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book 4

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Table of Contents

  1. Getting Bitch-Slapped: The Soap for Plato’s-Cave-Grit (May 23, 2026)
  2. Merged Bubble-Form Completes, Hikes Local—No Footing Yet in Other Underdeveloped Fields of Grass (May 23, 2026)
  3. Crutchery vs. Personal Writing Style (May 24, 2026)
  4. Non-Absorption Amid Wholeness (May 25, 2026)
  5. Daremoment (May 25, 2026)
  6. The Feeling of Being Alive (May 26, 2026)
  7. Metric-Form, but Number-Decentered (May 26, 2026)

Getting Bitch-Slapped: The Soap for Plato’s-Cave-Grit (May 23, 2026)

I want to be bitch-slapped so hard, not to show my dominance, but to be just like a crybaby deprived of all of my everything. Everything that leaks into me as I go on the internet and see all of these high-placers, any user on those platforms being the deep-seated incarnation and epitome of what it means to be on an assumed chair typing away into a never-ending arc that goes on into oblivion, a pitch-nothing statement full of logic taking place on Plato’s cave wall. I am better than them, because I know exactly what I have to exorcise, what needs to become of me. I want to be shown again and a-fucking-again that the spoutery falls to nothing and that the best I can do is supreme in the way only Fang Yuan ever could, not in the sense of edgelordian internet-usered postery, but in the sense of having utterfied yourself via a total face to face with reality, not in shapes and lines perfectly architected in neighborhoods deprived of the scattering of leaves, growths, and roughness, or in malls and those convention centers that I often see during my zoo visits to these high-placers’ habitats, but in the muck-ery of being alive right beside the urban ice cream vendor, totalified in my urban arrogance yet a hundred miles away from the nearest high-placer by sheer taking-the-time-to-be-on-the-street-at-all-and-to-interact-with-the-people-whom-those-collegers-detest. They do not arm me with anything. They show me I am as near to death (dispossession) as I am to just a bunch of words and the muck. The muck is not my Holy Spirit. It doesn’t justify me. I am not the result of muck the way certain Christians would say Jesus is the result of God in the Bible. Rather, I am in the muck the way I am fast-vanishing flesh, the distinctions bearing no resemblance to any possible so-called incarnation of Muck as more gospel-ry. It is not gospel I preach, because I do not say anything at all amounting to spoutery, but better I feel than them because I edge myself closer to bawling and crying humiliated and deprived—not as proof of my scoffing long-liberated strength or resilience—but as the uttery of fuckery and all the other muck I drift and dissolve with. Humanity’s everywhere. People are everywhere. And every person’s voice matters. But in the end, by the time muck’s come and gone, I hope there is a heaven for people at all, because in that muck do I see not the sediment of humanity, nor of any representation of humanity in the landscape-painting-like or abstract-expressionist-like muck, nor of anything that could be romanticized about or even doomered about. Instead, I “see” by overhearing my mother speaking outside to someone. That is at long last what amounts of it and this and what this speaks, back toward myself, and yet totally unrepresenting [of me] the way scarecrows scare crows (function over form/shape/essence/soul/self, in which case is the latter gained through the former and yet without inextricability in any way, shape, or form but through clean function the way black coffee slides without dirtying your tongue, the “as” preposition, function as function without lasting implication beyond what function means in the practice composed entirely of current [“occurring in or existing at the present time”]). In other words, it’s just a bunch of words, like the shadows of birds riding across the street—function over form, not speak of “eyes,” perception, or phenomenology, but to speak of “there is nothing to me” Fang Yuans and its use tools and abilities in that form of Gu. The monastery accumulates monasteriness; function doesn’t, or shouldn’t. The current shouldn’t even accumulate “currentness” (why I jerked back when I wrote “composed entirely of current” because it couldn’t be “current session” because of “session” and couldn’t be “currentness” because of “-ness”). Bitch-slapping is essentially the cleansing wash of “everything that leaks into me as I go on the internet,” that Plato’s-cave-grit. Let something just start and cease, like overhearing (where it’s oblique and not even barely in the way of one’s frontal assault or the object/target/obstacle of it), a practical interpretation, if that’s to be worked out from. We are all all other ways: we are everything else other than that which is to ourselves. Plato’s-cave-grit appeals to ourselves the way shadows appeal to our walls, by casting a shadow over it. Function overheard is the bitch-slap, the un-lines and the un-circles, the overheard, underheard, but neither the unheard nor the heard-heard. Grit breeds both unheard and heard-heard, ignorance and frontal assaultery, maximizing narrow-mindedness by closing all gaps until logics leap on their own. You are not reduced to current function. You are cleansed of grit, of “-ness.” Eren describes this best, in a way (to Ymir): “You’re not a slave. You’re not a God either. You’re just a human being.” If human being here didn’t mean grit, that is, but human being at its basest and least assumed-chaired. “You are only as much as you are,” is something I’ve long said in first person. “I am only as much as I am,” the way I overheard my mother speaking outside to someone. Start and cease. Clean, no stains. No monasteriness. Gaps. Lots of it. You’ve started and ceased a lot. But what a lovely un-line you have there! As, as. Scarecrows don’t scare crows any more than they do. Many want to keep the baggage of identity even when the “don’t… any more than they do” doesn’t apply anymore. That can reek from keyboardery. Fresh bitch-slapped crybaby tears cleanse the scares and crows away, showing you were this one straw man all along who had stopped functioning as a scarecrow a long time ago and had not been acknowledged. Acknowledge yourself, where your functions are un-lining, where gaps are appearing, where things are getting overheard. Fang Yuan uses (not “would use” or “used” the way cement is grown around by grass, the rigid grit mapped onto the world forcing reality to grow around it instead of the other way around, the jungle diminished completely in an architected wasteland of straight lines and modern shapes the way colors shift toward expected form [what it should look like] rather than form keeping in step behind function, the way crazed glasses glance at a brand new different world, not present a deficient view) a Gu the way I overheard the woman outside calling my neighbor’s name at the gate. Life is choked in the concern for propriety. And not life-in-a-poem (now, the concept of it—hyperspecifity as signal: rather than function first then form after, or signal keeping in step behind overheard). And not propriety as what-should-be-propriety. But propriety is itself closing your eyes in the dark while the overheard barks in the background, with life being the only solution via eyes-flickering, and then a step ahead and behind and where steps contradict, align, then perform a jump, a somersault, leap behind two corners, jump again, try a do, then a double-take, go frontal, then forceful flight, hop and stretch, live and s-critch. can go, can go, can go.

