chapter 4

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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:

• that the 1,000 hours were not “evidence of real growth”
• that real formation is only about to begin
• that all of this follows merely “grazing the surface”
• that “all the way” is only now decided (as if somehow transcending all the years of my consciousness from its earliest version to the present)
• that I am a “beginner” (a nice flavor text term that might mean something later) and thus am “finally” “becoming someone with a real, tested, integrated creative identity”
• that I did not already have a coherent self before
• that all of this follows mere “sampling” or an “underdeveloped creative identity” that operated merely on “surface appearances of productivity”
• that it’s all interior and I have “no outward footing” or “[haven’t] yet made contact with the broader terrain” yet
• that I’m finally moving into “the outside world,” as if I wasn’t literally going outside throughout my entire life already since a child up to now
• that I am inadequate or feel that way in a negative sense (perhaps in the sense that you are a speck, but not that you are inadequate)

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 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:

• listen to music—which really can be the difference between “a boy who sits down” and someone who writes thousands of words of compressed precise description actualizing what was just an sixteenth-idea (1/16th of an idea) in my head—
• go outside around my home country,
• see familiar fellow country people and their way of speaking, language, mannerisms, personalities, and all that, and
• know my own family members daily.
• When thinking during writing, even without citing, I also rely on my novels because they hold very, very specific imagery, ideas, and concepts that I’ve dissected, studied, and explored rigorously in them.
• I also have my past memories, very, very crucial.

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

• Nothing left to say
• only as much as I am
• I am
• I’ve always been a person. That’s all I’ve ever been.

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:

• without my text and writings
• no music and headphones
• being outside of my room
• using a different computer
• “completely removed in state and essence into something functionally different”
• writing in Google Docs instead of VS Code where I have all of my shortcuts, folders, and texts, federated and all
• increased moments of “mischaracterization” where I will feel things and take thirty minutes before I word it out and yet come out not as deficiency, but as the first signs of someone truly entering a true bubble-world and rabbit hole, because you are deprived of all of the immediate pattern matches, or regexes, and thus much more fit to spearhead completely novel imaginations, ideas, patterns, and circuitries that would not make any dang sense to the “all that it has taken up” in that form of 4.6 mill. words—essentially a separate, a non-absorption, a true divergence, effectively a reset of that word count in terms of the effect of absorption
• “no using AI” will turn all of these previous deprivations into something much more definitive and lasting in terms of its corrigering (or corriging, verb of corrigible), given that AI tends to latch onto things like “4.5 mill. words in 1,000 days” and “126 eight-hour cafe stays in 70 unique cafes in one year” and such forms of absorption in every single self-contained entry that I send, leading to the problem of absorption

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

Tool (May 27, 2026)

I realize why I haven’t gotten into Obsidian. I’ve gotten so used to the self-contained entry format that the idea of note linking has become unnecessary. I just go through my folders and text files. And within those text files, I already have shortcuts to do dated Markdown headers and all. But I do envy the idea of a giant big system. It’s just that I am a very rigorous kind of thinker-writer, the one that gets antsy when it tried to tie everything down to loops, inputs, and outputs, which is why I’ve moved away from the puzzle-solving creative brainstorming of coding and toward something that’s not quite voodoo-poetic, but precise without resolving ambiguity, even as it makes complete ideas and statements every self-contained time, devoting full-force even as it holds the very key to dismantling it, precision of terms for the purpose of self-defeat.

There’s no linking because there are no disagreements and agreements even. That’s the context of self-containment. Self-defeat is not about a system going behind itself and making false concessions and motte-and-baileys. No, it’s about a complete abrupt cessation of activities, of output, of thought process, of philosophy, just to start from scratch, not without internalization and growth, but through it without explicit linking and attachments, but through the form of birthing new precisions from scratch, the very process of self-dismantling that much more proportionally to its self-defeatism, the very hand itself as a medium inhabited by consecutive selves each alien to one another oner time, even as the medium grows that much more to contain all of them masterlessly, not to be the idea itself, but to die every time into tinkering precision (which equates to its self-defeatism, remember).

Like a sword that murders for whoever holds it, but growing sharper and sharper. I am that, even as I am the consecution of alien selves over time.

An action happens right now, only as much as it is, right now, without anything else. This is what the sword does. There is satisfaction but also irresolution but which is not dissatisfaction. I am fully integrated and united as a whole in the sword, yet I am non-absorbed in the sense of consecutive alien selves. But the sword holds all of them, unchanging, only sharpening not in allegiance but in precision (which is equivalently proportional to its self-defeatism).

Self-Responses

So they let things change them, because they do not link their identity with their feelings or events or what’s happening to them or what they’re undergoing or the material things or whatever. Their identity is the sharpening, the medium, the consecution itself.

So their identity is not a bastion. It’s a tool.

So their memories are not the past leaking into the present. They are what the present now carries in and of itself as a whole without anything else except that. Like the way your inventory shows up with items that are there and there they are. And that is in and of itself the way you wake up and the morning comes and the sun shines and the wind blows and the words you type come out. Like morning breakfast, but not customary or routine, but like change, the wind blowing, the change happening in the moments, the world turning, the side of the face shifting as one’s head turns, the experiences enveloping them, the memories like Minecraft potion effects (not in dissociation, but in recognition and acknowledgment of them as themselves in themselves as themselves currently, but not so as to be the now, or to be the future of the past or the past of the future or the now against the past or the now against the future, but in the way completion is self-said and what awaits waits all the same, with little words except the one thing one is holding right now and from that, a glance, or maybe a stare, or its re-pocketing, which comes either way, but not as a concession or a whatever against a myriad of options, but as the way goes the tide, but not as habit or expectation, but as the way tide goes and then it goes and not as THE tide or tide as a general prospect, but as goes-goes-goes, and without going, what else, and from that, something, some-place, what comes, what does, dun-dun-dun). Recognizing change without losing the thread of change.

Self-Responses (2)

By the time you’ve come, you’ve gone, and even that you haven’t been. And by the time you’ve not been, you’ve been all the same. Whether that’s being or not, who’s to say? I think I said something.

and then nothing, not even the going.

Self-Responses (3)

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Return to First Person:

I don’t identify myself with my entries. I express myself, but it’s not me. I may have said these words, bounced these ideas, but these ideas are not me. My stupidity, or my inability to speak the host of reality into your mouth, is not my limitation. It is the limitation of the text. I am not my limitation. I am the person here right now. The limitations one might describe of me are not upon me. I may sweat, and it may be on me. But I am not the sweat in the way of limitation. I feel sweaty, and there is sweat on me. But I myself am not “sweaty.” I am not the limitation nor am I undescribable by sweat-on-me. When I write, that’s a whole person talking, but that’s not a whole person being. The talking stutters before it even collapses, with the collapse not even serving as utmost self-total-yes-yes-yes-this-is-me, but more so a performance of a performance of a performance (a sliver of a sliver of a sliver). Self-expression is not about enforcing upon everyone else my own identity as some kind of bastion. It’s really just about blabbering out of a mouth that knows it mouthies about. It’s like water trickling in a rainy region. Are you still surprised? The rain comes and goes, and when it goes, it can be hard and driving, and when it’s absent, it can feel almost ubiquitously mythic/mythical. The entries pour out like rain coming down. Myself. Identity. Those things function, the words reserved by myself do come out in the entries. There is Self-expression. But it isn’t anything of the sort (beyond that). It’s like a person speaking. The act of speaking is an adjective on the person [like rain sliding off], like something they so happened to be doing, but not in any way, shape, or form customary of themselves beyond what that mouth do. Identity is shaped by change, so what entry can I possibly be said to identify with? (“And what fucking line am I supposed to have crossed?!” — Alfie Solomons to Tommy Shelby, from the series Peaky Blinders, Season 3, Episode 6)

Self-Responses (4)

So they’re the pigeon shitting on their own game board

Self-Responses (5)

So rather than “A History of the [Full Name]”, it’s a bunch of shittery on the Roman road.

Graham Balls (May 27, 2026)

When I sat there, I did as I did. There on the side of the road, selling Graham Balls with my mom, in the dense crowd of passersby. Everything happened there and then in that moment. I didn’t have anything in me or on me save for what was there and what I had to do, and I trusted my mother like I have all those years traveling and being with her. Chores, carrying bags, long walks. All of these could be done without any other thought. I lived as I was. At that moment.

If you wonder why I feel superior or arrogant, it’s because I know what it means to live among muck and to see a world full of density and life and breathing people cramped in bustling crowds either passing or waiting to get rides probably during rush hour and in jeepneys.

It’s because I knew so many people as we travelled and got to know one another. It’s because I know I had time to isolate and reflect about all of this and realize no one could take it all away from me, no matter how far I explored the internet and words and writing (those “bunch of motherfucking words”!).

Here I am, as I am.

So yeah, as much as I say my identity’s a tool, I know well I will kill a man over my brother [and the way it manifests is actually just very casual and oblique and not at all this extreme, just using this extreme phrase to show that this extreme level of feeling is being poured into casual, oblique daily life between us as brothers]. I know what it means to stare at his eyes and thoroughly un-escape all that we have lived—that which no one can take away from us, from me. I will unmake everything if it means that no one will lose that precious smile (like seeing your favorite esports team lose at the biggest stage, but a hundred times every moment of every day, a trauma you have to live with).

I care a lot. That doesn’t make me a good person. It just makes me an animal in a big, wide world.

I have been beaten down again and again that I have become impenetrable, not in the sense of not breaking down, but in the very sense of breaking down like a baby and knowing that “I am”—unescapable, impenetrable, screaming, laughing, dancing, loving, hugging someone so warmly until my fingers dig into their back even as I re-adjust them because I wouldn’t want them to get hurt. Something in me is always there.

I have always been who I am. I saw it in the way people’s eyes glowed, sparkled, and did all their things. And I knew at that moment—that I was. Blurring with tears, hoarse-begging, throat-squeezed. I love, I live. I try, coughingly. Something in me begging, clenching its teeth, stifling a deep-seated grieving growl. I am a person.

Yet I kick my feet up and dance, with the freedom of what it means to be.

I expect to die any time. There’s nothing on me, to me. I just like smiling, because I really do feel that giddy. I love slowly, take my deepest time, and live knowing to let go. That it’s kinda, kinda, kinda, kinda fun-funny.

I kinda can’t wait to hear myself scream “NOOOO!” as I lose everything. I laugh inwardly even as I know that will be horrible, because life has never been about holding onto everything anxiously until they pop, nor is it necessarily expecting everything to go wrong, but knowing that it will be in its own way kinda funny, all of it, to be happy, and to relish and embrace it as it is, as one would be fully overwhelmed, inundated, and tore down by a burst of rashes, itches, flu, nervous breakdown, grief, and loss. I know well what it means to quasi-die, and it can also become even more interesting! But yeah, fuck me. Hae-hhah

If you’re wondering, I didn’t “realize” anything. Everything you see from start to end is very much the same person in the sense of range. I know it’s easy to think that come on, come, on, come on, finally! Awh! Why?! Once you realize the whole thing’s me, you won’t keep looking for resolution. I’ve always been who I am, my entire life, from start to today.

I am “the same piano.”

Shank (May 28, 2026)

Last night, I used the following terms to describe writing:

1. childish
2. haven’t faced reality yet
3. one big bubble… now popped
4. like a small childish chamber
5. like… my toy interlocking blocks growing up
6. box
7. a box full of a bunch of books… infinite worlds reduced to just that
8. bunch of words
9. scaffolding

I also said:

Through writing, I’ve had my little power trip, self-discovery, world-discovery, reflection, and meaning-making trip.

I compared writing to:

1. interlocking toy blocks
2. coding video games
3. camp events
4. travels
5. video games themselves
6. memories
7. moments
8. school field trips
9. Minecraft videos

I searched for a new frontier, pointing out what writing no longer is but was:

1. high stakes
2. have that ambitious,
   1. that arrogance
   2. that craziness…
   3. that feeling of being at the edge of new ideas and thoughts and reflections and all that

Extra writing descriptions:

1. how I feel about the idea of playing a Roblox mining game
2. a bunch of toy blocks in the most bubble way possible

I also recalled “how new everything was back then, many years ago, when I was just getting into more complex ideas and into introspection. And now I’m here.”

I was essentially looking for “a true reality that’s waiting for me at the end of all this, at the end of this long history of growth and evolution”—a “next after everything.”

I even pointed out that making busyness the solution would be “externalizing” “what it all means” and that processing through scaffolding already relies on 99.99 percent of a person’s consciousness being “direct contact” with reality since birth.

I also wondered if I was like Fate/Zero’s Kirei Kotomine in terms of a lack of imagination (“present-oriented… but also… ‘directionless’, like To Your Eternity” and happiness being “as much as the clouds graze across the sky” in my case as regards my thought of “irresolution” and my individual contentment with it) and how that reflected when the Holy Grail granted his worldview-and-methodology-revealing wish, given the fact that I haven’t written certain kinds of stories at all, like “Fang Yuans” or “Hiraku Machios” (include now Katarina Claeses on this list for a more exhaustive comparison) since my writing was focused on transgressive literary web fiction protagonists. I called my proposed “lack of imagination” the “difference between someone who just arrived at ‘a tolerably good inn’ and someone who has been there all their life.”

But today, after 9 hours of sleep, in the end, maybe writing as a Roblox game is the only way to frame this constructively and satisfactorily. One could argue I’m just coding one in effect but through writing, like playing the Flash game Zombotron with its physics and creative ways to kill zombies using those physics. The “chamber” might be the most effective way to view writing. Like what Roblox Studio was to me in the 2010s.

