to be clarified.” The commander looked through the observation window toward the surviving StarCraft Co. fleet above the mountains. New Minotaurs had already been ordered to replace the ships lost over the emitter. Veterans of the UIC's destroyed army were submitting applications to join the company in numbers large enough that recruiting had begun turning people away. Engineers wanted to work on StarCraft Co.'s weapons programs. Colonial governments increasingly contacted the company directly before bothering with Central Command. Even some UIC officers had started routing intelligence through the commander because doing so produced a response faster than sending it through their own hierarchy.

“Maybe it does,” the commander said.

Voss studied him for a moment, as though trying to decide whether there was more in the answer than the words themselves. If he found anything, he didn't say so. They shook hands before the general departed. It remained cordial. Technically, they were still on the same side.

Outside, StarCraft Co. battlecruisers moved above the mountains while SCVs dismantled forward positions no longer needed. The company had spent six months paying in blood for mistakes made during the first hours of the campaign, but it had emerged larger, richer, harder and considerably less willing to accept orders simply because the people giving them carried government insignia. The UIC had money, fleets, ministries and more soldiers than StarCraft Co. could yet hope to field. It also possessed layers of leadership that had repeatedly demonstrated an extraordinary talent for converting overwhelming advantages into disasters.

Open war had begun with the UIC attempting to demonstrate that it could still solve the crisis through overwhelming conventional force. Niflheim had demonstrated something else. The UIC had an army. StarCraft Co. knew how to fight a war.

And, increasingly, StarCraft Co. was beginning to wonder exactly who should be deciding how that war was fought.

Thanks Brits!

Thanks to the British, we now have data that should shut down American Football, but it won’t.

When you are poor and athletic, nothing brings the promise of a better life like two-a-day football practice in high school. Like musicians, athletes are dangled in front of wealth, but rarely ever experience it. We’ve known for a while about CTE. Now we have numbers. (Again, thanks to the British.) We put kids in meat grinders here in the USA, tell them they’ll be rich. I have met kids wanting to play football to buy their parents a house. What do you think the odds are of that?

(Google says…)

“How likely is a highschooler in Texas in football to make enough in football to buy parents a house with football money?”

To buy a house, a player generally needs to secure a massive Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL) deal or reach the NFL. 

• The High School Population: There are roughly 170,000 high school football players in Texas at any given time.
• The College Jump: Only about 7% to 9.5% of high school players make it to any college roster, and only about 3% make it to a Division I FBS school, where the major money resides.
• The NFL Jump: Nationwide, out of more than 1 million high school players, only about 250–300 get drafted into the NFL each year. That is a 0.025% chance (roughly 1 in 4,000) of going from high school to the NFL. 

Because Texas produces a disproportionate amount of elite talent, a Texas player's individual odds might be slightly higher than the national average, but they still face a fraction of a percent chance.

What’s the deal with brain damage in America?

In the USA, we do not think much about brain damage, even if you are rich! If you start out poor, we bless you with wealth for taking on such brain damage. Not that you can enjoy it.

I am reminded of Romans and gladiators. I know this news this morning from Britain will fall on deaf ears because folks like football. They like music too! But that doesn’t mean they like the players involved. So athletes and musicians get taken advantage of with lottery-type career systems and concussions.

Are “earning” and “winning” the same thing? What about the losers? Didn’t they earn a living too, doing the same thing? Okay, who out there does not deserve to live?

A musician or athlete does not “earn” a living. They “win” it, often taking it from someone else. Folks do not “work” their way up, no matter how hard they work. It’s a lie. I am not saying they do not work. Many work circles around me. But to get the good life, luck is involved. .5 percent make it to NFL who start out in high school. Now we know 1 in 4 in the NFL get CTE. All that work and luck just to wind up brain damaged. CTE is the second form of brain damage these kids incur too. The first was joining football to begin with, those kind of odds. But they sure do! Also, they’re in high school. Not impressionable or anything ..