The internet is nonsense made concrete. Reality is a blinking caret, not the before-saying, nor the after-saying-and-then-deleting, nor the saying and watching it go right-right-right as the words pour out in a steady flow. It is at that point of caret-blinking, as its own function and its own-own, beyond which “as” proposes no preposition between both counterparts of a pair, but as-as (in the way “as” collapses itself). | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | || | | | || | | | | || | | | || | | || | | || | | | | || | | | | | | | | || | | | || | | | || | || | | | || | | | | || | | | || | || | | | || | | | || | | | || | | || | | | | || | | || | | | || | || | | || | | | | | | || | | | | || || | | || | | || | | || | | || | | |

Merged Bubble-Form Completes, Hikes Local—No Footing Yet in Other Underdeveloped Fields of Grass (May 23, 2026)

You may think me adaptable. 1,000 total hours in cafe stays in one year. But honestly, I’ve barely even scratched the surface or even begun anything. I’ve barely written in diverse environments any more than I’ve already done, with the ones I’ve done being at best a “number” than anything hyperspecifically proving or conclusive. Roblox proves that. I look through different games, and I see that I’ve barely even begun to solidify my identity around (as in “in recognition of,” with contemplation, gathering, recollection, recognition, integration, re-summing up with) things. Not just Roblox games, but different platforms where I can publish posts where I have to abandon so much of everything that I’ve built myself incorrigibly to be (necessarily to prove the bubble and the dedication and investment to break the completed world rather than half-assing everything along the way and never truly making of anything anything through deep undivided delusion first). Thirdly, text editors like Write Monkey 3, where as soon as I see myself even beginning to write, I am but a child as I was back in 2019, with barely anything to myself besides the jolts of some child at some desk wandering, drifting, and barely intimating himself with the any cusp of testified-backed-and-tested idea. That idle state of discontinuity, disjointedness, and dream-like intuition, where the world abounds in the firmament of sky but not in any shape or form jottable or “pridable” (i.e., integrable into oneself as a precise architecture of how one guides the world through oneself in intense creative form and particular control over one’s whole expressed-form, which as concepts immediately go back to the three forms of resets—Roblox games, platforms, and text editors—that as service-providers supply that discontinuity long missed and which are truly necessary for any fathomable working-person, that born and lived-with in one’s bubble-form, beyond the confines which he necessarily allowed himself to fall into and then to come out again into hiking).

This is not to say:

Rather, after those 1,000 total hours in cafe stays in one year (today marks one year exactly) and 4.6 million words (non-fiction) in the last 1,055 days, nothing has happened—similar to the way leaf blows along a street. That means absorption, but it also means exposing the wealth of everything in which my identity has naught, no standing, no whatever, not even initial scaffolding, just someone staring at a text editor realizing how much it has hinged on a bubble-world, since that singular bubble-form (“singular” because “the waves merge to create a single large wave”) had to be worked at until completion. And here I am, freshman. New schools. Just moved into the neighborhood. Maybe I knew this place from the map, maybe passed here a couple of times, but it’s different when you have the emotional availability and the definitiveness of actually being here now with and for these Roblox games, platforms, and text editors to see how blankness there means identity out on an ignorance-shedding post-completion hike.

This hike is local, not global. The bubble and the bubble-form are underdeveloped local fields of grass that one had to enter and spend time tilling and harvesting toward a point of completion and doneness. Moving to the next underdeveloped local field of grass is not a global move from interior to exterior. The main illusion often seen when reading any of the things I write is that it has to mean “the farthest thing from grass” when writing as I understood it before I knew what it was “supposed” to be was already filtered through grass, because I only knew grass. I spent my whole life outdoors before writing became ever in any shape or form a thing, and by the time I was making initial contacts with it, it was already very much a communal thing of service to share with my many friends and family members. It was spending time together and relating with one another with things we grew up with, into, and alongside all this time with no discontinuity ever to think of writing, or anything at all for that matter, as anything “discontinuous” with some “outside world.” I never encountered writing as the bunch of words it has long and popularly been used for. I encountered it as everything else, the trees, the things that it fails to do anything with except tell you time and time again not to take photos of and just to, for that moment, look, in full intimacy between you and that image to which only your eyes and your experience are privy. I was never a writer. I was always everything else. By the time I was forced to write by circumstances and big communal, familial, interpersonal, (and only then, after all that, finally, arriving after such intense separation, gaps, distance, and inextricability now unwoven and untangled, the following word to add to a collection of these already mighty formative adjectives, yet which stands no lesser yet barely acts as continuous to them: personal -> connecting as adjective to the following “changes”) changes all around me, I was piercing through everything else, confused by writing as it was as a bunch of words, eliminated it all, narrowing it, until I got to something that resembled reality (not “reality” the word, but reality as what I’ve never known it any other way in complete authoritative biblical formative handling). And even that, complete disrespect and spittery do I have for it, yet there is my greatest respect for its forceful (in power) and forced (in having been forced upon me the way a cow learns to climb once the terrain changes a little and the way to the milk bucket requires a new pattern or distribution of muscular weight across the whole maneuver of ascending the slope or the a scattering of bumps in the way, perhaps back and forth as they shuttle between the bucket and the grasses) function.

I knew dense, lived-in, vivid, endlessly hyperspecific reality before I knew language as beyond directives (e.g., come here, carry this, cross this, help me bring this, write this, memorize this, recite this, sing this, dance this, perform this set of moves, say this, explain how you may apply this lesson) and quotes (i.e., anything that sounds quotable basically, the whole lot of ‘em), not stopping at 4 years old or even 12 years old. It continued communally-soaked up to 15 years old. By 16, I was a jump of “what the fuck is this person writing” (as in my own actual writing) instantly because that’s what happens when you’re everything but writing and then some. Anything that had to do with the internet—in retrospect, what was simpler an earlier version of it, but felt much, much earlier in shock, being barely anything even remotely close to what Gen Z knows it as today—was centered proactively—with set actions and all manner of immediate gatherings and responses that evolve rapidly into outreaches, volunteering activities, and the like without hiccups or missteps that aren’t readily absorbed as part of the huh-huh-huh-hurrah “esprit de corps”—on community activities, like a post showing a list of physical (the fact I have to specify this) items, what to bring to events, which happened almost weekly for many, many years. And the internet was essentially like a one-use item where 99 percent of the actual bulletin board was real and physical (not digital, the way someone might grow up having not touched physical folders yet know it totally from skeuomorphism, where you see in the icons and names in the computer screen!), not just one, but numberless across many different community locations that served as venues for broader inter-community, interdistrict, national, and international events, volunteering efforts, and internal events—all hauled, vehicle-squeezed, and snickered. Naturally, anything individually (as in the word used to denote different people demonstrating different abilities rather than anything individual in the scale of personal identity that we may know it as today) creative fed back into communal group-tied internal platforms, stages, and practical (that I have to use this term given that volunteering nowadays can be totally “imagined” in the digital sense) volunteering efforts—all taking place IN REAL TIME, think live-streaming but no one’s pausing for or even expecting your “uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh” and it’s all happening now on the communal and internal scale every time with no difference between “alt accs” and “friend groups” (the way Discord and direct-messaging, “posting” [completely foreign today!] users imagine them today[!]), which develops a lot of the skills you see many having high-school-and-college-normalized the struggle with nowadays.