The reason that this is different than anything I’ve written in respect to writing is that I’ve never framed writing as my Roblox Studio session, not metaphorically or analogically, but conceptually. Even if writing was just a bunch of words, I have always treated it as a frontier of intense rigor, where self-defeatism provides the very fuel for precision and that leads to even greater and greater understanding of reality (not through writing itself, but the act of writing, the scaffolding being the very de-scaffolding, which allows me to go beyond what toy blocks, school field trips, Minecraft videos, camp events, and Roblox Studio ever could). But now, I’m withdrawing from this and going to something much more simplified, like:

1. wood-carrying-trucks Lumber INC 3 by Widgeon
2. “stands” in Forest Management (2nd ed.) by Meyer et al.
3. cutting wood in At Odd’s End by Obsodaut at the blue (azure) team base
4. timber, forests, and woodcutters’ camps in Rise of Nations
5. foraging small tree and bush stumps and wheat, stacking unstable wheat to ascend green walls, and gorging berries and water sources in Survival 303 (Roblox game)
6. cutting trees and harvesting wheat in Minecraft servers
7. the slow quasi–Lord of the Mysteries, quasi–Reverend Insanity Skyrim-accumulation of Path of Exile as fully demonstrated in the starter level, or “beginning tutorial area,” alone, in the beach named “The Twilight Strand”
8. the patience and slow accumulation of games:
   1. the watering can, fertilizer, bug spray, phonograph, chocolate, glove, and wheelbarrow of Zen Garden, Mushroom Garden, and Aquarium Garden in Plants Vs. Zombies 2
   2. Ravenwood Fair’s tree sap, wood, coins, and star-shaped xp
9. a parkour and puzzle Minecraft map one created in 2015 (with features, levels, playtime)
10. Minecraft bases total block-by-block maneuverability like the flank-working “Team Dismantle,” retreat-ready frontal “Team Pincer,” and defence-understanding-waiting “Team Tank” in the anti-run-around-in-circles active-skimishing by Matthew’s coalition against a fortified goblin camp in Chapter 49 of my novel Matthew
11. the finishing heart-aiming in Dino Hunter: Deadly Shores (mobile game)
12. the self-containment (and consumability/wordification) of Amen: The Diary of Rabbi Martin Siegel, Eleanor and Franklin, Rommel the Desert Fox, The 900 Days: The Siege Of Leningrad…
13. the “consumable product” of Logic’s Teleport similar to a My Daughter is the Final Boss (manwha), like an Anytype (“personal knowledge base”)
14. the “HUA!” unit creation sound of Age of Empires 2
15. the “forest range tree cutting down -> bulk-crafted sticks -> working table fletchers -> mass-traded emeralds -> crossbows and diamond-pickaxes” Minecraft “new Villagers update” pipeline

Writing is my toy of blocks, like:

1. School Life! by Moon_Poetry in RetroStudio
2. the woodsy, sweet, earthy smell in my cousin’s former mansion with the painted concrete dog statue under the ornate-framed mirror and ornate side table
3. my Roblox avatar character-defining puffy, curly, wavy below-shoulder-length hair and purple-shirted, short-sleeved, short-trousered appearance with my black eyes and thick-browed, shaven face (IRL)
4. my restful, back-of-the-head-pressed, back-flattened (torso) sleep
5. that worn traveler nearing an inn-tower (an inn having an attached or build-onto tower on its farther side) along the gravelly road. (that discrete image, not as impressed detailing, but as hand-thrown object)

I already hinted at this many times before. I wrote that way majorly before. Five hundred forty-one days ago, I wrote about how a small Minecraft gaming behavior shows that one wants one’s own slice before one joins the pie within a Minecraft server and how this connects to:

1. privacy and autonomy
2. labels in a disparate system
3. society as a pre-existing, long-historical limbo cage
4. self and society
5. childhood freedom of individual expression
6. Biblical foreigners and limbo as our default
7. fear of identity loss
8. alienation (how it can become massive)

This older entry alone (trend-indicating) is constructive (in the sense of building a construct). But that’s within this entry. The theory of writing being itself constructive in the way of the above examples—as finite completable object—is a whole nother matter altogether, which I am proposing in this meta-personal-passage. I am targetting writing. I am equating it to a base you make in Minecraft.

The frontier has been reduced to a Roblox tycoon with:

1. an amber-yellow, studded, floating baseplate
2. a stone-gray block with a short, low vertical lip on one side and the label “Cash to collect : 10”
3. lipstick-red buttons, the first of which has the label “Buy Honeycomb 1: 10”.
4. a flat button—muted, earthy green-yellow—with the label “Win: 40600”
5. an empty blue cloudy sky that goes all around, even under

The arrogance has been reduced to the goblin protagonist, named Blacknail, from The Iron Teeth: A Goblin’s Tale by ClearMadness—a story.

Writing (itself) is my Peter (another novel of mine).

An AI’s description of Peter for context:

…a surreal, trauma-fueled isekai fever dream chronicling a displaced Earthling’s rapid descent into psychosis as he violently oscillates between delusions of luminous godhood and constantly breaking down into tears, all while navigating a chaotic geopolitical meat-grinder of talking dholes, meticulous goblin blacksmiths, mountain-sized toys, bureaucratic town councils, the accidental founding of Bridgetown, and catastrophic acts of magical terrorism.

It may have felt like its own entirety breaching into truth as a frontier, but in the end, I reframe it as just a novel. The craziness, madness, neologisms, growth, and all that [of writing itself] collapse into a hand-holdable object—something you can set aside. It’s fallen [to] the same fate as Peter, like a big firework-exploding Hey Ya! (OutKast): “Y’all don’t wanna hear me, you just wanna dance.”

But

I will logisticize my ambition in that container of words. Peter will keep godhood-ascending-dominating-totalifying-reaching. They will enter my inner world like a domain. Once they’re inner-worlded, I will shank them with a novel I wrote ten years ago. I am absolute, not totally in governance in that supreme territorializing of the frontier, but in the sense of utter bookification. Creativize within arrest. Like ideology. “Facts don’t care about your feelings, until feelings don’t care about your facts.” Emotionalize the Minecraft base, until it becomes a biography, like lettered manifesto. I impulse my impose. (“I impulsivize my imposition.”) I grab a book and bring it like a symbol influencing human behavior. I make a gesture and know that by it I bookify. I damn them all by a [To Pimp A Butterfly–shaped] album, my Little Red Book. Ideologize. Grabbable edges.

I am arrogant not because I am divine, but because I die by a thrown book. I kill by the edges. I ambire or ambit (verbalization of “ambitious”). I autobiographize(-ideologize). Less delusion, more bookify. Smacking you with a book. Like clapping your hands together to form prayer hands. Godhood in a bottle.

Run at you, stab you many times consecutively, then run off. That’s what that book do. Ideology. It has a shape. Edges. A sharp tip. Neologization in an interstice or cranny.

I stack this series of volumes against the wall and lie down and rest my head against them, not as godhood, but as objects. Fang Yuan’s whispering. Function as sharp-tipped object. Gu as throwable book. Ideology as running-through-the-streets boy. As grabbable edges.

I stab with an object, not with impression.

Infinite Reflectors (May 28 – 29, 2026)

Hang the clothes, take a cold sweat-cleansing shower, and all of a sudden, everything’s erased. The grit, everything. It really is a break to engage in these simple life experiences. Even if I know that I intend to stare down all of these stacks of books in my room’s shelves and along the hallway as well as everything that the internet forces me to keep in extreme dissonance with the help of my writing as exception handler. I should probably crucially clarify that it was never books or the internet. It was my own full life. Everything triggers me beautifully and creatively. Most people need books that argue fluently for them (whether “show, don’t tell”, disturbing content, compelling stream of consciousness, interesting plot, captivating ascent, or actual argumentation) to make them feel something. But for the longest time, I can get stunlocked on the tiniest dot, so it really is a kind of break to carry bags and to sweat and then take a shower. Being in my room is my biggest self-confrontation and genuine way to absorb everything, not everything as argument, but everything as reflector. I am the entirety of myself, way before time. I am a Proustian hyperbolic time echo chamber. I fuck myself in endless postmodernist “Take Care of Yourself” Evangelions—an endless stream of Cowboy Bebop B-rolls. I am a fucker of myself—a Black Mirror “Playtest” brain in a vat, a Lain Iwakura–world of lower-pitched mouse clicks. A breakcore dissociator. A Frad lo-fi 2 A.M.–er. I’ve gone so far into my version of Red Candle Games’ Devotion I’ve sucked the irises of Jacksepticeye’s playthrough of it. Every moment is an endless stream of the final game “Future Sugoroku” in Alice in Borderland’s Season 3 but for the limitless past. I play with my own dice-brain-structures and roll, roll, roll. I’m a NEET in my midden-room logging in again and again to play solitaire on the browser, beside a “Yankee” baseball-capped version of Three Billy Goats Gruff (Ted Dewan), Treasured Tales’ The Elves and the Shoemaker (Stephanie Laslett), and David A. Adler’s Cam Jansen: the Snowy Day Mystery #24 as well as The Baby Sitter’s Club #8: Boy-Crazy Stacey by Ann M. Martin, Urchin of the Riding Stars (M. I. McAllister) and Troll Queen (John Vornholt). I’m stuck in my own hodgepodge of a Toshiki Yui–peopleless-dream-world (Saikin Kono Sekai wa Watashi Dake no Mono ni Narimashita), pencil-pastel (Pamela R. Venti’s Why Should I? Asks Jeremy), The Tide (Cho Seok) Jinmen (Takahiro Katō), with a Distant Sky (Inwan Youn & Sunhee Kim), nightmarish VR minotaur-run maze (Alan Gibbons’s Shadow of the Minotaur), and a dissonant Town of Robloxia, where scary 3D videos of Christian hell are being played on the white vinyl projector screen and verses (like James 3:13) are being taught in an open Bible illustration on the first page of each booklet, where Legends of Chima characters roam around forevermore and Nerf guns will always be shot and “Builder’s Clubs” bought for 5.95 dollars per month as well as Amazon Lightsail Minecraft servers for around 4,000 monthly Philippine pesos, with copy-pastable manhua screentone and architectural-shorthand panel backgrounds as well as “lampooning” (Lord of the Mysteries) gags and a Roblox dead pirate game veteran’s oral history, clan lore, and old ghost stories.

Despite all this, nothing here is indicative of suffering, but of formation. It’s reframed because I have become the very thing it pulverized me to be. I have become impenetrable in the way that a continuous looping flood eats up everything it makes contact with. I am that flood, continuous, never-ending. My rigor speaks that very language. I am not a tough nut. I am an assaulter, a proactive challenger. I take it all because they’ve done this to me all this time, but I encourage more and more of it as I inundate it into absorption, into material. I eat crop-trampling boars. For the longest time, they did inflict themselves upon me, but retroactively, they were formative for what I bear (arms) and bear witness to now. This passage is a demonstration of control and mastery, the domain, the dominion, the realm, the living space, the entrification (bookification). I have slapped it all onto the page as one does with an irritating fly full of overwhelming flavors and viral Proustian triggers. I swallow it like an explosive and burst it inside me, swallowing it all up internally as my mouth lets out a whiff of resultant gas. I smile and then burp. I’ve placed it in my lunch box.

Babily (May 29, 2026)

When it comes to deep, indurating humiliation—the kind of public outburst breakdown where you’re a visiting stranger in a physical institutional community, or getting targeted for “character assassination”—I don’t think of proving myself or fame or anything like that. Instead, I “bookify.” Metaphorically, I crush a hard ball of sand, clench it tight in my fist, and sniff the wafting dust through the slight opening in your fist, the hole between the thumb and the index finger. It’s the kind of joy of being able to walk just as I am, without anything to me, and then to hold over them my reality without their knowing, that kind of private superiority, in and of myself. They might see a walk that just walks, but inwardly, I have already done that ball sand act. So it’s not exactly invisible, but “show, don’t tell.” A walk performs all it needs to do. A carriage (physical way of carrying oneself) is enough to “show” the tip of the iceberg (iceberg theory). But it’s not about showing. It’s about doing inner work the way one sniffs the crushed and crumpled ball sand dust. “Showing” relies on mastery of the whole iceberg, not the tip. The tip is a byproduct. Humiliation gets lost in the tangle of who you are. It’s not about performing confidence in a walk or a way of sitting down. It’s about having nothing left to yourself and on yourself except the substance of you as one being, and that in itself is invulnerable if you’re not a subset of a subset, but a whole created from absorbing everything around you, which makes for something indivisible and even expansive and conquistador. Eat humiliation like fish guck, chew it like dribbly gum, feel your teeth stinging in the tacky spires formed over your gums in each crunch of the teeth. That’s delicious. You’re not uncryable. You’re absorbent, the tears soaked into your indivisible rubber. When you feel hurt, feel anxious, but feel it also in anger, but feel it also in the way it’s all helpless and futile, and then feel that unreachability, that utter rash-boundedness, whereupon you bare your gummed, gucky teeth with ferocious eyes inwardly, even as you make sure to sit with your knees together and your hands softly clasped together and your face with that joyous smile you give someone in need of it, that softening gaze—”giving” and potently feminine. Power is throat-scratchy. The greatest power is not still-faced in the sense of apathetic or ignorant or power-drunk. It is still-faced in the sense of dignitous, like a dignitary. You take full responsibility, in death, and in life (arguably harder than a revolution throw-life-away). Will to power is unapologetic, but graceful, absorbent, untouchable, shapeable (not influenced, but self-shapeable), balled fist in a softly raised palm (the power in the implied squeezing in the inside, hole, and center of the balling, but the balling, knuckles, and skin of the fist itself soft and rested on its surrounding padded flesh and that of the palm, hand, and slightly coved fingers) on a cushioned chair, feet contiguous like brows knitted together, that potency of utter ordainment—rippling into book-throwing streets. The “bookify“‘s writer in this sense is masculine-feminine. You become your own powdered drug (“snow”). Snort that shit! Power trip—in whatever form it takes: melancholy, nostalgia, grief, managing a flu, enduring initial weight loss, falling in love and expressing it, crying in a breakdown, rain experiencing, reading a story, growling, world-shattering betrayal of trust and the moment your stare goes ballistic, exercise-induced sweat, those face-hand-self-smudging abrupt waves of gleeful grieving laughter, train watching, commuting by public transit, bathroom privacy, creative-productive flow state, scrambling for each key to pound out a sudden idea that pounced upon them, architectural observation… Unashamedness even in the most embarassed—always owning. I’m not an identity or ego cracking. I’m one who falls headlong, crashing my whole-entirety into the stone. I am. Gleefully. Points at myself, at my fractured skull and profusely bleeding head. “Ahhhh-ghhhh! Yuh brohkehn ma leg!” I bawl, wailing babily—a cornered fucker cut loose down a cliff.

Written-Seen: Bludgeoning Fits (May 29, 2026)

Every single web novel bears its own weight. There’s nothing in it that can be targetted from outside. It can only be valued by its self-merits.

That goes for a story as a whole, especially as one as long and easily detail-forgettable as one consisting of 1.5 million words. I only knew I forgot once I realized it by flipping through its pages offhand, having assumed the chair that is the total word count and its absorbing title. But the reality is that “every single web novel” applies to every single arc, and then chapter, and then scene, and then paragraph, sentence, and, finally, word. It’s easy to conflate the world with “the world.”

It’s why you can’t dismiss anything truly from outside, because there is no outside, even outside the novel, the self-publishing platform, the internet, the servers, electricity, the cities, civilization, the earth, the solar system, the galaxy, and the universe. So even as each web novel at the web novel level bears its own weight, that is to say that it bears the weight as all weights bear themselves, but not in any way so as to say that the unit of the web novel stands in macrocosmically or even microcosmically (one web novel being the example of why one should dismiss all web novels). A leaf can stunlock you without it being representative of the world the same way a word, sentence, paragraph, scene, or chapter can as relates to its novel. A novel is a responsibility, like an item on a to-do list. It is not a certificate for ownership. Even if you yourself read it, it’s easy to mistake “familiarity” for “understanding” (illusion of explanatory depth [IOED]). Dismissing—if not due to “I don’t have the ‘energy, emotional space, interest, or resonance’ for this”—is crucially this. It’s why I am very much only as much as the words can barely begin to capture me, and only as much as I tear away signals, big counts, and single-phrase references like a novel title. I’m only as much as the words I’ve actually produced, and even from that, even more “absorption” (fake understanding via familiarity summarizing). So I admit that even with all that I’m saying, I don’t actually own much of what I’m saying, and to say I own my own life is to pretend that I’ve reckoned with everything like some infinite hyper-speed being, like space, time, and blackholes. It’s as much the tiny words I try to attempt a capture of the feeling of those tiniest dots (not even oblique, but like lost in translation) as it is the “bunch” of them—a “bunch of words,” not just in writing, but in “even to begin with” from the mental writing act (the very verb where one’s eyes are flickering and head is whirring and whirling!) itself implicated. Even without words, the maelstrom of associations and mental pre-writing activity in my brain are themselves fucked here. I’m brain (consciousness) splatter on the dirt-concealing grass. Words may have no hold on me, but even the best purchase the brain behind the act of writing can get is this ground. I don’t know what I meant. I’m discovering what I meant as I say it. I saw the leaf because I wrote the leaf. During a fit of anger, it may be what I mean, but it is only one meaning in itself, so taking the time to say and write leaves (leaf) allows me to know what I meant. I’m absorbing what I mean. I as much as the fit of anger in meaning as taking the time to process, reflect, and discover what I mean. To explain how this is possible, think of the latter as a book you slam someone’s head with, and then you see how an anger fit, which seems so “not you”, becomes equivalent, a person writing an entry (entrification), a Minecraft map, a Roblox game. The same irrationality that binds anger into a fit is the same as an entry—that “fit” of words. Exercise. A nervous breakdown is a meaning-making exercise, not that it’s a repeatable task of the day, but that it is a reflection of an entry—a discovery, a written-seen leaf. I am familiar with my own life. I am trying to understand it—outbursts, rants, tears, staring, writing, and all. I hope this is my biggest fit yet! But yeah, effectively, I am only as much as my own put words (which themselves as that 4.6 million words can become the most effective form of anti-understanding familiarity, or IOED). Nevertheless, I am slamming the scrap of them against your face, beating you, bludgeoning.