Let’s talk about lottery for a moment…

“What are popular thoughts against lottery systems, Google?”

(Google says..)

Popular thoughts against state-run financial lottery systems focus on their mathematical design, economic impact on low-income groups, and targeting of vulnerable communities. 

Mathematical Odds

• Extremely low chances: Winning a major jackpot like Powerball has odds of roughly 1 in 292 million.
• Negative expected return: Payouts average only about 60% of total revenue, meaning habitual players lose a vast majority of their spent money over time. 

Economic and Regressive Impact

• Regressive structure: Lower-income households spend a significantly higher percentage of their disposable income on tickets compared to wealthier individuals.
• Opportunity cost: Money spent on lottery tickets diverts funds from practical savings, investments, or basic household needs. 

Social and Demographic Concerns

• Targeted marketing: Critics note that ticket retailers and advertisements are often concentrated in lower-income and minority neighborhoods. 
• Exploitation of hope: Advocacy groups argue that state-sponsored gambling preys on people looking for financial escape from systemic poverty. 

Government Reliance

• Flawed revenue source: Critics argue that using lotteries to fund public services like education allows governments to avoid raising standard, progressive taxes or providing consistent budgetary support.

Who fixes this?

“Targeting vulnerable communities..” I see it says that. The flawed revenue source is good too. Instead of taxing millionaires and billionaires for civic upgrades and fair policy, we’ll just have a lottery. The plebs can do it themselves. At least they’re right about us doing it ourselves. But we have to get rid of team owners.

I want nice things too. But I also don’t want your kids to be brain damaged so I can watch a damn game.

One thing you get when folks think you’re rich is suck ups. Sycophants. Many people daydream about having folks concerned about their life, achievements, aspirations. Many folks want a team to work on. Many folks like money. Me! I am folks!

I don’t feel I am “owed” any of that stuff. I don’t even really like the sycophant thing since I quit social media and realized how fake everything is outside of it, (inside too, wooboy). I don’t feel like I have “earned” it, either. I am kinda’ lazy, do whatever art projects I want. I love my life, don’t get me wrong, but it isn’t because I am making bank. I am making decisions. For me, that’s just as good.

What do you want money for?

I create mainly because it gives me things to do, think about. That’s what a lot of folks want money for. Guess I found a softer way on accident. (It totally was not on accident, fyi. My reason for music is simply getting to do it. Happy place.)

Music and NFL fans, your sign.

Seriously NFL fans, the burden is on your shoulder pads . Music fans too. Do not reward slimy team owners with more money for 1 in 4 cases of CTE. That’s gladiator numbers. Do not reward greedy entertainment companies and managers using micro-targeting for pop-stars practically vacuuming the money and attention from your very life. That’s brain damaged too. So, I know you won’t do it. I just don’t see it getting better for these kids in high school until you do.

Kelly Kintner

The Horse’s Mouth magazine.

This is a work still in progress. It began with Google AI describing me as a “self‑styled publication architect”, as though the term were a vanity label rather than a serious, highly developed craft.

Part I emerged from that irritation; a definition of the role. Then a friend observed: “Well, you don’t actually say what you do.” Part II arrived quickly after that.

And even as I clicked publish on Part II, the tension I know persists between writer and architect began needling its way into my thinking. More accurately, a tension that lives within me began demanding expression.

So here is my draft Part III.

The Publication Architect: Part III
The Essayist and the Architect

The Dual Movement Behind the Work

Most writing is understood as a single act: a person sits down, thinks, and produces sentences. But the strongest writing rarely emerges from a single movement. It arises from the tension between two distinct ways of seeing. One is perceptual. The other is structural. One concerns the world. The other concerns the reader. One discovers. The other designs.

These two movements are the Essayist and the Publication Architect.

They are not competing identities. They are complementary disciplines. The work only becomes fully itself when both are present.