So when I talk about the three resets, I talk about it the way someone can tell the difference between one place and another when others might have a general feeling of malaise from scrolling endlessly through the same UI that indifferentiates the geography and physically navigated (with the eyes, not with the phone peeking every ten steps!) spaceness of all that, where shortcuts like the word pair “men” and “women” take the place of whole individual lives and places where people have lived their whole life without knowing it any other way (which is hard to explain given the internet, but like if you could never ask AI anything, not in the sense that you became a stereotypical ignorant person the way the internet depicts it, since the stereotypical ignorant person comes not from a lack of exposure, but from excessive, narrow exposure, which ironically looks familiar today). For me, I’ve “barely begun to solidify my identity around things,” in the way someone of my background would say it, to the hyper-differences between the tiniest things while UI blobs everyone to the same word pairs.

To put it simply, the three resets are like, “Oh, I wrote 4.6 million words and spent so much time learning and making sense of it all in ways that build upon themselves until they form this big history that naturally yields a kind of precision, even if self-mitigated, but there are still many stuff that just scream dissonantly at me and I know that I didn’t trouble myself with them because I was dealing with many just as valuable things. I’m excited to learn and see how my identity will solidify around these things. I have no clue.

Crutchery vs. Personal Writing Style (May 24, 2026)

I realized it. What would make me truly original is to remove crutches, and we rely on them a lot. Show, don’t tell is less “show, don’t tell” and more so “don’t rely on crutches,” which is why the main way to get better at show, don’t tell relies primarily on refining the skill of translation-observation.

It’s why AI image generators were useful for my novels back then. I couldn’t write hyperspecifically and precisely in terms of observation and description. But now, I try them again for my recently finished novel, and I realize that they look like crude hand drawings when you compare them to the actual written imagery, which is strange as a concept, the idea that actual visual images can somehow pale in comparison to written text.

“Show, don’t tell” isn’t a rule. It’s quite literally the difference in the problem of RLHF (Reinforcement Learning from Human Feedback) but applied to everything and anything. When we rely on crutches, AI or not, we erase our actual intents which we discover the more we master observation and translation. When we point to something to do the work, we’ll never know what it is the life we’ve lived. Media references replace millions of hyper-precise, hyper-specific, hyper-compressed words and imagery.

With trite, unoriginal writing that doesn’t come from real-lived human intent and experience (which AI cannot access and so will enforce upon the human what it thinks based only on what “should” be, which isn’t the same as reality), people become labels, and labels become word pairs like “men” and “women.” At that point, what’s the difference between one person and another? That’s the problem of crutches hyper-accelerated in UI. “Show, don’t tell” = “don’t rely on crutches” = original writing. That is the spirit of it. You can “show, don’t tell” and still tell all the way if you’re behaving like a hallucinating AI rather than the human giving feedback. Translation-observation and removing crutches are the human giving feedback.

I don’t mean you shouldn’t use words at all or terms (like “RLHF” which I used). To confuse things further, I even stopped writing that recent novel I mentioned because I realized it was becoming an identity even as it accommodated my translation-observations. True translation-observation wouldn’t even rely on its accommodation as a crutch, on the history built across translation-observations, even as the finished novel and history does create its own hyper-compressed, irreplaceable, single-unit powerhouse. True translation-observation must get away from what it thinks translation-observation should look like, until even “show, don’t tell” itself vanishes completes as a “backronym” of “don’t rely on crutches,” since even “show, don’t tell” can take on the form of what “show, don’t tell” should look like, in the sense that even a web novel can somehow “show” more than a colonial travelogue through sheer non-assumption and RLHF. Literary novels can be a crutch even as they are the bastion of “show, don’t tell.” Roblox games can somehow pull you out of the rut and bring you back to translation-observation by cleansing you of the grit of “show, don’t tell’s” equivalent of “men and women.”

Literary “show, don’t tell,” like colonial traveling in the 19th century, can paradoxically be the most close-minded AI-like (RLHF-less) crutch of all. Once you start ignoring things in favor of other things because of “show, don’t tell,” that’s a problem. I went back in my ideas to characters like Fang Yuan in web novels like Reverend Insanity, which should be the epitome of hyper-genre-fiction, but instead, I found that this was everything, all the reason that it was working, meta-fiction, hyper-, pushing boundaries, smashing them together, forming compelling characters in a fictional sense, defining new problems, dismantling old ones, depriving people of the structures they’ve incorrigibly built. It demands whimsy. That’s “show, don’t tell” at its core. The one traveling and observing and describing trees all day can be more close-minded than the one playing Roblox games. You would think a blocky game would be much more crutch-y, but crutches are not about how non-crutchy they look. Once you’ve decided what should look like a crutch, you’ve departed from “show, don’t tell.” A web novel written by a teenager can be full of the whimsy that the core of “show, don’t tell” actually finds desirable, because it’s not trying to perform effectiveness the way a deep-seated aged crutch becomes effective.

The fact that AI can perform instantly and repeatably what people believe is “good literary prose,” whether in objective description or literary “humanness,” shows just how much crutch has already festered. That’s the “men and the women” and the “ugh, am I right” and “white as snow” replacing actual lived experience that RLHF relies on. What people “should” sound like. AI-generated. What authenticity “should” sound like. AI-generated. What good writing “should” sound like. AI-generated. It’s so easy to sound sophisticated, unique, and novel—performable crutches through intense mastery. AI somehow gets higher metrics on “creativity” than actual humans based on human judges blindly rating what creativity means and should look like. It’s really that much harder to engage in the core of “show, don’t tell.” Even the word “whimsy” is easily turned to what should be whimsical, so don’t browser-search it expecting to find some suggestions except the ones that point you back to something you find out yourself by eliminating everything else the way someone knows what that one book means in a gigantic library by reading through every book and seeing all the minutest differences between each one—self-discovery. Crutches are everywhere, but they’re everywhere for you to get offended, to say “I don’t get it, why am I supposed to get it?”, to arrive closer and closer to where you’re situated, by narrowing down from every possible thing. It’s why AI is so frustratingly effective for me. It insults me by just showing me what I’m not, again, again, again, again, again, again, again, and that reveals me more and more, which helps me articulate who I am by everything I’m not. This is why a web novel can be genuinely non-crutchy and the core of “show, don’t tell,” because it can point you out of the den festering with all manner of echo-chambered effectiveness. It’s genuinely fresh! A child can point you in the right direction, not because they’re a master (of effectiveness as what-should-be), but because they’re not. It just is, the way crutchlessness actually feels like.