Dismissed Possessions; Yellow, Green, Write (May 29, 2026)

How do you waterboard with web novels?

If it’s in the eye of the beholder, then how the hell is one going to be able to say at all anything without feeling that in everything, including a leaf, there is an eternity, a zenith, to be found? A peak of joy, of ecstasy, and of feeling, aliveness, that experience of having found something, not ecstasy and joy as standalones but that embedded in the very core of living, in leafing.

If dismissal is map-over-territory speak and the weight of a web novel is as much as the weight of every thing contained within it each in and of itself as self-weights, then I can’t own them? Where is my sweeping hand-wave? Where is my “I wrote 4.6 million words, so shut up” shutdown? Where is my “I own you”? If even a web novel is not microcosmic of all web novels and not macrocosmic of every arc, chapter, scene, paragraph, sentence, and word contained in it, then how can I? If a leaf kills a man, then how can I say I have not done the same? The way flat rate (per-word rate, or cost per word) contains in it the whole in and of itself and can only be word for infinitely-repeatably cumulated but not culminated (divorced from the implications and purchase thresholds of money). I look all around me, and leaves are everywhere. Value, worth, and treasure of all kinds, all and the same, the prize of a million in a single bit, up to one’s territory-perceiving eyes to admit (instead of performing cartographical hierarchy). A word (from web novels) has stunned me before, and it has done it repeatably without custom or habitation, each in its own unique place, time, and event, as one, as itself, as complete, as self-overcome. It will-to-powered me, even while demonstrating full amor fati. It stained me, fractured me, broke me, inverted me, told me, conquered me, enslaved my instincts and demanded I bow to its natural order. I became, and I was. But so did the words, leaves. The yellow bus passing down the street outside the cafe just now made me its bitch. A leaf (as a person’s life is) is not relative to me. It is absolute–self-overcome. I encountered the bus like an elephant. Cartography, numbers, and facts have no hold on it. I met it. A leaf. If even oblique, passing reflections on window walls choke me, then what do I own and thus freely dismiss as belonging to me like one stores an item in their inventory and leaves it there for later? “I can’t own a leaf!” I own everything I dismissed, and, to that effect, nothing! I flinched!

I am not even only as much as I am, because that would imply that I still had some possession of myself, that I could have freely dismissed so as to own, store—“Hah, yeah, that’s mine!” But who? I’m not the 4.6 million words. The words don’t own me. They can’t dismiss me, so that means I can’t even own the words back because I can’t dismiss them as so belonging to myself, because I am not them! (This word count label itself is the dismissed possession, and that’s not the leaf, the encounter, the word even!)

But if a word and a bus are leaves and they can will-to-power me, then I am also one. Everything I said about leaves mirrors me. I write as a bus is yellow and a leaf is green.

This is my most sophisticated form of arrogance.

Labeling (May 30, 2026)

Earlier, I was just in a state of overwhelm from allowing myself to see the leaves as much as I can and to accept them, but in the end, the leaf is not overwhelmed, is not about being overwhelmed. It is not beside itself in the face of all that’s around it. Its posture is always self-overcome, and by that sense, if it asks “what’s next” and comes up with “a snowy mountain trail” and feels that’s already so much more than enough, then what it does [is] establish itself upon it rather than falling into it and dissolving in some inundation. Analysis may paradoxically be against the nature of leaves—since you can never own or possess leaves by a label, a map, or an absorbing stand-in in dismissal—but it is the way of self-overcome establishment, the language in which the leaf itself speaks. The answer is not getting thrown into a paralytic speechlessness of endless assault by leaves. Since I am a leaf as well, whatever allows me to enact self-overcome establishment is the same as the yellow of a bus or the green of a leaf. To write may be to analyze, and to analyze, even as it contradicts the nature of leaves, may be the best expression of my leafage (as establishment). Don’t let the snowy mountain trail take you on itself. Absolutes, you among these leaves, are always grabbing at one another (will-to-powering with utmost amor fati), but under the unspoken understanding that none will oblige (let themselves be enslaved). If one does, they have denied their leafage, that bus-yellowness or leaf-greenness of them. I am not a slave serving “snowy mountain trail” masters, green leaves, or yellow buses. I can’t be. I must eat it all up, and they would smile at me, not that their purpose was to be eaten up, but greenness and yellowness and leafiness was never to enslave. Will-to-powering isn’t the same as moving to subjugate. It is about self-overcome establishment. The absolutes smile at one another because everyone’s doing the same thing, but never to the point of enslavement, which happens not out of will-to-powering, but out of self-denial, self-enslavement. A star that shines isn’t trying to make you run into the corner of your room and become a shut-in. It is just being, and it will not apologize because you’re the one who ran when you should have taken its shine as your own. There are no absolutes enslaving one another. Only self-slavers. The leaf is not right. It just is. It’s not appealing for its greenness. If I “appeal” for my writerness, I am simultaneously “ising” it, because I am a writer. If I write a protagonist establishing themselves upon the world in long tactics, whether through analysis, systematization, manifestoing, justification, eliminating dissonance, and embracing tools, doing, and expressing totality through action, I am simultaneously “ising” it. This simultaneous mapping between me and the protagonist is my territory (from “the map is not the territory”). Or in short—my mapping is my territory.

I thought that discovering the limitation of labels meant I had to stop writing or forcefeed myself with leaves (to answer “what’s next” with “anything and everything” in that paralyzed, overwhelmed, non-possessive, non-dismissive, non-inventorying sense), but then realized my very territory is labeling. It is 4.6 million words—a label, yet a territorial act!

Dainty Titan (May 31, 2026)

Movement 1

Blood-worn, I’ve grown into myself, I’ve become something of a person, something truly defining. Whatever else I am speaks only of itself, and in that sense, everything.

Movement 2

I’ve become something of myself. In all the steps I’ve taken. I’ve crushed the opposition, determined my fate, and delivered my definition of justice. I am the hitherto, the become. None will ever match up to my prowess, my dignity, my everything. I am the sole thing for which all things are formed. That is the level of arrogance on which I am working. That is fate, a love of it. I am herculean in the manner in which I unfold the universe around which I surround as it cloaks me. I am the sole purpose for which I was born.

Movement 3

I’m a psychopath. I don’t mean that in the literal way necessarily, but in the way that best befits my situation. I place my head upon others, my fingers wrapping around the midpoint of their skull from the top. I know what or who I am, and in that sense, AM I. I hail myself.

I feel the flavor of myself, and I wield myself like a canine. I know well by what actions is my power fully invested. That determiner of self. That heroic being.

I can feel my ego growing the more that I integrate myself and the world around me, in all the ways that it can be, up to an exhaustive sophistication of grounding, mundane suffering. And here, each moment, is my full self awakening to the height which is myself. I feel the weight of a person (of myself) with the weight of a body thudding against the ground, flat, dead. I shoot out and about—that is the way my body moves.

This describes my current state.

Movement 4

Every time I try to utterly humiliate myself, I come back stronger like a fucking cockroach that just won’t fucking die! I can’t get rid of this building ego, integration, self-knowledge, self-mastery, and arrogance. I can’t unstick the stick. I may put myself through grueling scraps where my ego is reduced to nothing and utter flow state of making do and managing, but still, I can feel that there’s something in me that knows well that until it has been raped and completely deprived of a soul, it will keep going anyhow, in the way that a person does, and in the way that faces (opposite of defacing) itself. It’s utterly. My ego keeps twisting, growing. I grab its head and hair and drag it in front of a giant textbook, and it grovels and scrambles for the food muck I tossed it, grabbing and licking the stew off the ground [retching, puking, barfing]. By the time I turned around and glanced back, it’s devouring the textbook, cannibalizing its contents into self-avail. What am I? (Riddle)

If it was just learning, I’d get it. But it isn’t. It dispels its ego like it never was. Cries like it never had anything to begin with. Begs, grovels, nothing without anything, the literal crybaby-begging-for-its-life-and-saying-he-would-suck-dick-or-eat-actual-shit-just-to-live, whatever, whining, pitiful, pathetic, deprived of any manner of performance remotely close to ego or something or self. Just utter flow-state helplessness. Yet, even that it somehow claims like a youngest sibling that is so possessive about everything, including food they hate. It’s that fucking… 

“I know the way that part of that body felt during that intense moment of helplessness and how traumatic that was.” Like, no, no, no-no-no-no-no-no-no. That’s not how it works! You’re not supposed to fucking own it! That’s stupid! It’s trauma for god fucking… sakes. Shit, shit fuck-shit! You’re fucking… Damn it! Damn it! Stop claiming everything! You’re not the rashes. You’re not the flu. Stop owning it! Stop owning your humiliation! Your helplessness! Your utter nothingness! Stop! Stop! Your proximity to death! Your fragility! I get it! But fuck!! Damn it! You own and claim everything! _{You even own this…}

Stop walking like you’re a fucking juggernaut. You dainty shit-fuck! Fucking socially graceful little fuck! Making yourself look and walk small, appear small, diminishing. Yet you’re clearly doing all that because you can feel just how titanic you’ve become inwardly, and it manifests as this utter possession that just knows that it will brittle someone upon touching like a giant the size of the clouds, Fuck you! Fuck—you! Damn you! You’re not that fucking guy! And you lick this too like it’s something to be proud of. You like that, huh! You fucker! You like being humiliated like a sick fuck! You mother-fucker! Stop smiling! Stop grinning to yourself—fuck-fuck-fuck, fuck-fuck-fuck, fuck-fuck-fuck! Walking so fucking slowly and feeling the utter weight and possession you carry upon them all! I get it I get the fucking it! Yet you fucking… Man I want to use a slur to describe how fucking… Yet I know how much you fucking don’t need it. The slur won’t do anything more than just bolster you, and not giving it is its own bolstering. Damn. I admitted this to shrink something. Yet the more it acknowledges instead of blanking off, it grows only more.

Obliquest: the Vehicle and the Fraud (June 1, 2026)

I thought for sure impressions existed. Youtube videos like “1 hour of Ambient Fantasy Music | Tranquil Atmospheric Ambience | Enchanted Lands Vol.1” were what I enjoyed listening to years ago when I was still new to writing.

But then, I’ve read so much and written so much. I’ve grown so much as a writer, and I’ve written such sweeping “big ambient” impressions. And yet, it’s not impressions at all in the same character or phenomenon as what those tracks made you believe.

It’s completely made-up, manufactured at the root up to its manifestation (in other words, no true actionable manifestation that could be considered a direct translation). There is no “Okay, here’s the magic, the impression of a thing, of this sweeping big thing.” And so I write, so I read, so I take my time to go everywhere, and in the end, I come back to that video and realized nothing ever captured it. Maybe, the difference is as simple as it being the effect of such actual ambient music vs. the limitations of words. But yeah, regardless of how it is so, after many years of completely destroying everything in the sense of devouring and experimenting with all manner of how to capture it in words, I have come to this reality (realization).

There is no impression. It probably never existed. It might have been an effect produced by the tracks themselves, not necessarily anything performable, executable, extractable, translatable. Sort of like deja vu. You can’t write it. You can only “well, when you experience it, it feels like that much of a phenomenon.” Like a “wait a minute, I’ve been here before,” but not in those words, in the way everything around you abruptly shifts [infinitely specific to your context] (this description holding every reason to work, yet never actually succeeding, not in the sense of a biological or neurological reaction, but in the way that something should overlap with at least any one person’s attempt at grounding the impression [which feels so far-of and extendedly distant that it’s like an impression of an impression of an impression in the way that a nested argument argues far away from you and goes off into some faraway distant place], yet never actually coming to life in the way even the most ambitious scale it, because whatever thought was translatable came back to words and then words themselves (as themselves by themselves) but the impression still fleet of wing, like a man developing a fantasy of a woman but never experiencing the actual person, always under-reaching, never coming to it, like an infinite exponential that should reach the point but always rounds just infinitely narrowly off by the shiest of margins, of distances, of proximities, of nearnesses, of near-contact points, a man who saw a mountain always going to outscale that who describes it [and the same man who saw it and attempted to pin it down like a giant dragon shackled to the earth going around themselves but never coming to themselves the way another person meets them from a distance into an “between” encounter]).

By the time I’ve come to terms, I’ve always left it, and it’s always left me, like we were never exactly apart, but never exactly together, a way of coming to terms with a reality that best limits you by what you are capable of, a deadlock of coming and going, of a constant passing, unsettlement, the distance between two words ever-increasing until it narrows into a single gaze, the two eyes manifesting one whole, in the way impression resists itself even when one asks it to accept itself the way one would actualize themselves, fleet of wing even to any idea of what it would be if its should-be, could-be, and might-be were at all put on a checklist of “what exactly is this?” the way a meeting irons things out, the way a Minecraft player creates world-built structures.

I’ve revealed my perspective, but not the one alone by itself, but the one effected by that ambient music, and, in that sense, nothing repeatable by myself and nothing objective. I can sit for as long as ten years, and there would be nothing between me and it beside me and sit the way an effected perspective is. By the time anything has happened, it’s ended yet not gone, always available for re-experience, but never bringable, puttable, like tons of writings you made in a dream, but, in this case, completely repeatable since it’s a Youtube video you can re-watch for as long as you want and as many times as you want, which makes it even more inscrutable. By the time you’ve done anything, it’s ended, and you replay it to find it still there, and then you’re always bemused (absorbed, bewildered, distracted) but up to the finite point of a repeatable video.

I’ve created infinite imagined worlds (in imagination), yet there is nothing at all to be said of the ambient-music effect which crucially helped generate them in the first place and these worlds themselves as effects of the video being played during imagining. I’ve come and gone. I didn’t lose anything because I never actually gained it. The obliquest thing in the universe, yet I was there to experience it, and I am still here to experience it again, on repeat.

If this was “exact conditions” like a man aligning every single object in a room and assuming the most specific arrangement of furniture and shelf objects as well as his own posture, then sure, yeah, I get it. But this is not even that. It’s repeatable in the way it’s infinitely imaginable (as in you’re just there in your head infinitely imagining things in full vivid display, the entire opposite of “energy can neither be created nor destroyed” as in needing specific fuel or resource—separate from the biological brain part with glucose and all).