The Essayist: The Surface of Attention

The Essayist begins with perception. S/he stands somewhere, sees something, and pays attention to it. The stance matters. The vantage matters. The Essayist writes from a position in the world, not from abstraction. S/he notices patterns, tensions, contradictions, small details that reveal larger truths. S/he is concerned with experience, with interpretation, with the movement of thought as it unfolds.

The Essayist’s work is exploratory. It begins with curiosity. It asks: What is happening here? What does this mean? What does this reveal? The Essayist does not begin with structure. S/he begins with encounter. The writing is shaped by the world as s/he sees it.

But perception alone is not enough.

The Publication Architect:
The Structure Beneath the Surface

The Publication Architect begins not with the world but with the reader. S/he asks: What does the reader understand? What do they believe? What do they need? What path will allow them to see what I have seen? The concern is not expression but construction. Not discovery but design.

The Architect works beneath the surface of the essay. S/he shapes the route through which understanding will unfold. S/he decides what is revealed first, what is held back, what is repeated, what is contrasted, what is resolved. S/he builds the architecture through which meaning can accumulate.

Where the Essayist perceives, the Architect arranges. Where the Essayist explores, the Architect guides. Where the Essayist sees, the Architect shows.

These are different disciplines. Yet they must coexist.

The Tension Between Them The Essayist wants freedom. The Architect wants order.

The Essayist wants to follow the movement of thought. The Architect wants to shape the movement of understanding.

The Essayist wants to write what s/he sees. The Architect wants the reader to see it.

If either discipline dominates, the work collapses.

An essay without architecture drifts. It may contain insight, but the insight does not land. It lacks force. It lacks clarity. It lacks the sequence through which understanding becomes inevitable.

Architecture without essayism is sterile. It may be clear, but it is empty. It lacks perception. It lacks encounter. It lacks the human movement that gives writing its purpose.

The work requires both.

The Dual Identity of the Writer

To write with clarity and force, the writer must inhabit both roles. S/he must be Essayist and Architect simultaneously. S/he must see the world and design the reader’s path through it. S/he must hold perception in one hand and structure in the other.

This dual identity is not a technique. It is a stance — a way of thinking. It recognises that understanding does not emerge from content alone, but from the relationship between content and structure, between perception and design, between what is seen and how it is revealed. As I have said before: revision is epistemology.

The Essayist provides the material. The Architect provides the form. Meaning arises from their tension.

Where the Work Truly Happens

The strongest writing is built in the space between these two movements. It is built in the moment where the Essayist’s perception meets the Architect’s discipline. It is built in the recognition that seeing is not enough; the reader must be guided toward seeing. It is built in the understanding that clarity is not a property of ideas but of structure.

The writer therefore moves continually between the two roles. S/he perceives, then designs. S/he discovers, then arranges. S/he writes, then rebuilds. S/he stands somewhere, then constructs the path that allows the reader to stand there too.

This is the dual movement behind the work.

Conclusion

The Essayist and the Publication Architect are not separate identities. They are two aspects of the same discipline. One sees. One shapes. One encounters. One constructs. The work becomes fully itself only when both movements are present.

The Essayist gives the writing its voice. The Architect gives the writing its structure. Together they give the writing its meaning.

This is the tension that defines the craft. This is the dual movement that makes the work possible. This is where the writer stands