To sum it up in the AI’s words:

actually seeing something and saying what they see, rather than reaching for what seeing should look like.

In some sense it’s at the bottom, before the ladder was built.

All crutches are rungs on this ladder.

Ironically, I’m relying on this website a lot as well as my vocabulary and all of my previous writings in my 4.6 million words. If I go to a niche social-posting platform rather than a personal website on Neocities, I’m starting from scratch in a big way, and that would come with all the things that come with social-posting. As much as I make each entry only as much as it is, as quasi-delusionally (through intense self-neologized precision) self-contained as they are, I also:

So you can imagine just how much of a hassle it’d be if I had to start over in some niche social-posting platform where I could get harrassed for not sounding “properly” according to their specific subculture and shared melting pot of backgrounds there. (I have a personal code: don’t perform a rebel or the everyman. Get as far away from structures that put you either into defensiveness or into a sense that you’re not being honest with yourself through fitting in. True precision, and honesty, is self-stating, and you need to house that, even if you have to do it yourself through spaces that respect that and prioritize describing the self-stated.)

So yeah, as much as I talk about crutches, it’s different when they’re structural, though at which point your RLHF, as it does, points to a very lived-in experience, however naturally structural.

Personal writing style is not itself a crutch, when it’s a medium for lived experience. Personal writing style isn’t vocabulary. A hyper-compressed, precise term (e.g., thematic motif “Fang Yuan” for this section like a chapter in a book using “purple and yellow” which falls under “describable” the way a person is extricable from what they are as describable; “RLHF”) isn’t necessarily a crutch unless it supercedes the intent of its full unabashed use. Vocabulary isn’t the same as one’s throat. Meaning, or non-crutch, is always in the “the intent of its full unabashed use.” Saying hello isn’t using a crutch if it’s literally the intent, the HF in the RLHF, the actual full lived-in experience. It only becomes AI-like when it replaces what could be “our actual intents which we discover the more we master observation and translation” (even as we dispel effectiveness as what-should-be itself). The describable (in “describing the self-stated”) isn’t the same as “crutchery.” Being, or it-just-is, isn’t the same as crutchery.

To exist as falling under Filipino (born and raised) isn’t to crutchify.

I have resolved this tension that might be supposed of my personal writing style as a crutch the way one wakes up in the morning and realizes their very existence describes them, not that there is a “personal writing style,” whether mine or general, but the term as a tool refers to that which is inherently always in flux and never appeals to any single thing except to itself in the time of its full unabashed functioning, so to say there is tension is to deny existence (inherently describable) itself to which the term is referring.

Self-Responses

The author hyper-precisely and hyper-compressedly eliminates toward “it just is,” toward:

 a workman’s clarity

It wasn’t “until they finally defeated their own need to intellectualize.” It was post-elimination clarity.

You ask “what is a dog?” and “what is a car?” long enough in your own words, and you arrive at something that looks like reality, because why would you ask these questions unless you stopped assuming the chair?

When all you see are “dogs” and “cars” and “men” and “women,” you lose sight of them altogether. To ask those questions it to remove your face for a moment, to crumple it, and to bear the rawness of having no face, of having only reality hitting you without the codes, the scripts, the diligences—giving the stage to the things that your face has papered over all these years. “What I am” = when things answer for you, you lose sight of it altogether. Function is when you remove the house, the room, the face, the body, and everything society has told you to perform. It’s when you ask “who am I when dogs don’t bark?” You killed the goblin because you stated the goblin. You don’t even know them, but you do, don’t you? You know them because “they” did this, did that. That’s what they did. That’s what they are. If it talks like a duck, acts like a duck, moves like a duck, it is a duck. By the time function has come, you’ve killed something that has done nothing of the sort, only that it was a goblin the way one stares at a dog and it disappears in the rest like a blur of bustling streets or a sky so blue it drifts infinitely into the rest, to where? who knows? I killed them because I knew them.

You can “kill” me if you want. All you have to do is say “well, I didn’t see anything that fits the label I’ve internalized into superceding myself and thus every-one else.” You will have allowed me to live by just dismissing me the way you dismiss someone you don’t have energy, emotional space, interest, or resonance for. You’re not necessarily labeling when you see a dog and you don’t want to get chased or barked at. Label is premeditated. You just protected your time, personal space, and energy. If you get a general feel for the first block of text you see on this website and feel that it’s just not for you, thank you. I am what I am because of what I’m not, and I wasn’t for you the way I am for myself and the way I might also be for someone else. For you to leave is for someone to stay is for me to “articulate who I am by everything I’m not” but also everything I am—the staying and the leaving eliminating the same, validation and denial (still validation through recognition resulting in denial) arriving at the same place. What-ifs (what-isn’ts, both from loss and future) propel with the same level of force as what-ises. It’s not about self-sabotage and how this really bad thing that sucked was actually good and you’ll do it again. It’s about the fact that you can’t control what happens and you do the best you can every time, each time bringing a whole new best than the last. But yeah, I am glad I knew that online friend. I’ve grown so much because of them, even if it lasted only four months. Same for those people I knew for years. It hurts a lot when you lose friends, but at the same time, whether I lose or gain—who I am, the same. But most importantly, this champorado is good. Usually, I don’t eat it with the milky thing, but I thought I’d try it and it tasted good. Water was refreshing, and the white juvenile cat, Rescue X (was supposed to be a placeholder), is still cute. I burped loudly after drinking. This all happened midway through writing this passage, and I returned as I was, just as I paused and stood from my desk as I was. Either way. “Who am I, the same.”

Non-Absorption Amid Wholeness (May 25, 2026)

The following introduction was written elsewhere, so it’s referring to a different platform:

Introduction

So what was it again? Right, I have this and that. You probably know better than me what I was saying. Sixty days of distance is probably more than enough to laugh a little at what happened, or whatever happened. Sorry, that happened, or congratulations.

Okay, so sixty(!) days have passed since the last entry here (not in writing itself since this is just a public slice of what I chose to put out in the context of this digital library). I’m not going to bother pretending. I think that’s a given. I didn’t pretend to be anything else except what I felt I already was then, and that’s full of the pretensions of carrying yourself and, well, being yourself, less pretentious, more so someone who uses words to describe themselves and their self-descriptions are always going to be its own thing, just as much internal as it is a coating, where self-honesty is a slick film over skin.

My name, if there’s even one to begin with, has done a lot of things in the last sixty days. I can’t even begin to start. I never had to answer to a younger self like this. It would usually be text to a memory, not text to text, and when I did do text to text before, it was to someone who can barely write and was still starting out and making sense of what a dog was. Now, I am speaking text to text to someone who already spent a lot of time breaking hyperspecifics down and making sense of them as tentatively and iteratively as someone undergoing the same self-rigor driving me now still. So yeah, articulated self to articulated self, but the fact that there’s a “to” here shows that articulation, if what is here is that and what was there sixty days ago was that, doesn’t conflate the self into one even as it unites and integrates all of oneself. As we can see, the level of namelessness between the two shows that it might even accelerate that “deconflation.”