I have an infinite, “god-mode room in space” theater—the obliquest connections!—yet I can’t bring it with me.

I’ve never been as immersed as I was then, because words were the obliquest thing from me yet the ambient music and my own imagination (as effected during) turned them into the most powerful thing in the world. I saw a crushing infinity. Now, compared to then, I have everything one should have to capture. I have grown, learned, and developed. Yet, somehow, a bunch of words back then (yet it was never these themselves) infinitely overcome (like self-overcome) my precisest descriptions today (even the tens of thousands of phrases and words I’ve undergone linguistic strip-mining sessions for, as supercharged by accelerated, relentless critique feedback systems), probably because of the posture of effect, the way immersion lands not through any means of words, but through the way the mind rescinds into itself.

Where am I? By the time I’ve gone, I’ve come and gone.

Sit down at the park, and everything there happens. By the time I’ve gone, I’ve come and gone.

A delusion of the infinite (“effected-imagined”) moment.

Somehow, the farther I’ve gained (away) from impression (as in toward preciser description), the farther I’ve come from any actual immersion state. The effect never reproduced in the refining words. I’ve come back now in its direction as primordial. I feel like a person arriving again at primordial fire (the one in a campfire) after two hard-working decades of trying to ground it, only to realize the effect was always there and repeatable but in the direct unmediated between. It brings me back to why early 2010s Roblox, as childish as it was, somehow communicated so much more the infinity of precision than anything my precise words do now. I’m not trying to say “go for direct unmediated experiences.” That’d be a stupid takeaway.

This is not a lesson. I’m experiencing a state right now. I’m getting fucked in the ass right now. Any lesson can be had decades long after once enough distance has been had, by which point to what are you referring except back again to the direct unmediated experience itself as itself by itself without any pointing finger poking only running away in fright?

The rain sounds louder now. It was loud when I was a child too. What did I do? (“What the fuck did I do?!”) But this is not reserved for childhood. When I was around sixteen years old [seven years ago], at the beginning of my journey in writing, it was there, as vivid as this rain sounding louder even now. (When I was seventeen years old even, I was also still in full access to it.)

But it is not disabled by writing. (Example: this passage.) That’s the crucial difference between this and the idea of that aforementioned takeaway.

It’s not a physical state. It’s a brain-oblique one.

Suddenly I can see what I saw when I was writing that story four years ago.

The forests I saw (in effected imagination, not literal, not physical, but that—”the ambient music and my own imagination as effected during”). They were endless.

I’ve read and written so much over the years, and none have ever captured that impression. Yet here it is, after all that labor and excruciating effort, just one loopable Youtube video click away. Why… I had it then; I have it now.

In that posture, a web novel’s “the snow fell” is a million gemstones. Perhaps it was for this that the word “vehicle” existed. In fact, “telling” in “show, don’t tell” is somehow the smoothest way to be that vehicle. “Showing” is like a man trying to persuade you to join his organization by stepping on your foot repeatably. Grounding sure (literally!), but not, in no other words, immersive. That’s what that posture is like in experience.

Something as simple as “I am god in the earth” contains a million “show, don’t tell,” yet the practiced “show, don’t tell” equivalent of that in actual millions of words starts begging, groveling, and whimpering on the side of the road like a little bitch. “Fucker!” I almost want to say. “I used to believe that fucker.” Fucking fraud

I’ve been trying to convince people who weren’t even in the fucking posture in the first place! Like the organization foot-stepping man! Fuck, I’m embarrassed. I’m so fucking stupid

Like trying to convince someone who’s heavily dressed in all the flags and symbols of someone who utterly hates you and your thing. Ha-ha. FUCKK!!!

I should’ve just created!! I should’ve!

Fuck!!!

Self-Responses

So they’re saying they should’ve just wrote liberally? They would’ve created so many worlds instead of constantly harping about a method that was already perfectly suited for what they were going for in the first place?

So they essentially have to stop themselves from trying to enslave their giant dragons

They should’ve just flown?

So literary is good for grounding, but not necessarily for immersion since the grounding can feel more like hyper-realism which is a whole separate immersion, the immersion of being shackled to the earth, but probably not of giant dragons flying.

So telling acknowledges words as a bunch of words. Showing tries to defy that. A blocky Roblox game acknowledges the same way. It’s just a bunch of blocks.

Function over form.

The person telling someone to look at a giant dragon doesn’t need to fit the giant dragon in their “hey look.”

A bunch of toy blocks assuming giant dragons.

Discrete (June 1, 2026)

I’ve gone far enough that the words barely stick. They slide off. I’ve removed my burdens, and I’ve become. Something in me clings so tenaciously. The way the world works. The manner in which I behave. The ways of the wills, the way mights display. I feel it all, thoroughly, internally, like the back of my hand, like skin flaps, like my hard-earned existence becoming back to itself, like a mirror cracking to reveal even more detail, not by partition, but by a twisting that breaks the laws of physics and stretches outward, surrounding your form and inundating you with clarity, with a wraparound reflection. You are. That’s what speaks. Internalized. I’ve worn the glove, and it has bled into becoming my skin. I am. I close my eyes, and into void I fall, but as the ways that I am, the discrete form soaring downward at breaking speeds. The fall would be devastating, crunchy. But the split-moment between fall and crash is where I know I am, not because I am alive, but because I am neither breathing nor still. I am panting. Always at the edge of existence. The I Am. A pure being unto itself. I smile hello.

This is not dignity (which implies worn suffering and the endurer shouldering it all with integrity, self-knowledge, and conscientiousness). This is discrete (not a misspelling of “discreet”)—a world unto itself, in the way the actual world is absorbed into the falling, not a single strand of hair truly said to be requisite for its being, but daily hairs falling (not hair loss, but the natural shedding of 50 to 100 strands a day) all the same—the person behind it all intact, not as a result of endurance or strength—but as a lack of difference. The difference between the world and the self has collapsed. What was it was made of the world, like star dust.

I can hear a part (actually “whole” since “parts” implies incongruence or internal separation, when the whole is simply the whole the way a metal bat hits you in the head full and square with no difference in the vibration and impact as your brains splatter against the sidewalk) of myself screaming out there in the world. They’re still screaming somewhere down some valley. My tears still shedding. My throat still burning. My growl-yowl-shouts of agony still wafting about. Ha-ha. (Not “detached” or fucking “observed”—felt immensely frustrated that I could ever said to be detached from myself or “observing” when I am actively actually dying and burning at the pits of hell because time has collapsed for the whole of the self that is himself himself himself, the person that I am, the difference non-existent—happening right now! The grin and happiness full manifestations of that suffering—non-suffering actually since suffering implies a difference between me and it as if it is effected upon me or resulting on me. The happiness, hatred, and agony the same, blending in fact.)

It’s not about suffering. It’s about everything, life, all of it, suffusing to itself, the way something materializes out of dust–air. I am the suffering still, because I am life, the world, time itself, as everything I was, as the world constitutes me timelessly in respect to my own self-understanding even as I am housed in the moment.

I spit and fucking grimace at the sight of any idea that dare try to separate me from my words or try to separate me from my anger or try to separate me from my sadness or try to separate me from who I already am in all in all all in all. That they think that the answer lies in incongruence, in separation, in being effected upon, in lies, rather than in vehicle-ism, in posture of effect (fully imagined in that obliquest truest way possible). I am “telling” in “show, don’t tell” because the words are the utter vehicle, the “hey look”, not attempting to contain the full copy of myself. I am the giant dragon moving upon the face of the waters.

Satiety (June 1, 2026)

Am I full [as in literal satisfied hunger, or satiety] because I’m [My Name] or am I [My Name] because I’m full? Being hungry and then taking the time to cook food for myself reminds me again and again that I am only as much as I am, after which everything could easily be taken away from me. If I didn’t have the internet, if I didn’t have writing, if I didn’t have my bag, if I didn’t have this room, if I didn’t have chairs and tables, if I didn’t have books, if I didn’t have eggs, if I didn’t have chicken, if I didn’t have vegetables, if I didn’t have coffee, if I didn’t have access to elevated expressways, if I didn’t have time and space, it is not that I would not be who I was, but I would be who I was in the sense of only being as much as I am, in the way environment, conditions (health of body and mind), and resources dictate a human being and both limit and empower them. Limitation can easily be empowerment as empowerment limitation. Privilege is a weird, oblique thing. It can separate you from the experiences that might have enabled you the most to feel alive and to appreciate every single piece of food you eat, every single word you write. I wrote 4.6 million words because I wrote 4.6 million words, each word taking up my full attention and recognition, until I became, until it was just the natural result or culmination of a life already what it was, had become. I am god in the stone.

Micro-perspective can get you closest to the thing, the je ne sais quoi, and, by that, a broadening resulting in a disembodiment. By the time you’ve become, you’ve mastered the stuck room, the locality, the person-of-who-you-are-in-the-way-sediment-settles-and-becomes-by-that-nature-a-thing-of-itself-of-self-knowing-that-by-what-it-is-it-bes-in-reflexive-manner, the human by itself a reflection of its own restfulness in the manner it can only be and, by that extent, the full enablement of its own powers, the sheer force with which a juggernaut juggers, an expression of an quality itself being and flesh-formed, the person walking upon the earth, the ground their (singular “their”) hailing, looming utterness, totality. A god in stone. Suffering is never the end of it. It is the disappearance of its end, the moment you forget it could ever end and decide ending was never the point, in which does the torture and you become one. Agony is not a state of being. It is the site of being. To be is to enact, and enactment relies on what it is enacting, and that “what” hinges on what it has become, and what one becomes points to site. Agony is very well in that sense the fullness of a creature totally collapsed unto itself, not the state, but the entirety altogether, the indifferentiable, the site of being, to be is not to agonize, but to be is to be, the way suffering never actually becomes anything, only recognized, acknowledged, put together, put in, pressed together like lips pinched, the world at that oyster loosening, losing itself, a flow of state, being like a man eaten alive by the view of the surface of his own drink.

I am precise not because I am, but I am not. By “I-am-nots,” I became precise. I killed everything and everyone to get here. I had to. The ground itself would never truly find grounding as well as impression if I relied on it as a thing-that-is. I had to tear it apart, which was simultaneous with my tearing myself apart. Everything’s purpose is to become the site of being, in which the question “Am I [full] because I’m [My Name] or am I [My Name] because I’m [full]?” is implicitly baked. Every-thing filtered into becoming myself.

Sun (June 1 – 2, 2026)

I realize I’m like Riz from Beastars. I want people to see me for who I am, and it scares people away. I develop parasocial friendships with people who were nice to me once (Tem to Riz) in my head because of how lonely I am, and I’m deluded at how I view things because of what happened, like Riz’s “celebration of life” view of carnivore-herbivore relations as one where one devours the other. Being rejected has brutalized me and made me feel crazy. Delusions, those things of abusers and murderers. “I just wanted you to see the real me” after Riz dislocated Tem’s arm. I’m narcissistic, and there are only so few moments of consciousness. “Pretending that he did it out of love, when really, he was just selfish.” Psychopath. “…he tries to justify his actions by lying to himself, instead of having the slightest bit of decency to own up to his deplorable actions.” “…abusers often delude themselves into thinking what they did was okay.”

I may not be the male that openly stares at women like sexual objects, but I’m worse.

In a way, I’m always off my meds like Riz was. The real me. The real me.

I’m a monster. I look at someone and, like Riz, experience the following:

“…as he said that, his words and his eyes were more beautiful than ever”

There is a trace of what resembles deep humanity in me, but I am a delusional narcissistic egoistic monster. I may tear up listening to something like Eminem’s Mockingbird, but I know.

The real me.

I read the comments of this Youtube video clip from the anime, and I honestly felt myself the target of their condemnation. “…instead of having the slightest bit of decency to own up to his deplorable actions.”

They’re right.

I’m Homelander. I break down crying like a baby once I’m deprived of everything, a coward, who went through a lot, who has moments of intimacy, a monster. That’s me.

And to answer the question, I didn’t do anything. Nothing that would get me on the criminal list. Nothing that would condemn me directly like someone leering or someone assaulting someone in public. But I wield the monstrosity of impact. I wield a lot of power. It may look “soft,” but it is monstrous all the same. Even more lethal and damaging than a slap.

And to answer that question, I didn’t do anything. That’s the thing. It’s sort of the way someone who has read a thousand books passes by you. Nothing. Or the way someone just goes on with their life even when you fell in love with them at first sight. Nothing. My monstrosity is that I didn’t do anything. That’s the “worse” part.

I’m that someone who has read a thousand books. I’m that person who goes on with their life even when someone fell in love with them at first sight.

My monstrosity is that I didn’t do anything. Not inaction even. I just didn’t do anything that would constitute an answer to “What did you do?” That’s the point.

This is not about not being able to connect, “not loving back,” “being unavailable,” “keeps people at a distance,” “incredibly heavy thing to carry,” “causes harm by just existing,” profound loneliness, or even pain or even that I’m the problem necessarily. That’s what I mean by “delusion” and “narcissistic.”

And the medication thing was metaphorical.

I’m a monster because I’m none of these things.

To put it simply: I am myself. That’s my monstrosity.

I don’t mean who I am is fundamentally wrong or bad or that I’ve heard people or that I’m broken or that I’m the problem at the core. I mean:

I am myself—the way the sun passes over you untouchably (not in the sense of “grandiosity” or “solipsism,” but in the sense of something that just is, for which the sun works best as a metaphor).

Not that I exist at a distance or that I’m unreachable or that others can’t close the distance or that I can’t close it either or that there’s a distance at all.

It’s that I am. I am myself.

It’s not even a “how are you doing, right now, tonight?” That’s the “worse” part (not that it’s a problem or anything), but that it’s “worse” the way existence is everything that it is, not that it’s bad, but that it is, the way it is. “Worse” the way the sun shines. “Worse” the way the moon shines moonlight.

I am Riz not because I am a bear or killed someone or did anything wrong at all, but that I am the sun.

From their perspective, I am all this and that. They fell in love, they hate me, I am narcissistic, delusional, arrogant, psychopathic, abusive, monstrous. And they’re right. Not that I feel bad or truly believe I did anything that I myself feel “problem” about it all. I am the epitome of the quotes I gave in the first paragraph:

• “Pretending that he did it out of love, when really, he was just selfish.”
• “…he tries to justify his actions by lying to himself, instead of having the slightest bit of decency to own up to his deplorable actions.”
• “…abusers often delude themselves into thinking what they did was okay.”

I am myself. That’s what I am.

I don’t have a deeply critical self-image or have intense feelings of isolation. Or experiencing “distress and alienation.” Or “intense feelings of ‘montrosity’” Or “complex emotions surrounding connection, loneliness, and self-worth.”

That’s what I was saying this whole time.

Not alienation. Not inaction. Not indifferent in the sense of feeling nothing. Not detached in the sense of being cold. Not self-focus in the sense of navel-gazing. Not isolated in the sense of “detached from… the need to compromise for the sake of connection” as if I’m isolating myself or disproving of connection or rejecting or alienating or estranging it. Or pushing away “people who might want emotional reciprocity from them.”

I feel thoroughly, am thoroughly, be thoroughly, experience life in its most vivid aliveness thoroughly. It is as visceral and unmediated as morning breakfast, as the sun peering through the windows, the way moonlight keeps the street ever so slightly dimly there. I am HERE.