David Marshall Skerries

I should’ve had a better day today. I went to the Apple Park gym, and I worked out on a business trip, which I usually never do. I texted friends, Did work, ate good food etc. But I still find myself hurting. And it’s strange because I don’t even see E In my mind, it’s More just a memory of hurting, like that is something I’m supposed to do like that is my obligation. It’s like I have this compulsion to feel pain. I think about how I see a Mazda and I don’t even think about her anymore. That used to be our big inside joke. I think about how she has a boyfriend again. I think about somehow running into her at the airport or seeing her in traffic in her car, even though I know those two things are virtually impossible. And I don’t miss her, and I fully understand that this was a part of my life that is passed. I don’t want it impact either, and I find myself in the shower, almost rehashing old arguments. I think about how for Christmas I got her the childhood stuffed animal that she couldn’t find anymore, and how that was something she used against me when we broke up the first time. She got mad at me for spending too much money on her and giving more thoughtful presence than she did, and I know it came from a place of guilt and hurt, and that wasn’t really the problem, but I also think about how behind my back she told our mutual friend about how it felt like I was trying to replace parts of her, or how everything was white because I was washing the color out of her life. And then I think about how she recorded me when she entered my house with three other people to take stuff back and really hit me at my lowest and make it as cruel as possible. I think about when I said at work and I listen to the recording taking notes because I tried to figure out what I did wrong to justify her still blaming me. I went through everything and I kept crying and I kept hurting, and I had to fight to argue about how it was not OK to even just record me let alone the rest of it, and how at the end of the day it circled back and she said she didn’t regret it and she was happy that she recorded me even though it hurt me so badly. And I just remember my hope breaking and all of the potential and the potential future that I had seen just wash away in that parking lot as I had that call. I think about how hollow I felt walking back to my car. It felt like it hadn’t set in yet like I was in shock. How is this the same person that helped me move into my new house. How is this the person that wanted to marry me, and the person that brought me to their Thanksgiving with their family, where they threw me a surprise birthday party. How is this the person that gave me back a bag depressants that I had given her, with the exception of the few ones she decided to keep. And it’s one of those things where I have given myself the closure I have learned is necessary. I don’t sit here, hoping that she feels remorse or that anything has changed or anything at all from her anymore. And I’m grateful for the experience, but it’s still fucking hurts. And I wish it was a little bit more gentle, but maybe that’s what I needed and I told myself, and I still do that. It was necessary for things to go so nuclear and for things to hurt me so incredibly badly because even after they went nuclear and she did all those things I tried to apologize and get her back. And I needed to learn that lesson sooner than later and so I’m incredibly grateful for this pain. But fuck.

I remember when I was first dealing with a breakup I was watching a lot of different videos about it and someone described grief like glitter exploding. You can clean a lot of it up, but no matter what you will always find little pieces of glitter tucked away. And I wonder how much more glitter is left for me to find. I think about how she gave me a list of food places to visit in San Jose, and that pops up in my head whenever I try to decide where to go for a nice meal. I think about the insecurity that I had because of the level of luxury that she came from. And I know that she did not really do anything bad with that, but I was always just preemptively afraid of judgment or shame for not going to really fancy places or understanding what to do in those situations. Hell, I played golf for the first time at a country club with their family. And I know that it’s not a thing about wealth because I know that I am incredibly wealthy compared to my peers due to the privilege that I have, and additionally the amount of wealth that I come from because of my dad‘s hard work and success. And I know that comparatively she did not have those things when she was not with her parents. But at the same time, I still feel a sting whenever I go to these nice places and I see people bringing their girlfriends. And I feel like it’s a competition of something I am not really willing to do. I don’t go to these food place with myself and I was not raised. To spend money like that, it always felt like a waste of money. But I would worry about how I am supposed to pay for things like this when I already feel like cringing at the thought of spending that much money. And I think it’s such a weird thing about how I got in trouble for spending too much money on her, but at the same time that being my fear in a different lens.

I think it’s just really hurts to have all of this hope and potential in this person in a relationship that I had put so much into, and then have it backstab me. And additionally, I have blame to give myself, because there were a lot of signs that I should have noticed and a lot of unhealthy patterns like the codependency and lack of sticking to my boundaries with things. And I think this is a lesson that I needed to learn, and I think about that line about how sometimes you need to go through it to give advice. And I think I needed to give myself this advice and truly learn from it in a way that words were not able to teach me ahead of time.

I just wonder how long this glitter will haunt me for.