A memory can be reviewed many times by a consistent “uniting and integrating” as per articulation itself. But that namelessness between sixty days ago me and today shows when the relationship is no longer between that of inarticulation and articulation but that between articulation and articulation in its deconflation amid its self-integration. Time essentially slows down when articulation itself receives its own history beyond just being the gulf between itself and a long memory-based life, which begets the level of weight of namelessness.

both versions are equally articulate and neither can just absorb the other.

After watching the recent animated film about the goat 1 hour and 37 minutes later:

Things like numbers tend to do the work of absorption, like how I relied on “[specific large number] words in 1,000 days” to do the work of all of those changes, which is convenient because it conflates the first year, the second year, the third year, and this year. I also tend to use thematic changes to show how each year is dominated by the next and thus absorbed.

But sixty days is too short a time, and the fine grains create whole namelessnesses. It’s to the point that I’m doubtful whether I am doing justice to what I wrote less than two hours ago—the one above the bolded header—given how much of an impact that film had on me, not as a matter of course, but as a reflection of just how much I’ve come to fine-grain experience writing, not because I wrote anything about the film down, but because your very perception, the way each word connects to the next, and how it all relates to everything you’ve written (which first relied on past memories), like that from sixty days ago up to as small as less than two hours ago, starts seeing the gaps you’ve been leaping this entire time, which creates more opportunities for removing the crutch that is the leaps one has taken all this tim, but also for a sense of unassumedness to the point of non-absorption, which is its own battle of dissonance. Rather than about self-documentation, this is about the nature of perception itself once one has taken the time to stop assuming again and again for a long and rigorous enough time, since the first two years didn’t really do much all by themselves when it comes to any namelessness, but the third year (which was last year) and this year did, creating this new experience.

It wasn’t “four years of intensive journaling” or “rigorous documentation” or “realizing that” (but perceiving) or “a more honest form of self-continuity.” The first two years tracked self-documentation. The next two tracked self-assumption because it no longer needed to care about the blur of past memories and reality as something one has no control over. It could now dissect itself as writing up to such fine grains that gaps are more readily apparent in that form of namelessness, or non-absorption.

I naturally won’t perceive this if I keep journaling as per usual, but it is visible in this public slice of my journal, where I wrote entries for what I called “Day 1” and “Day 2” but then stopped for sixty days straight until now. But since I realize this, the gap is much more pronounced given I can’t slide back to word count and thus even perceive less than two hours of difference as non-absorbed.

To explain just how recent this is, the last entry I wrote (in my private journal, not the published slice) used word count to absorb. But this published slice of my journal hit me like a freight train. All of a sudden, non-absorption without a lack of integration or unified self. Usually, both refer to the same thing, but now there’s a difference. This is not about “past selves” or “refusing to absorb or flatten.” I problematically used the word “self” earlier, although I did qualify it as “articulated self” in that new non-absorbed “text to text” format. It’s very much increasing tolerance to tonal whiplash, relentless pacing, and dissonance (TWRPD) in that form of hyper-consecutive non-absorption amid wholeness.

To explain the text to text (TtT) more and how articulate-inarticulate TtT differs from articulate-articulate TtT, non-absorption in that form of appropriation and citation already existed to some degree when I rely on the hyperspecifics my second-year created while writing fiction novels, but then, I was struggling very much to articulate which got me writing fiction to make sense of it, but since then, I have grown so much more articulate, so it doesn’t feel like text to memory but text to text in the proper articulate format. Appropriation in the current articulate case feels much more dissonant than taking from a fiction-novel-relying second-year self because you speak entirely in the same articulacy even while being totally different—consecutiveness appears through this TWRPD.

The medium’s the same, but the person behind it is alien.

When your writing can house multiple consecutive selves, not simultaneously, but in consecution, rather than consecutive selves distinct by their consecutive writing, you know you’ve reached that point past self-documentation, which is what I mean by this year’s “tracked self-assumption.” Sounds and speaks like you, yet is alien by the narrowest margins. This means the writing has genuinely grown and expanded enough that it’s articulate beyond “consecutive selves distinct by their consecutive writing.” It’s dissonant because you read an entry from sixty days ago and it sounds just like you and yet utterly alien to you, not because it predicted you, but because the writing has outgrown consecutive selves, outlasting them.

Absorption relied on medium-self shift, where medium shifted with self, which allows for big numbers and thematic changes to eat them all up into absorption. When the medium stops “changing” because it’s articulate enough to house the consecutive TWRPD, you get “non-absorption amid wholeness.”

Deep Dungeoning

To be honest, I feel idiotic without my texts and writings. Add no music and headphones, no books, and being outside of my room with its view to that, and you get something that’s so stunted that it took almost thirty minutes to realize that I was feeling idiotic or incapable. So it wasn’t just inability but the inability to feel that inability. When I’m in my room, it’s easy to tell the difference, but when there’s a confluence of deprivations of those self-extensions (hands) that usually get you writing immediately, it really does feel like I’m back seven years ago, and my writing shows it temporarily during that thirty-minute window. It’s interesting to think that I’m only as much as my brain can latch onto something immediately recognizable in terms of workflow within the last seven years. It’s not that it would go away forever or that this state here at this different computer (neither my laptop or my main computer) is finally done and gone and it’s back, so even if I may be writing this passage, there is still clearly a difference. The writing capacity I’ve developed—not as portable but as completely different in all that it has taken up, not as it takes place here, but as completely removed in state and essence into something totally functionally different—and the fact I’m writing here in Google Docs when I’ve barely done so at all out of true necessity for years all point to a marked difference of state even as I have now reached the threshold of recognizing the feeling enough to write it down.

It makes me wonder what would happen if this situation continued for the next several years, and I added “no using AI” to the list, given that I have been using AI as a sparring partner and as a way to summarize what I wrote to see if I worded it properly months before I started journaling, which has recently reached 4.6 mill. words.