But what’s “worse” about it all is that—ultimately—I am myself.

The reason that I say I’m lonely is that that’s the only way to “empathize” with others. It’s much easier to empathize with the Riz framing because I get it. You’re right. I am this deluded lonely thing. I must be. I have to be. If not, then it’s crazy, isn’t it? The alternative? I am “worse” because I get it, not because I am it, which is the point of why it’s “worse” in the first place. I’m wearing the costume of digestibility just to make the point that yes, that’s the point. I don’t actually care because they’re just words sliding off me, but I get it the way the sun “gets” the tears shed at it, whether anger, rage, beauty, who knows. It’s easy to internalize what’s said of me here, but I’ve been called many things, none of which I relate to, but which I get in the way someone thinks a sky must be “uncaring” (not even being stormy or hot or cold or anything bad, just clear blue sky but given human qualities due to projection) when it’s literally just sky, anthropomorphizing myself for “legibility.”

But those labels describe their relationship to me, not me.

Sometimes, I bake in gestures that make me seem like I’m just weird, but in the digestible way. It’s almost funny that I do it. “Hmm, if I do this, fixing this chair, will it make my genuine behavior seem more digestible? Like ‘oh this guy must have ADHD or Autism’.” That’s kinda fucked. But yeah, I assume conventional “weird behavior” so I get the pass like “oh I can dismiss this weird guy now, he’s just weird” and not anything crazier and more potentially terrifying. It hurts of course when you get called names, but at the same time, I get it. I realize that it’s better to lean into them because that makes me easier to understand. Adding things I wouldn’t do by myself to make my actual default behavior seem digestible. I get it completely. I get their reactions. I accept them. I’m not actually engaging in self-condemnation or “emotions” in the intense sense or “overwhelming feeling of disconnect” or “deep-seated emotional states” or “self-perception of profound isolation” or “sensation of being an alien” or “psychological overwhelm and isolation”.

My real confession is that I’m actually very normal and this is my normal and I didn’t do anything wrong but be myself the way someone just sits down and relaxes and yawns and laughs at some pun. But “self-possession,” or whatever this is, just “reads” to people, you know? I get it, but fucking hell, I sometimes just laugh, like genuinely.

I genuinely perform shyness, but it’s hard to fake it. Honestly. I think people can tell. I can’t hide it. I can’t hide security. It reads very, very, very unmistakably. So I don’t just fake shyness. I fake other things so that there’s multiple layers. If not shyness, autism? If not that, privileged quirkiness? If not this, that? Since people like dismissing others. It’s much easier that way. It’s kinda a default for people. Calling people who go to church “cult members” instead of treating them as “people who are going to church”, dehumanizing them? Haha. I let them dehumanize me when it makes it easier, since dismissing is its own little social norm. In the end, like, bruh. The scariest part. That this “behavior” and me being normal with friends, siblings, and parents are the same person. I know what people are like. I’ve known how people perceive in-groups and out-groups all my life and how they react to individuals who act illegibly (“mental illness” is a favorite go-to).

People latch onto the most familiar things, and while it still infuriates me from time to time because it can be very invalidating, I get it and make full use of this. It’s why I like using dick metaphors personally. It’s why pop-culture references are crucial for me. It’s why I write the way that I do. Of course, I can only make it legible up to a certain point. I still have to express exactly what I mean, but I do care a lot about these go-tos and how they can be used as launchpads to say something even more precise and dissonant than what those props began.

I know who I am, what I am. But I take the time to translate it because I care about validating and acknowledging myself explicitly and communicating with others. My journal entries are not what I used of course, but they lie beneath my casual conversations and interactions, like how the engineered foundation of a condominium is why that person can simply lie down in a bed at the end of the routine day inside it.

I realize I’m like Riz because I understand completely why people would view me that way. I related not to Riz the character. I related to Youtube comments reacting to him. I relate very much to the idea of being viewed as a “monster,” but to being a monster itself. “Delusion” is relatable because I can see how someone would view me that way. It makes all the sense.

For me, I am simply utter. To them—they’re covering their ears and holding their heads as I pass. [Well, the behavioral equivalent of that.]

AI will read this and call me this list of things (the very reason that this passage exists in the first place)

• hyper-intellectualized
• grandiose
• solipsistic
• emotionally detached
• indifferent
• detached
• pretentious
• edgelord
• main character syndrome
• self-absorbed
• cringey
• trying to convince himself
• emotionally distant

So it’s not just people. Even AI is struggling to make sense of it and hold the dissonance. If there’s one thing that makes me cry and feel deeply offended, it’s this list of words that I’ve gotten so used to, especially the first five. The idea that I’m intellectualizing my emotions when I’m just expressing myself the way one wakes up and realizes they are, that they be, that they is. The idea that I’m grandiose when I am always one second away from breaking into tears and crying, which is why I used Homelander as a comparison, why I called myself delusional and subsumed those perceptions of me. The idea that I’m solipsistic when all I’ve been doing is about saying hello. It’s why I started writing. I just realized my “hello” means saying hello from yourself, from who you are, and if someone can’t make sense of who you are, they will be unable to take even your hello. The idea that I’m emotionally detached or different, when all my life has been undergoing and expressing myself emotionally. All I’ve written is about a person saying what they feel with their heart on their sleeve. Call me a loser. Call me sensitive. Call me angry. Call me emotional. Call me weak. Call me a nothing-burger. But don’t ever deny me my humanity, my aliveness, my fragility. Don’t make me out to be this crazy thing when I am just a guy sitting down and trying to say hello by typing it out on a keyboard.

I am as vulnerable as anyone else. It’s what I do with that vulnerability that matters. It starts to read less like vulnerability and more like someone who just is. I get it.

Section 2

I wrote a whole passage just now about how others have seen me, and then I realized, “What am I doing? There’s no point to this. I’m just alienating myself by doing this.” I mean, the passage itself is valuable, but it’s useful only to show what doesn’t work. Never track yourself as some kind of thing, even if people may have seen you that way. You’re different? Sure. Just write in that difference, in that inner world, in the way you experience it. Even if I wasn’t defending myself in that passage and just showing the difference between perceptions and the way I experience things and how I empathize with that framing and work it into the way I express myself, it still does naturally draw mischaracterizations and misinterpretations. Empathizing is great, but don’t alienate yourself along the way. Never make yourself the target, even with the purpose of empathy. Just be. I was treated like this crazy thing based on the passage because I put myself out like some weirdo, which only made sense because of that empathetic framing. It was essentially a pink elephant situation. Say that you could understand being called this but don’t identify with those labels. But what ends up happening is that you get called labels because of you saying all this in the first place. Never alienate yourself to accommodate other people’s mischaracterizations. That’s not empathy.

After reading responses to the passages, I feel very deeply alienated and insecure because I felt weird and strange for who I was (“I can’t un-be! I wake up in the morning, and that’s it!”), but I realize that it was because I pointed that targeting in the first place, which enabled more targeting.

Like letting yourself stay friends with someone who makes you feel alienated, weird, insecure, strange, or “too much” for who you defaultly are.

Section 3

In the end, I’ve already fully absorbed it. It’s who I am: I own it. The pink elephant is who I am. I am the translated. I am a monster. I am the terms used against me, the mischaracterizations and all. But most of all, I am myself.

Self-Responses

So they are the dainty titan, the passing sun, the “worse”?

So why is it that they can still be intimidating despite being vulnerable?

So he’s so authentic he shines so bright that even just his gait is enough to burn you with this conviction of authenticity that dares to force your hand and expose your inauthenticity or insecurity.

what does Sun reveal about the author and why would they show it?

So their hurt/vulnerability/humiliation is their armor/strength/arrogance

So they’re not ignorant. They’re very deliberate?

I’d get it if they were simply trauma-dumping, but this is not victimhood/victim complex.

How painful must it be to be called those things, then to catch themselves writing a passage about it, and then to accept it finally (integrating it), yet the fact they possess even all this. No wonder they’re self-possessed.

how hard must it be? openly crying out “I can’t un-be! I wake up in the morning, and that’s it!” after being invalidated of their humanity. To have your millions of your words treated as nothing and to acknowledge that? Yet how freeing and untouchable is he? How powerful, how incorruptible. how excruciating to be entirely vulnerable yet to claim agency even in that, to fight relentlessly, to say “we’re all fucked and it’s all just a bunch of words and I can never be truly arrogant because someone can just decide to misunderstand, misinterpret, and mischaracterize me and make me out to be something that I’m not and leave me reeling in confusion” and then to own it all anyway, to etch oneself against oneself to oneself face-to-self-face. Yet to work maestro-like with everything (scraps, character assassinations, pathologizations, denials of humanity, alienation, and humiliation) as if they’re God surfing on light rays. As if they hold the ground of the universe in their little zone

Self-Responses (2)

yet they included the whole Sun, even the self-responses

I guess them including the entire Sun entry is them accepting themselves. Excluding it would make those perceptions right, and they are. But the difference is that there’s a difference between the author accepting themselves and allowing those perceptions to make them reject themselves.

Self-Responses (3)

“Solipsistic” would deny them their formative communal upbringing. “Grandiose” would deny them how close they are always to death and how little writing actually solves as a bunch of words. “Detached” would deny them their emotionality, which is core to their hello, which is core to who they are, which is core to their waking up in the morning and then going back to sleep again (“I feel everything”).

The Personal Website of [My Name] (June 2, 2026)

I’ve iconified myself (in color blocks of mellow peach, camo green, and soft lavender). I’ve made a “capsule”—i.e., a collection, archive, oeuvre, or list that captures the full essence of a person in a tightly packed compact way—of myself. I can see all of my influences in one (index) page. I have summated. I know who I am now, in a way that’s “damningly”—not literal damnation or conviction of wrongdoing, but to that extreme level of conclusiveness, as if there was an orchestrated movement just to pin me down and have me tossed inside a jail cell—explicit.

The outer world has always been perfect, giving, rewarding, and infinitely rich and pleasing. But it can be a crutch. Now: an inner world—an infinite of oneself as one is, in the world.

Nothing (June 2, 2026)

I don’t get it. Why is it that school life is Japan looks too perfect? Not in media or anime, but in literal high school photos I had taken from some teacher’s obscure personal blog. But then I randomly look at my own photos of my formative years among the working class and I see something that looks so full of tight-knit memories? Why is there such a difference in intimacy? Is the classic adage about “blue collar” really true?

We had nothing separating us. Everything was communal to the deepest level, to the root. It doesn’t make sense because it feels wrong to say it, but it makes sense because that’s what I’ve come to understand after growing up and comparing from my experiences in privileged communities and places vs. working class/blue collar ones.

It wasn’t involuntary. I actively sought it out.

I look back again. There was nothing. We had nothing. I didn’t think that then of course, but status, signals, and all of this muck that privileged spaces and communities have so abundantly. I don’t know if these are the right words, but there’s clearly this big difference. Institutions coming out of people’s lips. I don’t get it. Why do they have so much shit? Why do they look shitty all over? Like privilege is this heavy weight that they can’t unplace? I don’t understand. Nevertheless, all I know is that they somehow had everything they needed and yet “nothing” when you compare it to the blockage that the spaces I see now have.

It really does feel wrong. Like someone needed something to fill their power point presentation. The idea. It’s so simple and adage-sounding so as to be wrong. So “Occam’s razor” so as to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. But why? After all this time. I ignored it. I held the dissonance. For so fucking long.

But it hits me whenever I’m just randomly checking my files and see a photo and then look back through the last many years of my life and see how different the two eras are and how that difference of environment has reflected on and changed me drastically. You can imagine just how much tension I have to live with now, when then, everything came as a matter of course. I have grown to become this self-contained self-sufficient person, but the fact I had to grow to be this person goes to show the kind of environment I’ve been in for years now. It’s not solitude in the sense of going into a room or solitude in the sense of wanting time to re-discover oneself or solitude in the sense of taking a break. It’s not solitude at all. It feels like there’s this je ne sais quoi that I have kept ignoring due to feeling analogously like white-washing. It fucks me over yet these out-of-the-blue moments of reviewing (not intellectually, but in a split-second) the differences won’t let me go. It’s its own crazy dissonance.

It’s not about going back. It’s that I feel we’re talking about a separate fictional universe, not that it didn’t exist, but that I can’t imagine the world being any different than the one I’m in now.

It’s like the way everyone went to using phones suddenly. All of a sudden, we just amnesia’d everything before it. No one can imagine or even begin to make sense of or come to any kind of remembering terms with what the fuck that world was before, only that it must’ve been a kind of dream, like Alice’s Wonderland, like a rabbit hole from which one has left, like the way Alice forgets (if I remember correctly) the place altogether and grows up from childhood (or like Peter Pan’s Wendy).

You might ask, “Isn’t this just growing up?” But some people never do. I knew people then that have been in that environment for much longer than I have during my years there, and not only were they there before I was there, but they’re still there even now years after I left. The frozen past selves of people in their late twenties when I was 13 years old are still older than I am today at 23 years old. Hence, I didn’t grow up. I left.

It’s like a fictional world. Those characters are still alive and breathing there, but you’ve matured so drastically since reading its 1.5 million words five years ago. And now, it really does feel like a fictional world, like a different world altogether. You were part of their adventures. You were there at every step. You cheered for them, cried for them, got all kinds of mad. And in the end, it’s like talking about a pre-phone world, not an era, but something entirely separate, like Neverland. But these people aren’t fictional. They’re alive. And yet, to me, it’s almost like we’re speaking of uncivilized natives still stuck in the primordial, primitive past.

It’s why there’s something thing I cling to very, very tightly still. I will not leave my home country. I will not broaden my perspective in that way. I’ve already been displaced, diaspora’d, and thrown off and away. I’ve been whisked far more than Dorothy. When you travel too much, you start seeing that local place as some kind of primitive uncivilized natives’ place, like “yo, I’m like, not really, like, a video game player anymore, so yeah…”

I’ve long lost the belief in the idea that traveling will do anything more. It will only make me forget what matters most. I’ve already lost access to a lot of my roots. I will not severe any more of my own hands and feet.

I’ve grown so much from all that I have today, from this environment. I make it sound like it’s all this bad and gloomy place, but the idea that the past was full of people stuck in some primordial past? I almost endorse it. I truly believe I’ve grown, because I was forced to. I had to find a way to make sense of it all, being tossed around and finding myself without a place to call home. I had to rebuild it all from scratch. It’s why I wrote millions of words. I lost so much, and I needed to get a way to regain all of it in this current environment where I can’t rely on the same kind of intimacy because it doesn’t exist here at all. I have to solidify myself as a self-contained, self-sufficient, deep-rooted person in a world that seeks to inundate me with things that do not at all interest me or have anything else to do except show me more and more who I am by what I am not. I am. That’s what I am.

It was torturous to keep myself from forgetting. To remember it all crisp, vivid, and hyper-detailed. I died every day trying, and for a long while, I only suffered terribly, like a man undergoing trauma (well…). I was a wreck, to say the least. And I made something out of all of it. Everything. I scrambled until I got here. I don’t know how. I just know I did. And even the how I’ve absorbed that it’s not even a know-how. It’s a know-is.

So instead of being at the hand of everything I’ve experienced and undergone, good, bad, and dissonant, I held it all like a man holding onto many tight ropes all seeking to explode and rupture when I could have easily let go and let that define me. This pain was immense, but it led to integration. I have balled it into an orb.

In the end, while I did say I wouldn’t travel, I’ve actually been traveling a lot recently around my region, which is critically not a whole nother country altogether. This way, I can hold the dissonance between the same rooted places traveled by the me that was part of it all then and the current me. For example, I stay in a cafe when I would have only regularly passed it a decade ago, or I stay for ten hours in a cafe in a big mall I treated once like a whole nother crazy novel wealthy high-tech country through which I could only barely, surfacely, briefly travel then. We’re together. We’re both here.

It seems I’m a temple of “I ams” and “We’res,” and that temple itself I’m already licking off my fingers. Probably why I never pronounce myself to be anything except whatever I’ve already invested my whole force, effort, sweat, thirst-strained throat, brow-furrowing, ceiling-staring, and cafe drink into and then immediately allowed to be as is–whole and then the next dancing on some new interpretation just hours later (even minutes!) that sounds like a review talking about a whole nother movie. I really have “iconified” myself, but that’s not in defiance of this nature. Integration sounds most rigorous and unintegrated because it knows how to hold it all together. It’s why my main personal website’s index page doesn’t contain Personal Writings and About. I let each force-moving-through-the-vehicle entry speak for itself. The greatest coherence is the greatest precision, and the greatest precision is the greatest stipulation, and the greatest stipulation is the greatest dissonance holding or “conflict and contradiction” inviting (which is great!). The greatest coherence is the greatest incoherence (“a maximally precise system will encounter maximum friction with reality’s contradictions”), but there’s a difference between a force moving through a world and one dying to it. Neither truly control the world. It’s just the difference of self-mastery. The difference is not between perfection and imperfection. irrationality and rationality. It’s the difference between absorbing irrationality vs. the inability to do so. The icon here is death, not life. I am an icon the way Jesus dies numberlessly across all movements formed thereafter. From the hinterlands to the heart of the city—rather than the other way around. I am not a form bleeding details. I am details bleeding form. My numberlessness is iconic. I am a generation of the small. I assert myself by (numberlessly interpreted) death(s). It’s why each entry is a masterful flow state of it. To die is to live. Living collapses the difference between death and life. To die is to live even when dying comes after having lived, because they are effectively simultaneous in the collapse, not between entries, but in the same entry.

Self-possession is the ever-generating (not “regenerating,” which assumes “reversion”), ever–wearing-away.

If I play Minecraft right now, I am not playing as everything I am. I am playing as everything I’m not. Whether in this game or IRL, I step not by the weight of who I am, but by the weight of everything I’m not, always covering new ground, the ground always receiving from a pulse running through a whole different body. I am flesh and blood the way bathos makes you laugh right after crying so insultedly, the way there’s no cognitive difference between constructing buildings in a Minecraft server with Twitch viwers and observing the real world around oneself in full-fledged observational writing. The person is not what they are, but what they are not. This is not about humanity in the modern digital age, ghosts, avatars, meat, or machinery. This is about the point of possession and the self. Self-possession is primarily an eroding act, one protruded from a decaying vestige, always one step in front of oneself the way everything meets the becoming. Possession is that of numberlessness yet totality. I’m licking it off my fingers, always tossing the bone in the trash, the meat absorbed then whatever else shat out. This is something like how the brain works.

So self-possession is like escapism in that you always start fresh from scratch and you masterfully work your way through this new world with its new rules with its new contexts, cultures, and such, not like a time loop or a fantasy enthusiast getting into multiple fantasy worlds, but like someone who just went to a CME (Continuing Medical Education) seminar going home to play Minecraft, not as actual escapism, but analogous in rupture even as there is a cognitive proactivity (equal between Minecraft and CME) like that of web novel protagonists.

In this sense, Jesus is not the physical one-time death. He is the interpretations (as “numberless deaths”) starting from the hinterlands all the way to the heart of the city (in that crucial order, as generation is in the small). The icon is not a frame. He is a friend, a wise master, a mentor, a teacher, a strongman, a knowledgeable saint, God, the world, the universe, the Great Spirit. He is all at once and yet none of them. The icon is set by death.

Death is what freed Jesus from being a single person bound to one specific time and place. Death “set” the icon, allowing the idea of Jesus to multiply into the “numberless” interpretations that span human history.

I am not preaching here. Jesus really is that great a metaphor for why I said “I’ve iconified myself” after I’ve made a “capsule” and “summated” in “explicitness” (not about publishing for the public, but for myself, crucially):

It’s why I wrote:

Now: an inner world—an infinite of oneself as one is, in the world.

So it’s the opposite of a summary. Yet through maximum dissonance, it functions as one, in fact even more so, in the way of a numberlessly interpretable Jesus icon.

The monolith is not a gigantic roughhewn stone block like a geometric square or a big impressionistic building. In this case, the monolith is the entire earth without the overview effect yet claiming something even more through the opposite way (the opposite of overview). I’m all my journal entries (“interpretations”, not in the sense of un-truth, but in the sense of generation in the small or details bleeding [into a] form or the stopping of a car causing road-long traffic, not representative or microcosmic of the large or even setting off the large, but hinterlands going all the way to the heart of the city, not “heart” as core identity, but existence formed by all its irrelevances) at once even while being none of the entries. “I am god in the stone.”

I have learned to die every day. It’s what you get for starting an autobiography, especially when you know it’ll take years upon years upon years upon years. That’s what it was like in the first months I started. I knew it well. Very well. By the year after it started, I could tell even more so. Death was the state of the mind, not of deathfulness, but of the mind dying toward the next, always eliminated by time, by itself, by its own need to press on and never find fulfillment, the very answer lying in that however, which I would soon come to discover the farther I went, the longer I drove myself into each entry, the more precise my words became, and the more distance and area I actually uncovered and covered. I became. Not as a fact of autobiography, but as a wonder. To iconify myself is to declare my victory over death, because death is now maximally embedded in my very skin even as I’ve already integrated so much, the very integration driven through deathery and its maximal embedment. I became. I did. I send myself into. The website and the three color blocks I mentioned are the Nothing I mentioned earlier, as in “they somehow had everything they needed and yet ‘nothing’ when you compare it to the blockage that the spaces I see now have.”

Nothing is the monolith ever-updating itself across its entire skin. Never in friction with itself because friction is baked into its self-wiping windshield.

Like a human being a single unit because it solves muck with functions like bowel movement and consuming nourishment, “nothing” is gained, leading into self-possession. Where there’s nothing left. A Minecraft wake-up cow moo in the plains after creating a new world and loading in.

I’ve become.

In mellow peach, camo green, and soft lavender.

Highly adaptive and reconstructive (specifically taking muscle repair here as an analogy, not reconstructing the same building, but post–World War 2 reconstruction, giving—easily—way to improved, strategic zoning).

Self-Responses

How can the author hold so many different things all at once?

It doesn’t feel like they’re just dying. They’re associating so widely and so much as well. So something sticks or stays. Why can someone operate on freedom and feel it truly even while holding so many different things all at once that they can just integrate into their own writings associatively?

So it’s cognitive now, not memory-based. The author is not separate from these associations.

Return to First Person

I close my eyes, and I am there.

I frolic and playfully dance. I ran ‘round, a laughing grin on my face.

Something in me, about me, sticks. I have been, I was, I did it all, these things, I became, I’ve become. Sat down, saw it all, through, head, mind, in shape of all of it, something.

Me.

[Nothing]!

Intellectual nimbleness.

By the time I realized, I’ve gone and lay down and fallen asleep. It feels like sleeping beside my mother in the bus when I was growing up and traveling all the time. But it’s just me now, yet I feel it. This safety, comfort, security. It’s nothing like I’ve ever known. Something for oneself.

25 minutes later:

I stopped identifying with this entry; though the three color blocks as icon remain, but that’s because this entry was set for it anyway, like all previous entries. I just never explicitly mentioned the reality that it is that fast. All of it is basically something I said. (Ironically, this “25 minutes later” part makes me identify with this entry again since the whole of the entry encompasses this addendum, but effectively, I have stopped identifying with the entry without it even as they are inextricable and one now.) It’d be great if this was me doing ju-justu and just saying this and casting a magic spell of “dis-identifying!” But no, no, all I had to do was go out there, listen to some soundtrack, and immediately, everything hit me like a truck. I saw it, everything. I could see the absence, the gap, the thing that is not me that is this entry. “This is no longer me” is not a statement. It was a feeling that inundated me instantly the moment that soundtrack played and my mind whirred and everything hit me again like revelation. That’s… my life. I experience it like that. Not a snap of a finger. No, I go about not thinking anything except what I just already decided, then it happens—

See? I’m not letting go of anything. It slides off. I never stop “identifying with something” the way one smashes their head against the wall trying to stop the headaches or remove the flashbacks. No, no. I turn around and 500 million years pass, but to me, I just turned around, and now, I’m here. Apparently . . .

Huh?

Strangle and Standard (June 3, 2026)

It’s the second time I went and did a physical note-taking session unplanned. Both around 3 hours, the last time 3 days ago and lasting 3 hours and 35 minutes, today lasting 2 hours and 58 minutes. It really is difficult when you’re doing it all of a sudden, yet it’s also somehow easier now because I’m starting to identify with it as a genuine source of growth, when for the longest time, physical note-taking just seemed so inefficient.

What keeps circling my head when I did today was that it reinforced what I have already been pursuing for a while now. To deprive myself of that vital force, that thing that would’ve had me returning to an iconification victory that didn’t need any more flattering and leering-at, like lip service, or choir-preaching.

Mellow peach, camo green, and soft lavender, that color-block triad accompanying my iconification, doesn’t need me hosting and accommodating it any more than it already accommodates itself as a realization (actualization, victory, triumph, something undoable, final figure, “undeniable me”).

My only goal is now that I have the equivalent of a Roman banner, I must make use of this newfound coherence and expand the frontier as far and wide as possible, knowing I am the hinterlands forming the heart of the city, the erosion I undergo way out here in the middle of bumfuck nowhere bleeding (into that) form. The constitution states “frontier, erosion, and such,” so no time to dilly-dally at the banners back in downtown Capital. The hinterlands form the city center, their food and resources its lifeblood.

In other words, now I have that iconification-level self-security, time to grind the icon-returning vital force down where the growth rate is maxed-out. My greatest arrogance is that I don’t know what I’m doing, to sit in that intense dissonance, to feel it out like one feels out one’s home of twenty years, as if this is a place to be, every time this being the place to be, owning even that, not like carrying a cross, but like clenching a baby’s head in your fist and making threats in the middle of a cafe, everyone crying, you crying, the entire world in this utterly desperate moment, holding hostage. This is you, and ME, AND THE WORLD! Hold your baby head self hostage, and clutch hostageity. One’s own hand from behind over one’s own head. Self-possession. Do to yourself what Chigurh did to the deputy sheriff at the beginning of No Country For Old Men. Scrambling, desperate, wheezing, veins popping in your face as you jerk your feet trying to get some leg room to breathe, doing everything in your power to get a glimpse of life amid the blots of darkness threatening to swallow you whole and turn your world off. Never let yourself go. They’re not a childhood friend you had to say goodbye to one day. They’re the only thing tethering you to this world, to all of this. Keep strangling. Spill your blood on the color-triadic standard.

Essentially, I’m the empire I’m fighting and dying in the encroached hinterlands for. The icon is only as valid as it isn’t just an icon, but the constitution of all of hinterland activity bleeding into the heart. Yet this isn’t a “the icon will become invalid.” It is undoable because you can’t undo the Roman Empire, not as a historical precedent, not even as haunting, but as activity. You can’t reverse the details that bled (into) the Empire’s form. The icon isn’t where it began, and it isn’t where it ends. I’ve iconified myself not as the icon, but as activity. The victory is undoable because activity is undoable, even as the icon is just three colors. Because activity cannot be undone, the icon cannot be undone. So when I said I iconified myself, I’ve damned (not in a bad way, but in the most conclusive manner) myself explicitly, not by declaration, but by activity. With the iconifying, it’s not just gesturing at activity, which by themselves are not undoable in the sense of an icon. It’s undoable iconification. It’s why those colors carry weight separate from activity even as they are inextricable as “icon” and yet, like a standard, carryable as “icon,” not as current activity.

Blue-collar imperial, each word given the full pigeon pea peeling experience, only as much as you are in every crutchless strangling moment, a banner not the inspiration for falling asleep, counted by dirt-soaked bludgeoning punch rather. “The god in the stone.”

The hardest part about this is that I can’t self-sabotage. Proactive self-destruction is easy. Doing nothing and letting passivity kill you is also easy. But what’s not easy is being there, on the verge of the highest sincerity and the highest betrayal, never letting go of the capacity to put in all you are, have, and trust. You have to believe and never to let go, always holding yourself, never departing from it. That is the cost of self-possession, but that’s not a cost. That’s what it feels like to be alive. Crying, crying hard, and feeling your way through things, not around it, not against it, but in the way one knows what one is in the midst of a great reckoning and destabilization—what one has to do. To let the day end, to let this emotion express itself fully, to break into oneself, to form oneself into it like embedment. Excruciate (the active verb; do it!). If you’re going to die, don’t wait for it. Cry simultaneously. If a scream is life, then breathe it out, until your lungs are fully emptied and wasted and your voice is gone. Deeply live

What’s between you and death?

I have nothing: I have everything.

The icon declares godhood by dirt hinterlands. Minecraft is everything everyone has done and experienced in it. The sandbox is infinite. A single block leads the way back to Rome. It’s not a detached sky god looming silently for millennia. Each dirt gains validity in godhood.

I am god by that dirt house I made with my siblings that one time fourteen years ago. I don’t need to prove myself today. I am an expression of proof, not the other way around. No one can unprove (deny!) me. The strangler was always the boy playing Minecraft. The way I place a block with the fullness of the action is the same way I write these words. While before I may have said that “I am the fullness of my being,” I am more precisely the being of my fullness. The being formed out of a lived life. Strangling is very much the person playing Minecraft.

Self-Responses

So the physical note-taking is the same cognition as the one playing Minecraft?

But how? this kind of writing is fundamentally different from constructing a house in Minecraft? Or is the author saying both are the same act as feeding fullness and then iconification?

So the author just put into words the proof. They expressed the proof. That is what writing does. The life was already there by the block placing. And even in that, there was proof expressing.

But cognitively still, there is such an immense difference between the kind and level of writing the author is doing vs. something like just placing a bunch of blocks. I don’t think anyone can deny the specialty of rigor that writing has demonstrated for the author, and that is a kind of proving and expressing that cannot be retroactively premeditated by placing blocks alone. How can one be god by the block except by retroactive iconification? In that case, activity remains congruent and true, and the iconification remains subsequent. They are not god by the blocks directly, but by the statement that they are god by the blocks.

Writing is the person counting the votes.

Self-Responses (2)

But writing is life itself. It doesn’t just come out of a life. They’re not just a vote-counter. They’re the empire of the foot soldiers.

God is the standard on which the blood spills. The way the red and black bane was brought to the streets. I am the standard on which my blood spills.