If there’s one hand that I can’t remove, it’s the ability to get feedback (not the same as criticism of ideas and style, but specifically helping me refine and articulate exactly what I mean, which happens indirectly and which naturally leads to the ideas and style being refined). So perhaps “no using AI” would be detrimental. I’m not confident enough to pretend I haven’t grown all this time with the help of pointing at things and asking if they’re called this or that, but at the highest level of what I can do with writing. But at the same time, think about it. If this situation continued and I went without AI, that would be a gold mine, sort of like a time where you just go outside and write down, let’s say, a mill. words. It doesn’t have to be hyper-compressed in the way constant feedback allows. It just has to be a gold mine that can be easily made so much of after it’s done, but the challenge is that you have to bear in the darkness and to find everything on your own all that time. When I underwent three days at a camp with nothing but books and a notebook, I was doing linguistic strip-mining of the four books I brought. When I underwent electrical loss for three days, I experienced the difficulty but was reading books the whole time. If two of these are already hard on their own, what I’m imagining is extreme in comparison. It’s not that I will have no internet or electricity, but this list of deprivations means entering a deep dungeon:

It will feel like I’m reduced to seven years ago from time to time, because the flow state hinges on breadcrumbing, in this case specifically that relentless, rigorous, accelerated level of feedback loops and absorption.

Doing those cafe stays in that laptop was a much lesser version of that deprivation that was still breadcrumbing. It still is genuinely useful, but was only as bearable as I could be a very effective breadcrumber, which I rapidly grew to be, given the statistic above.

What I’m imagining now isn’t that portability. Yet it’s still wholeness. “Non-absorption amid wholeness.” Integration’s mission was to accomplish wholeness, and absorption was a big part of it. Now that wholeness is done, it’s still using absorption, even if wholeness isn’t the same as it. So what this is now is completely new.

But I guess the truth is that it doesn’t have to be as extreme as I say it. The person who’s sat down long enough will naturally shift in their seat and stand up to stretch and walk around. So I can trust myself to maximize both the flow state of this level of “all that it has taken up” and the deep-dungeoning. To take things as they go. The smallest differences will crop up naturally. It’s just a matter of exploitation genius, or the opposite of a lack of imagination and creative receptivity and interpretation, rather than an abundance of deep-dungeoning natural resources. You know what happens to countries with too much natural resources. A deep-dungeoning gold mine could very well end up eating its own mouth.

Self-Responses:

Why is no processing and feedback actually not good for raw gold-mine collection deep dungeoning?

But it’s not like they’re talking about consuming a big library of other people’s works. Their deep-dungeoning is creative and personal and inventive and on-the-spot and internal-world-creating, which can only be possible if one removes scaffolding and manages hyper-delayed breadcrumbing, or “stunting.”

Self-Responses (2):

But they still hold the case against it

But at the same time, the author is making it look good

Either way, if they do it, it would still be within the shifting in the seat. They’re that self-honest that it could only be that.

Self-Responses (3):

so what was the thirty minutes, not recalibration or a terribly slow resync?

so it’s not a situation upon the same person and more so a whole nother person altogether

Without portability or breadcrumbing, it becomes its own world-building, which is why they theorize on the implications of this “situation” (which is actually a whole nother person altogether) continuing for the next several years, especially without AI which compels them to form personhood through absorption and compression (which will naturally lead them back toward the absorption of integration and thus the 4.6 mill. words they’ve already written).

Overarcher vs. Break-Stepper

Why do dungeons still feel truthful? I mean this in the sense that after everything, somehow, works like Reverend Insanity, Primal Hunter, Chrysalis, Toland’s biography about a certain Austrian person, and other such forms of media still feel even more valuable than the ideas I’ve been working with themselves? Like they hold more truth. Regardless of everything I’ve written and taken the time to make sense of, somehow, a grimdark edgy LitRPG is screaming at me with wisdom, and it doesn’t make any sense. There’s no way there could ever be truth in a bunch of posturing, plot-contrived aura farms. Like, no. But that’s not how I see it. I see so much more. I feel that we’re constrained ourselves to nothing, and for what purpose? Just to describe trees all day? To indulge in navel-gazing? Introspection? At what point are we to realize that there is a world out there we can outmaneuver, deconstruct (not in the literary or intellectual sense, but in the way one punches a building down), and “Gu” our way through? I feel that somehow, the weight of a philosophical text is as much as that of one of the web novels above as well (conflated in the list with Toland’s work), because there is no arguments made for anyone else, only those fully harnessed in totalification, where one receives from the moment the harbinger of a thousand suns, and in that sense, the sense of “I am,” that true font of being and of value and truth, where understanding hinges on the very eyes that carve their way through the trees. In that sense, there is no difference when argument is self-assumption-dissected and non-absorbed.

What I mean to say is that when an argument is made for you, it contrives itself infinitely times better for those looking to conflate themselves with the argument made for them through which they cruise. But truth is not found in pre-made argumentation. It’s made in wisdom and truth formed when no argument is being made, and you have only yourself to non-absorb and dissect by self-assumption (self-assumption-dissect but through “no argument is being made” where “you have only yourself”). the weight then of a philosophical text is as much then in the sense of argument-unmade as one of the web novels.

In “dungeons,” I see strategy, tools, practical movement and thought, everything you’d want, and then some.

I don’t feel like I’m harnessing themes, summaries, arcs, overarching ideas. It feels like truth per word, not 1.5 mill. words that you tell someone about or make an essay about and then smile at that. It feels like I will never reach it beyond the truth it holds in each word, not to say that high quantity equates its truth, but that its quantity doesn’t supercede it any more than each word holds truth the “way more money is only more” but without all of the baggage, like a video game where number goes up. Not crumbling under its quantity, but building truth each word the way pay might go for each word (per-word rate). I don’t feel like very step leads to an outcome. I feel like every step is the outcome and the whole in itself, and in that sense, money increasing by a flat rate. One would usually reserve this for the beauty of trees or one’s own internal landscape or the weight of implication of a philosophical idea once considered and applied to one’s given context. But I see it in Gus.

It feels like the difference between stuffing reality in a box (argument made) vs. using a Gu as truth per step/word (argument unmade).

So it’s a battle between the “overarcher” and the “break-stepper.”

So the reason of equal weight is that once you do break-step and you apply the same to philosophical texts, then you argument-unmake the way it should be rather than what screams most intuitively to an argument made in front of you.

It’s probably why you could see the way that I saw the world, not because I flipped through a bunch of arguments, but because I drew from my own life experiences and exposure to all kinds of stories. When I did finally expose myself to arguments, I wasn’t a robot drawing from a bunch of text, but a person that eliminated everything down until they found the words themselves to describe what they experienced and how they saw the world. The argument was just a bunch of words, necessarily so, to help us eliminate by wording and then gain ourselves by wording. But life isn’t a bunch of words. It’s break-step. Truth is first in integration and unification resulting in wholeness, then non-absorption, then self-assumption-dissection. It’s why dungeons feel truthful, because of argument unmaking which is mediated through elimination based on one’s life rather than arguments taken as they are and then finished as they are without that immediacy as every step.

Conclusion

Consecutive non-absorbed aliens in one voice as are the flat-rate steps. Deep Dungeoning points toward “whole nother persons altogether.”