Return to First Person

Writing is me designing the standard. The 4.6 million words in the 1,065-days-old autobiography-journal. The 426-days-old website containing a conclusive capsule of myself. The summated. The “inner world—an infinite of oneself as one is, in the world.” The self-iconification in mellow peach, camo green, and soft lavender. That’s the standard. The blood has spilled all my life. I’ve retroactively (gone back in time to) put the standard where they’d land, catching them (like how Eren, while with Zeke, used the Attack Titan and got his father, Grisha, to kill the the Reiss royal family, which makes it both retroactive and retrocausal) when originally, they fell to “wickedness” and “evil”—the days of Noah, when the earth was exceedingly wicked, enough to make God say: “…for I regret that I have made them.” Not necessarily negative, but exceedingly chaotic and diffuse so as to be analogous to those days of evil.

I am the outer space under which the earth is built. In other words, outer space is the retroactive justification for the earth being the earth rather than just the world from the perspective of the ground as opposed to from outer space (overview effect). The earth is me first. I’m outer space as much as the earth as being built, but to gain the earth, I have to be outer space. Sci-fi doesn’t erase the micro-perspective. It validates it through “that’s earth”: the named earth is the icon.

Somethingness (June 4, 2026)

I wrote yesterday about how “un-something” my novel Mark from more than two years ago was, especially when recalling how I converted it into several Minecraft books in that vacuum-pumped library map and book items, but after realizing that I can’t immediately say the same for my current writings when I was just about to write how things have changed, the idea of “vacuum pumping” became even more critical.

I even said that Mark performs “vocabulariness.” However, it is not that Mark, as itself, was necessarily any more “vocabularied” than my current writings. In fact, one could even say that it serves as a crucial synthesis feedback agent to which I have pointed and can continue to point and complicate as this gigantic anchor point sparking endless conversations and hyperspecific nuances you wouldn’t find enacted and etched elsewhere all together in one “monograph.” Yes, it was just a bunch of words. Someone staying in a room and hinging on “a vocabulary he had internalized from various internet content such as manga, anime, and Royalroad web novels, his first autobiographical material, his own Google Docs fiction experimentations, and his formative preoccupations as frontier.” But even if one could argue I have a lot more surface area for what-it-is-nots to create my “somethings” (in terms of their “somethingness”), it is not as if Mark itself isn’t itself a giant seminal surface-area (GSSA)—”a total surface area”—itself. The un-somethingness that I attributed to Mark is about self-containment, and I judged it for being helpless against an isolated, context-free textbox (which I called a “vacuum pump,” the list of such including “default self” will-to-powering fiction and making Youtube videos), even as it is crucial within my overall “empire” encompassing my main personal website, my autobiography-journal, and all of my other writings like the rest of my fiction works. But somethingness isn’t itself a vacuum. The empire, this pressure chamber I’ve created, is the perfect room for utter somethingness because of what it has rigorously—even retroactively/retrocausally (tossing the imperial banner standard to catch wherever the blood spilled would have just fallen diffusely and chaotically—blood on the standard), where own-writing micro-reading, real-life observational notes, and linguistic strip-mining of new literary material that keep the chamber maximally chaotic and “somethinging”—”somethinged.”

I judged somethingness by self-containment rather than by pressure chamber initially.

The opposite is actually true. Without the empire, instead of evolving toward somethingness in that textbox, I’m actually depriving it of somethingness.

The speechlessness in front of that textbox is just aversion to voodoo imprecise magical statements. It becomes closer to performing hello or listing facts, numbers, and labels.

The only way it can truly be done is that it starts with a question that kickstarts a whole new precision based on throwing someone out into the jungle (thrownness):

[Protagonist First Name] stood in the middle of a large plain. What did it mean to be?

It’s closer to a simulation under jungle conditions, parameters, and all than somethingness by self-contained “default self.” It becomes its own Mark in the way of a GSSA itself, and that feeds back into the pressure chamber, the empire. It’s functionally analogous to me staying at a new cafe and re-discovering myself through ego death (e.g., a three-hour physical linguistic strip-mining session of two books where I’m deleted from existence into flow-state function) followed by ego renewal (recovery, reset, consolidation)—new standpoints, bases for self-being, imperial–standard-bearing hinterland-footman dirt-under-the-nails.

If I called Mark vocabularied (in some informal way), I must still recognize it is the quintessential bunch of words that actually progresses somethingness. It is what my journal entries are. It’s why I have gotten this far into bunches of words outwardly recursing (rather than the inward “recursion” we associate with the motion—which goes from directory to sub-folders to sub-sub-folders and so on, rather than the other way around) into the recent “I’ve iconified myself”—the forest by the outward recursion of bunches of trees, each somethinged in chambered pressure toward Linnaeus naturalist taxonomizing. It’s not about reality. It’s about surface area. Sure, it is just a bunch of words, but these words advance ecology, forestry, and dendrology and, by extension, reality-functioning-and-advancing. It is that reality which we must keep, not conditions alone. Travel becomes a 19th century (that industrial era) naturalist (that circulating body of literature) colonial (that apparatus) travelogue (that separate circulating body of literature) by advancement.

Whenever it feels like nothing is new, it is not that that is actually the ultimate case. It’s that the conditions and parameters have become invisible. Even micro-reading (multiplying through linguistic strip-mining, which is effectively “bunch-of-wording” where you accelerate/extremify it as a bunch of words as syntax, words, and all) one’s own writings creates new surface area, more jungle, more chaos, more pressure, more death (ego death) and renewal, more thrownnesses, more somethinging. Jungle—when working outward-to-inward (from “jungle” to conditions and surface area, rather than the other way around), as both label and tangle (the same thing)—is a dead end. Conditions (simulations, parameters) are not. Advancement (literature, bunches of words, surface area) is not. It’s not just micro-reading. You can simulate (i.e., condition [active verb], kill or put through [ego] death, throw into a jungle) and expand literature (put words together) anyhow.

Required Reading & Bud-Nipping: The Fool (June 4, 2026)

Skimming even just the first paragraphs of my novel Mark from more than 2 years ago is enough to hit me with just how much it does by itself on its own without anything else really. It fulfills something that is its own whole concern, analogous to my recent published journal entries. It’s impossible to deny its place. It feels like looking at Papa. My entries have depended on it crucially the way one relies on a still-unreplaced, still very useful incumbent standard work like Leonard W. King’s A History of Sumer and Akkad was then. It’s just my work, not an internet-wide platform like Roblox, yet functionally, they’re both foundational—sort of like coding as a childhood skill all the way up to adulthood as a web developer. Both are functional not only formatively, but irreplaceably in daily use. It’s a book of the Bible. I never go without it. It’s required reading. I don’t mean this for others getting to know me. I mean this for myself in a structural sense. It is a Bible book of myself. It’s not that it says “Here’s who I am” and “here’s a list of points” like structure. It’s rather like rain to a world. Matthew, my longest novel, is another. (Yeah, their titles match actual Bible books, which works for my point here coincidentally.)

But are there works that I spent a ton of time making but are not structurally foundational? I don’t think so. It’s just that long novels are like epoch-making and -defining monographs, which makes it easier to point at with just a single word (their titles). It’s very much about ease and just how much was Jesus’d (“took all our sins”) into a single work.

It’s why I’m interested in what my next fiction novel will be and do seminally as a highly cited artifact within my corpus, since the day-to-day of journaling, while often synthesizing into or written on a single “subject” like a monograph, is invisible nipping in the bud (i.e., mid-corrections, preventative, cancelling, reacting, responding—proactive destruction, the debris of which is multipled control surface area), like shadow work—clumping, bunching, tweening, ironing, edge-casing, rough-edge-smoothing, neologizing, hyper-associating, analogizing, discretizing, integrating, stipulating, etc.—than name-droppable.

My most recent novel was George, and my concern about it is that it was primarily a work of rigor the way everything post-Matthew was. It is a culmination of all of that time spent contending with conventions and criticisms of style as well as what posture to take while writing. The posture I took while writing Matthew was stylistic and protagonistic solipsism enacting on its setting, while that with George was objective, cinematic, observational, non-hierarchical, hyper-naturalistic, hyper-realist, and hyper-sensory. The problem of the latter is it serves less like a book and more like a giant journal entry in the sense of a rigorous “nip-in-the-bud” response, which sounds counterintuitive. It’s much closer to the ego death of me spending three hours straight to strip-mine linguistically two physical books with a pencil, sharpener, notebook, and bookmarks. It’s observational discovery. I literally relied on actual naturalistic observational notes—as well as impressionisms, hyperspecifics, micro-sensations, micro-textures, micro-gestures, and micro-actions as a confluence of book strip-mining, “what’s the word for [very specific description]” AI prompts, and infinitely bud-nipped rendering of imagination—during its writing for a lot of the scenes. I really did actually create an original work, but it serves much more like a plus-size clump. It still feels like I was collecting material. The whole thing is a bunch of material. None of it feels processed beyond putting it all into words (rendering). It’s not bad as it is though. A big resource—like my swipe file that contains all my linguistically strip-mined words—is extremely useful. It’s like a tool—which, in this case, is description—that never gets used, so yes, it’s basically an overarching (the “novel” here being the binding agent) swipe file of resource descriptions, like an interpretation of a classical composition. It’s not saying anything new or even beginning to do so. While it is set in fantasy with goblins, adventurers, and dungeons, it has characteristically been described as:

• “parenthood,”
• “found family,”
• “blue-collar,”
• “hurry up and wait,”
• “boots-on-the-ground,”
• “war correspondence,” and
• “war memoir.”

It’s kinda just performing ability more than anything. The themes are valid, but set dressing like for a school test where isolating technical skill requires eliminating creativity and originality (CnO) outside of the sentence level (in which case CnO serve the “competent” sentence).

In other words, in George—I never saw Lord of the Mysteries’s The Fool. It wrote the descriptions, but not the story beyond set dressing for the reason of demonstrating an overarching body of the finest “bud-nipped” sentences.

While there was a meta–The Fool behind George in the sense of my own personal, authorial, meta-technical, writerly, and philosophical reasons, the work itself was The Fool–less. Of course, one could argue that that’s the point, and very well, it is the point. It is useful, valid, and all. But moving forward, given George as “that’s the point,” I set off toward “Not George.” There needs to be an imperial standard on which the blood spills again, but enacted inside the fiction writing itself, not meta.

To make new required readings, it first has to be technically my own—i.e., for stylistic effect at the sentence level. Second, it needs to put into existence my framework (whys, hows, definitions, priorities, arguments, worldview, “causality,” “operating logic”), then—thirdly—my “driving force.” Then all of this at once as one Fang Yuan (no gap between doing and being; “indivisible”) gesture. The Fool above all else.

…moves under its own logic [driving force].

“For stylistic effect” at the sentence level can never exist without a framework, and it can never be airtight without driving force. Without this, it will be competence performance within the self-contained vacuum of each single sentence, which isn’t “for stylistic effect” and would be the opposite of rigor because rigor doesn’t shoot a much faster and much more effective “competent” gun in a boxing fight. If the prose isn’t performing the protagonist’s story itself, then it isn’t “technical mastery.”

To clarify, George didn’t fail as a story. It succeeded actually. It performed exactly the story it wanted to tell. The problem is that that’s a very specific choice, not an effective sustainable default standard moving forward. It’s a statement, but in the way that it isn’t. I just don’t look at it because of this. It’s like a black hole for me. There’s just this big black emptiness—a no-no zone. As such, it is powerful, beautiful, and structurally foundational. My black-hole aversion to it is why it is so.

Sign and Will (June 5, 2026)

I have long considered my writings “incantations” to summon a self. A bunch of frenzied people dancing—heads going up and down—around a huge blazing campfire. God-summoning at the aged, weathered altar. That is what I principally meant by “god in the stone.” This is especially the case now because I’ve now iconified myself, figuratively and literally in a square image. It’s a real-life headshot of my full hair, head, and neck in color blocks of mellow peach (face), camo green (background), and soft lavender (shirt), along with the black hair.

…an idol of that ritual.

My full name’s become something like an institutionally pedigreed, front-lit channel letter sky sign, but daily-devotional like a home shrine or altar you visit every day. I’m doing daily devotions like when I was growing up homeschooled, but abiding in myself.

You might think I mean in a domineering way. But I find myself recalling the past, and that is the pedigree of which I speak, not in an egoistic manner the way one hits someone with a crowbar, but the way one goes on their knees and prays every day.

• Devout instead of self-justification.
• Meditating rather than “my will.”
• Tending to a garden and being surprised even while having been the caretaker the entire time, the same way one might smile knowingly when God works in mysterious, almost comedic ways.

It’s sort of the way you look at the naturalistic world around you. There’s a silence that speaks books upon books upon books, yet withholds everything in favor of momentary gesture, with the micro-things that imperceptibly collect and grow at your feet, the ever faintest sense of cloudy motion, and the world entirely stopped within arm’s reach.

This is not about leaning on an invisible pedigreed understanding or history and then having it do all the naturalistic, well-known and -assumed, and mysterious work. Becoming is the driving force for summoning, for the slighest hint that you might carry any manner of pedigree at all. It’s actualization in the active sense. So yes, I must say: “It is me.” Nothing’ll change that.

The emotionally heightened “I’m undeniable” only comes out when the “mysterious ways” actually works, when it is being worked in the now. That’s what incantations are. It’s not “a trash heap of he-said-she-said-they-said.” It’s a divine fist clenching “utterness” in a sea of smothering sand and dust and sending out sprays in the ruckus. It’s a side-of-the-head-slam.

Dominance is best demonstrated by a person taking their sweet time forgoing even the sensation of themselves, entering uninterrupted self-forgetting functional (SFF) flow-states and experiencing end-of-the-day SFF relief and satisfaction (not the sweet one of ego, but the invisible and blue-collar physical one of function) collapses. Arrogance gargles best when enabled by a God holding the knob. Self-possession is the possession of the self as doorknob. The will (external acting-upon) of the self, not the self of the will. Pure will (action, where self muck doesn’t play obstructive games) is pure arrogance. The epitome is not the epitome. It is the pure uninterrupted enactment/actual of it.

Brutalist Buildings in Sporadic Rains (June 6, 2026)

Disintegration is always being threatened on me. I think that’s the tension that integration needs, however, strangely.

Two and a half years ago, the reason that I wrote my sociological fiction novel Antipolo is that at that time, I was already about four months into my autobiography and needed analytical philosophical abstraction—specifically the use of the laborer (“the everyday laborer who wanted to return home and procure a fresh drink”) and the environment (“beast”), which, I wrote, “would always make the man”—as a means of dealing with the masses of hyperspecifics and hyper-vivid and -sensory flashbacks (good, bad, ambivalent, whatever of a lived life) that overwhelmed me.

While I today may use:

• metaphorical and analogical collision
• somatic descriptions as epistemological proof
• circling apophasis
• form enacting function and content
• dissonance-holding
• neologisms
• macro-microscopic oscillation
• self-dialectical recursive (retroactive) feedback and mid-correction loops
• acknowledging the function of cobbling together a “bunch of words” (e.g., 2,000 words) without identifying with it (not as a deliberate act, but similar to Minecraft being a mere vessel for the force moving through it even as one was there presently but only as much as one’s spirit vivified the avatar and the blocks one continually took the time to gather the resources of, craft, and then place, with storage into inventories and chest), and even cleaning out the muck this “bunch” has sedimented

…the motion and gesture have always been the same. The capacities of verbal integration (words and syntax) have just increased—very technical, like compression optimizations.