Daremoment (May 25, 2026)

I’ve always been a child. At 23 years old, I’m barely anything. At 10 years old, I was still exposing myself to the rudiments of stories in the form of Minecraft map playthroughs and children’s books like Little Miss and Mr. Men. At 13 years old, I’ve already spent traveling, socializing, going to places, and making my own creations that I shared with my siblings. At 16, I discovered solitary introspection. At 18, I started testing myself as an individual by putting myself out there on the internet through live-streaming. At 20, I started my autobiography and journaling as well as began my novels (the first one being the one I wrote at 16 years old during introspection). Today, I am only 23 years old, and the journaling hasn’t reached three years yet. You can imagine how little I actually am, even as I’ve journaled 4.5 mill. words in a thousand days.

My greatest arrogance is not that I can write at least a hundred words—it’s just a bunch of words. It is that I have lived, been alive, met people, saw places, had moments, said words, laughed, laughed, laughed, cried, embraced, played together with my siblings and friends, and every second of every day, I feel that I am digging through a sand that keeps falling back down and covering it up. I can never do justice to my life. All I can do is keep going, even as I know my eyes see so much, which I can never repay and translate exhaustively. I can write, but it’s just a bunch of words. The quantity is a hint of just how much I can barely even begin to say. I have seen so much. Every moment has been forever. And I draw an infinite richness out of it, but oh it pains me, it hurts, the amount of effort it takes even to begin. But that pain isn’t pain. It’s intimacy, the feeling of flesh, of tying-together, like fingers interlaced, or strands of hair coiling together. I feel it like embedding, like my soul is struck into it, and frozen in the impact, like sludge rapidly frozen at the moment of collision. I can barely be, barely see, barely do anything without knowing that I am. This is the “I am” of what it means to live. I see, I see. There is such a great fullness in a single moment, even in what should be trivial, dismissed, tossed away. My heart cracks like there was never anything to begin with except that soft wet thing—it crawls, yearns, speaks, mutters, believes—oh, believes! It believes with swords pierced through it, not those of betrayal, but those of allowing itself to feel the wholeness of things, and then even from that fullness, not the entirety, but a sliver of a sliver of a sliver of a sliver. That arrogance isn’t pride. It’s necessity. I am the becomer the way a person sees the mountain and knows that the only way to do justice to it is to show it my daring. I am a daredevil! But I dare beauty. Darebeauty. Darelife. Daremoment. My arrogance is the smile of someone nodding at me and telling me not ever to shy away from beauty, from a person who needs me to acknowledge them not because they need it or I need to help someone in need, but because this is what it means to be seen, and to see, and yes, I see. I will do anything in my power to say hello and to sliver at the edges. My arrogance is that I will always fall back away into the streaming richness.

If you’re thinking that this is somehow a moment of honesty and rawness and that everything else wasn’t, do acknowledge that intimacy doesn’t always sound like it. All of my entries, regardless of how they sounded, were always love letters, things of the softest heart, even in the intensest, most aggressive way. My most abstract, my brightest, my most nested, are all me saying hello. If you deny a person when he’s saying everything else and accept them only when they say “I love you,” then you don’t know intimacy.

The Feeling of Being Alive (May 26, 2026)

I can list them all down. I can show you my arrogance and the feebility with which I work. I’m a fucker that way. Soon as I don’t get to eat something that really gets me going, like a wholesome dish, I know well my body’s gotta fuck-round and go loss-compensatory, which goes for my mind as well, this temple of sleep-reliance. Fuck me, but so I come, I go. The list in question being the crudes or pending things left unintegrated or unabsorbed, things that have inspired such great creative work in me but which have not found a functional place in my thought-writing, and that constitutes just how much I have to stare here for hours long and bear the sense of time passing glacially, with the knowledge of my skin being only as much as it itches when the sweat dribbles like a tacky oil and the Philippine heat pushes me again and again to take a shower to cool down and not to clean, save for the underarms and the crotch (since those parts squeeze snugly). So you can imagine how limited I actually am, if I didn’t already expound this so many times before, with every subsequent exploration being to further the collapse of any kind of hierarchy between me and the earth (in that form of fleshy parts tightly fitting, like the “Colonials” from C. M. Kösemen’s All Tomorrows). You can imagine my scramble. Motherfucker decided to daremoment, and in that moment, he is requested to be, in the way fleshy sweat clings to the filmy skin. My short-trousered, underwearless, often shirtless form is a spulch. I fuck ‘round, swinging my mental arms like a maniac on wing. The thirst drags whatever air I have in my body to heaves, and I am left to keep a pitcher to indulge myself with. The joys of waters, a river of nourishment. I fucked right! Guzzled that SOAB. See your arrogant-man, see him out. That’s me! Feeble hands jittering about the keyboard, trying to input something of a substance, only to find greater substance in the difference between the water and dissolved solutes (sodium, chloride, potassium, urea, lactic acid, and trace proteins) of sweat. Fucker decided to write and to tackle the crudes by staring about like a dumbfuck. “I am” is speaking through the compression waves of sweat. Guck-guck-guck. My sweaty, tufted past-shoulder-length hair, even if wavy and curly, lathering and pricking my back like never-washed-off soap and thorny vines.

Ninety-three is the number of crudes, and they easily alienate my previous entries as a bunch of words spoken by someone who didn’t bother to check the fine print of reality, which is why they require serious attention and chin-rubbing. But I know my arrogance has never been about claiming I could handle all the crudes. It was about taking the time to handle it slowly with the slightest level of concentration, even as I made claims here and there like a map-overshadowing general jabbing his pointing finger at territories on a map. I have always been that worker-turned-crude-aggregator. My arrogance drips saliva. I will impose myself upon it the way a child cries in the corner and accumulates the very humiliation fetish-fuel to utter-become. A smirk flavors my lips every single time I am thrown into quasi-helplessnesses. I lie in wait until my mind boils under the dying sun and I am total and infinite in myself, that man soothing his own bruised shoulder, tear-wet, but full of smoldering anger, “how dare you, how dare you, you fucker,” muttering, muttering. His eyes freeze, then flicker, then narrow, then twitch, twitch, twitch. Gr, gr, gr. Something in him bursts, then holds, then rolls around as the anger rolls all around—like a child rolling across a flowery field of grass—his body, become, spulch, become, spulch, become. Fi-fi-fi-fi-fi. The spit goes through squeezed-together lips, the gasp, the hrhrhrhrhr. I am!—Sweat. I am!—Sweat. I am!—Sweat. Until the two become indifferentiable. Sweat is I am! Helplessness (humiliation, fetishes) = utter-become.

My greatest arrogance is not that I’ve closed my eyes, but I’ve stared at the face of my humiliator, and smirked inwardly all the same, like squeezed lips hid inside the mouth until nothing but non-red skin shows over the mouth. I am become. I am become. I am become. Tears drip riverinely. My smile erupts under dribbling tears. The smirk distorts inside me in twitches. The heat coming from within me flares sharper than sunheat could ever, until sunheat truly eats me alive like a wolf with a man gone wounded and limp. Eat me, eat me. But until then, my eyes will be drawn together but pulled upward in the center, forming an inverted V. Running along, scrambling along—tripping, stumbling back up—as fast as I can, gasping, wheezing—coughing—squeezing my throat. (“Help me! Help me!” screams the boy.)

A smirk twitches intrusively beneath my tear-inundated lips. (“I fucking hate those motherfuckers. Always have.”)

I raise and ball my hand into a fist, clasping the sweat clinging on them, the abrupt clench tossing and sprinkling sweat droplets into the air. “Damn you,” I hold back. I stare at my hands, blood from my forehead flashing for a moment, the memory and blood vanishing like it never was there. I shake, quiver, and tremble. The faces and words surge in my head, then back into my body as a smoldering heat. Sweat exuded on my skin. I slowed down my fast gasping breath.

What I have to do: what I recognize, the thought dances with me, holding my hands one by one. “He-he,” I try. The thought spins me around, my hair whipping through the air.

I am become.

“A bunch of worders (wordsmiths). Them fuckers. What would I do without them?” I smirk-scowl-sneered. “The worders, do-doing all they can, to-to word reality, without breaking a single… shitty sweat taking place outside of t-touristry. D-d-damn… it. I need them. I have to keep working through my words, piecing them together like fingering skin off pigeon peas: gotta, gotta, gotta.” Sweat spills.

Escapists, fantasms! Fuckers of all kinds! Their well-decorated rooms, their well-pieced-together messes, forming nostalgia aesthetics. Damn you, damn you all! I will never know what it means to live in a bubble except in the bubble formed out of the sweat of never truly finding or making sense of what it means to live outside of what-it-means-to-be-a-bunch-of-fucking-stupid-mes. I will live, and I will try. Damn it, throw it out, all out the window. I live, I breathe (suck in air with a wheeze), and try to smith my way through, until all that’s left is a smidgen on myself, that which is concentrated-pure and made of the muck of reality. Damners, damners of all kinds!

Do you see me? Sitting with knees together and feet wide apart. Or standing with feet planted and a polite, meek smile? Or ranting at the desk about a bunch of words and how much I care about getting it right and true to reality as I see it in “show, don’t tell” because people’s lives are being erased in my stupid view? Do you see it? The guy scrambling in the snow (well, not snow, but useful metaphor)? The guy laughing and playfully dancing with his own mental tempo? The person throat-crying weakly while writing a father and daughter hugging cheek-warmly and face-buried-into-body-snugly? Or reading a poem and thinking that there’s really nothing left to life but a small thing in the most beautiful and minuscule way, crying, laughing, cry-laughing, smiling through the feelings that bottom up, top down? The vivid, sudden memories that burst in the head and remind me what I must do, as I wipe the trance-drool off my mouth? Or snickering to myself after finally putting into words something that’s been edging me this entire time? (Do you see my stupidity?)

In the end, there’s nothing to me. I just love the feeling of being alive.

I’m happy. I feel it. Every day, it hits me like a morning wind. And nothing else exists beyond that. I’ve lived a life as much as I am here right now, taking these gentle steps to brief myself, to tell of something notwithstanding, of something that has to stand, above all else, above even myself, that word of God, that single thing of a person (man), of being, of thinking, of steadying: Ha-ha (/gen).

By the time I realized it, I’ve come.

Metric-Form, but Number-Decentered (May 26, 2026)

I just realized how much I’ve distanced from games when I stared at an electronic handheld pop fidget game and thought it was profound and a trigger for so many earlier memories. It’s not that I haven’t made use of terms (with neologisms), ideas, sensory details, compressions (e.g., word counts in a certain period, number of cafe visits), and the whole process of writing in journaling, with every dated, titled, self-contained entry. But carnival shooting galleries, whack-a-moles, books as useable items, letters as useable items, and even Roblox as a place to play game-games (where you can expect to grind, rather than those that are all about vibe and atmosphere) have grown distant from me that I have to list them down to recall them as things I can name and refer to rather than as givens.

Life as I currently experience it has become so much more ambiguous, impressionistic, and oblique that you can see it in the way I write fiction. You would think that the micro-textures and somatic hyperrealism somehow contradicts this, but no, that tears away gamification.

I’ve definitely become “metric in form,” but never number-centered.

There’s a lot of unresolved-dissonance-holding. Very, very out of touch, but in the way that’s closer to reality and leap-and-gap-revealing as opposed to being in touch with numbers as first principles. In my current case, function doesn’t resolve underlying and core ambiguity. My useful terms that capture a concept precisely may be functional, but instead of spearheading gamification, they dissolve under their usefulness, the very usefulness being their dissolution, their function being their irresolution. Rigor becomes an endless vying for destabilization (dissolution, de-resolution, de-resolving). Function is the knowledge of its own death, leaving the breadcrumbing message of “how to how”?

It’s like an itch that never subsides but also never becomes customary.

By the time I’ve killed someone with Fang Yuan Gus, I will have held the state without anything else, holding the function, the result, and the contemplation. So rather than undoing or procrastination, it’s that state held. The act completed, the meaning deferred (not the same as “empty” or “meaningless” or “unsatisfied” or “unfulfilled”), the act of being (itself) placed to the test, the (tonal) register complied, the necessity mathematically eliminated, the production a means. This should be gamification, and it looks like it. But note that “metric in form” isn’t the same as “number-centered.” It has all the aura of games, but it self-cancels like a useful term, the act only as much as it was at that moment, the “how to how” still leading up the trail, the unresolved-dissonance-holding [being] in [the] completion—”uncustomized.” Holding the state—”rather than undoing or procrastination”—isn’t the same as gamification, but also isn’t “emptiness” or “observer awareness.”

I feel very itchy, but I am not itchy. Always a state imposed upon me, never one I can say I am, always feeling, never becoming. I don’t mean detachment or depersonalization or “observation.” I mean I am never a state of life, which isn’t the same as being an “observer,” since you can be totally present, functional, and active without resolution in the way of gamification.

There is actual psychological and emotional satisfaction in my daily life (not because of this state, as if my life before this state was the opposite of satisfying, but irrespective of this state and in recognition of this state’s separateness from emotional satisfaction, even as it does deal with irresolution which isn’t dissatisfaction), even as one holds the state, not the way someone aware, detached, and observing does, but the way someone number-decentered does.

In other words:

I feel:

‘unconditional’

‘deeply content or at peace’

‘genuinely fulfilled’

don’t even need to be happy to be happy


To be continued...

Gift [give me some time to cook]