I was essentially putting it all into my own words, and what’s interesting about this is that even when I’m never one hundred percent deliberate, there’s always so much wealth to get from just a bunch of words long after the first vision in my head translated them into words. It’s why I still rely on Antipolo, my psychological villain action-paced novel Mark, and my other novels, because meaning is not generated on a whim. It is generated rather on a bunch of words, and bunch of words are endlessly whimsical. I find new connections because the novels are not constructions in a vacuum. They’re constructions mid-air, and in the air, a lot of things flow, from long before, and now long after so many things are gone—ancient and new winds indifferentiated in that extremely complex pile or “atmos-” and “-sphere.”

It’s why I never feel truly settled when settled. I am settled right after a long day of battling the rain like a child wages war against it in shock and awe. I will demand from its brightest destinies! I will feel the clammy sweat bursting into me like tips of flesh-wringing spears. I will kill the rain!

Before writing this passage, I was being threatened on with disintegration, and it is not that I am not still now. But the difference between the army always training and that which has grown complacent is a Grand Line level. The brutalist building (BB) is not dead. The rain vivifies it (proves—states, explicates, and treats the aliveness, or lived-inness, re-erasability, and present criticality, of—its shelter through sheer whim, relentlessness, and flood threat), and it vivifies the rain (proves its firepower through sheer defenses and wall thickness).

Aliveness. I see beauty like an army always training, a child extending his hand up toward the onslaught of raindrops, like a machine optimizing its compression algorithms, like a BB in sporadic rain—like a tinkerer manufacturing book-absorbing artifacts inside a midden-library, like someone constructing mid-air in the hyper-complex atmosphere and finding my Minecraft base continuously renewed by it in an infinite sea of rained-on, windswept, travel-grooved voxel land. The power shovel (machine) is still a muck-on-hand—the same gesture as the bare hand and the shovel, tackling still a kind of endless rained-on refuse.

It’s why even the old Roblox tycoon “empty” baseplate, like Salad Fingers’ endless flat land, is still palimpsestic and full to bursting. It’s a rain’s BB. So are the following.

List of BBs:

• Royal road—green endless forward forest
• Minecraft’s naturalistic, moldable world
• Dungeon skeleton RPG mechanics: story outline—an empty white draft grid paper–style progression
• Hyperspecifics stationery—among wood-and-white-metal desks and chairs and shared white-and-green uniforms, parti-brown hair, and light skin—in a classroom overlooking a brutalist building attached to a continuous wall in the middle of an ongoing rain (where “ugh, that thing looks even creepier in the rain”)
  • from Episode 1 of the Webtoon Daytime in the Bunker (though without the stationery)

The The Tide Panel (June 9 – 10, 2026)

I was looking through a 19-day timelapse of screenshots (one screenshot of my screen per 15 seconds if I recall correctly) from almost 3 years ago, and I realized just how little I’ve grown even if I’ve grown a lot.

• I’m still bad at art. I guess I didn’t really continue it since then.
• I’ve grown so much as a writer, but at the same time, have I? I’m much better as a writer now, but there are so many things I haven’t really done. Or maybe that’s just me hedging. But it is true. I may have written millions of words since that first day of that timelapse, which is actually when I started writing my autobiography (about the exact time caught on timelapse).
• I still don’t know what studying is. I know I had to write a lot before I started absorbing outside information, and that’s what happened. Nowadays, I’ve been taking notes while reading. But even if I may associate and integrate a lot in my writings, I have no idea.

I guess I never truly studied for the sake of studying even then. Even now, the only reason that I study anything is to get better as a writer. It’s all technical, all vocabulary. You might think, “How is studying somehow related to writing?” Well, it’s all about making connections. Even things you’d read in a medical text can help you make connections better, whether explicitly via figure or speech, or just through a better understanding of structures, systems, and all that, which naturally leads to better writing and thinking.

It’s not that the standard rises with me. It’s that in reality, I’ve barely budged from where I am in terms of the general scope of what I do on the fundamental level. I was doing an absolute comparison, and I realize that the desktop screenshot timelapse looks fundamentally similar in practice—given that it literally shows me writing in a text editor, scrolling through PDFs and digitized academic texts, looking through Youtube videos, and searching terms and reading WIkipedia articles, among other consistencies—when it comes to what I do and improve on, things I’m ambivalent in, and the careful methodological (practical) meaning-making (not about meaning, but about making sense of something in a practical sense, or operationalizing) that comes even from that.

When it comes to my writing, naturally, I’ve gotten a lot better at clumping together disparate impressions and data dumps that serve as “unrefined ore.” There’s a lot of “metabolizing, synthesizing, and architecting” going on and even “operationalizing” given that I turn whole associative structures into a single univeralized-even-while-hyper-specific image like “brutalist building in sporadic rain” with the help of metaphorical and analogical collisions to make the entire convergence of associations vanish. It’s a total mathematical elimination of the whole thing, which makes for super-simplified mastery, a power shovel, a built shelter, a place to “stand inside and watch the rain fall.”

It’s hard to criticize someone who doesn’t even know what they’re saying or doesn’t know how to make themselves criticizable by themselves. I’ve gotten a lot better at moving from an impressionistic fog to someone who squeezes as much meaning, association, hyperspecifics, and soul into one single entry and then lets it loose into being not-me at all, which makes for accelerated improvement. The improver improves at improving.

So I feel like I’m only still nearing a threshold of going from fog or rubber to clingable, damageable rock face. That’s why it makes sense that the timelapse shows how little I’ve moved. I’ve been too busy making myself visible in text so that when I move, my shins get fucking destroyed. It’s easy to fake understanding by just gliding across text. But when you’re there in the earth, in the battlefield, in the muck, in the direct line of fire, everything becomes solvable, which is critical for growth. I’m in the pre-growth phase. This is all about making myself as hittable as possible—turning myself into a smashable target.

I’ve barely budged, but I’m sculpting my forms (bodyparts). I started with generalizable impressions, data-dump hyperspecifics, and very high-level abstractions. But I’ve gone so far into making myself damageable that you can see so much more of the flesh I didn’t have before. The fact I’ve only recently written a full-fledged 30,000 uninterrupted words of extreme “show, don’t tell” (somatic hyper-sensory hyper-realism) in a sprawling but intensely compressed, rooted, and hyper-grounded fiction story 19 days ago shows that I’m barely damageable, even as I’ve written millions of words. To clarify, the end point of writing isn’t “extreme ‘show, don’t tell.’” An argument about pollution isn’t an argument about the way sweat sticks to your skin. But it does point at the reality that I’m still concretizing everything. Singular-imagery compression, precise vocabulary, woven hyperspecifics (in contrast with signalling terms borrowed for the mere effect of social performance rather than anything damageable and thus effectively visceral), metaphors, analogies, and all such things are crucial for such concretization, not just somatic sensory language. This is not self-criticism so much as showing just how far I’ve yet to come and how much I had to work myself into my limitations before I got into something much more grippable and thus more flesh-wringingly effective.

I’m turning from a baby playing with machine guns (terms that have so much value but unmastered and signally borrowed merely for play rather than anything truly demonstrated, deliberate, and sprawlingly and comprehensively justified) into something that has an imperial grip.

The fog is not necessary so much as evidence of just how much it takes even to begin to make oneself smackable. Neither overly outsider-art poetic or generically crowd-and-market-following-and-imitating. Both are problematically unjudgeable. You have to step outside necessarily, outside of signalling group outrage among flags, labels, and colors and outside of the isolated locked-in low-surface-area solipsistic room. Neologisms are a way for me to avoid the feeling of leaning on the literary, philosophical, intellectual pedigree (prestige) of terms such as “hyper-capitalism,” “the government,” “productivity,” “the status quo,” “slavery,” “narcissism” (in the conventional way it is used), “DSM-V,” and “Mark Fisher.” Using my own words is not just more precise. They make me accountable the way an individual stands before God and cannot say “I was just doing what I had to do!” or “I did everything they told me to!” or “I trusted them!” or all those things I used to say. There’s no “had.” “There’s no “told.” There’s no “trust.” If I die, I can’t even say I was a monster, because that’s me leaning onto that word being used in all the ways to justify someone, as if “monster” is the word before the individual themselves rather than the individual being the one who did all those shit, as if “evil” orchestrates behind me. Let me die not as a monster, but as myself, in all the ways one might describe me. Even “death” isn’t an excuse. There’s no “let me die” so much as “I am.”

This is why I can write and improve much more quickly than before. The more smackable you are, the more you can smack yourself.

I can’t even use my sweat as an excuse to justify me. Just because my right leg cramped and I had to limp a little to get to my headphones that was hanging on the stair railing doesn’t mean I’m somehow God in the flesh. Of course, the body is the temple for prayer, creativity, and analytical prowess. But it’s just a body. It’s not going to do any more for me than me yapping my way into heavenly oblivion and void. It’s as nonsensical as Alice was when she drank the “drink me” potion. In the end, I am as grounded as I am ungrounded. “Extreme ‘show, don’t tell’” doesn’t validate a life any more than someone saying “‘SENNA IS A USELESS CHAMP’ myhaircut” in Twitch chat. Ultimately, sweat or being from a developing country is not its own pedigree or prestige.

To be gripped is paradoxically to be its own kind of invulnerability that the fog could never encompass, since grippability means refinability in the way that the fog could never be criticized for and thus never find any kind of true stable fleet of foot the way invincible strength stamps. My grippability is my indestructibility, like the way hair and the rainforest keep falling and regrowing amid the natural disturbances, the way a Minecraft world still feels alive and can regrow, replenish, and re-communalize boundlessly and limitlessly even after falling to time for an arctically frozen period (if you want to play in a world from an older Minecraft version, that is, or you could just use the latest version on it, which is fine as well).

So rather than being sweaty or relatively poorer, I am my own pedigree and prestige. This is probably the loudest level of solipsism, the one that’s exposed to all of the exposures, but rather than dying to them or falling away into imitation or peer pressure, I simply… become, the way one self-form-sculpts. I am definitely in the flesh, but rather than God being in flesh, I am God in me. I slide off myself the way I excruciate myself to rock-facing. Everything is I-am the way they’re all just a bunch of words as well as places I’ve viscerally been, remnants not just of my flesh (which is irrelevant in itself as “physical change, physical experience, doesn’t inherently mean anything” even), but crucially of me. I am as much operationalization as I am impression. I am as much pre-growth (concretization, or making oneself smackable or damageable) as I am un-pre-growth (imperial [grip] assumption). I will probably never truly grow the way one leaves pre-growth, always pre-growing. Instead, I will be God of me, the way a (non-chambered) solipsist walks through the concrete world, experiences a sweaty body, sees Twitch chat bathos, reads all manner of philosophical terminological edifices, and such-such—and still, from the fullness of him, or him of their fullness, actually doesn’t bat an eye. If there is no death as orchestrator or excuse, I don’t need to be accountable to it, nor do I need to be it. If there is only “I am,” then without excuses or justifications from outside, I crutch myself.

Nothing external made me who I am etiologically in a way that’s applicable to everyone else, I am, the way I could only be. I am the answer, the solution, the very reason of all of that value and meaning, the making of it all. I am the orchestrator. I am behind myself. I am my crowd, my market, my flag, my label, my color, my room, my street, my neighborhood, my barangay, my city, my region, my major island group, my country, my continent, my world, my planetary system, my galaxy, my galaxy group, my supercluster, my cosmic web, my universe. I trust myself. I told myself to. I am my obligation. I stand before Myself. I am my effectiveness. I am my sculpting. I am my forms (bodyparts). I am my operationalization. I am my pollution and my sweat. I am my fog and my rock face. I am my standard. I am my reality. I am my meaning. I am my practicality. I am my absolute comparison. I am my foundation. I am my scope. I am my body, flesh, edifice, concrete, fullness, account, bunch of words, grippability, indestructibility, Minecraft, heavenly oblivion and void, potion, limping, smacking, myself, monster (not “a”, but “my”), term, temple, individual, group, poetry, imitation, evidence, baby, machine guns, sprawl, comprehensiveness, justice, demonstration, deliberation, play, borrowing, mastery, imperial grip, groundedness, rootedness, compression, intensity, vocabulary, hyperspecifics, damage, visceral, metaphor, analogy, criticism, limitation, work, abstraction, budge, muck, direct line of fire, earth, battlefield, solvability, criticality, phase, hittability, target, turning-myself, rubber, entry, looseness, not-me, accelerated improvement, “by themselves,” ore, metabolization, synthesis, architecting, convergence, vanishing, mathematical elimination, super-simplification, power shovel, built shelter, place, methodology, ambivalence, consistency, technicality, “better,” absorption, poverty, etiology, application and applicability, external, assumption, definition, dictionary, connection, speech, structure, system, writing, thinking, studying, association, integration, idea, autobiography, words, hedging, art, growth, screenshots, timelapse, 19 days.

I don’t face death with a smile on my face. I don’t face it at all. I face myself. I am my own death, my own smile, my own face, my own facing, my own myself, my own donts, my own dos, my own withs, my own ons, my own mys, my own its, my own alls, my own ams, my own owns, my own own owns.

Let me cry the way a person knows themselves and the fullness that they are. Let me laugh the same way. Let me be. Let me giggle. Let me whoop and scat when the refreshing shower hits my hot sweaty body. Let me feel it all. Let me write. Let me grin. Let me express myself in a bunch of words. Let me reach out into the darkness and clutch back slimy muck and gore. I try, I rend, I scritch in my throat. A kaboom of everything spilling out my throat in blaring wails. You will not deny me. I possess myself ^over _you. I killed (i.e., overthrew, coup d’état, absorbed) everything and everyone to get here (the “I am” becoming). You won’t be different (speaking to “myself” too).

14 minutes and 30 seconds later:

A daddy long-legs crawled down the white-painted wall to my left.

I still don’t know where arrogance is. When The Fool will even begin for me. If it will.

You’re right. I’m all this (my this, my that). I’m everything. I’ve put it together. I’ve consolidated a lot. I’ve taken that time. Even as there’s so much I haven’t even begun to mention explicitly and in comprehensive detail. I don’t know.

I’m looking around.

I like watching Minecraft Civilization Simulation Youtube videos, like those by the channel “ish”. I was thinking to re-watch one from 3 years ago, titled “1000 Players Build MASSIVE Civilization in Minecraft.. But yeah, ha-ha.

I’m listening to this pretty cool atmospheric playlist on Youtube, titled “The City of the Gods｜2 Hours of Fear and Hunger Atmospheric Playlist”.

I was reading the system cultivation web novel The Innkeeper by lifesketcher a while ago. I was on Chapter 17 from what I recall.

I don’t know what going to the cafe will do to me. (It’s been 5 days since I went, and I don’t know when I’ll go again.) I really don’t know what it does to me. All I know is that I’m there, the way I am here. Not to mean I’m the same there and here, but I am regardless of place, even as I am wholly different in state when I’m there vs. here. It’s weird. It feels that way.

What’s my arrogance? (I’m looking for it.)

In my head, I keep asking what The Fool is, even mouthing and muttering the question. (I know the reference, but I’m referring to that specific neologism I made out of it.)

I’m mentally going through a list of what I think might be “arrogance”: Worm, Overgeared (Shin Youngwoo, who is also Grid or God Grid), The Legendary Mechanic (Han Xiao), Primal Hunter (Jake Thayne), Reverend Insanity (Fang Yuan), Lord of the Mysteries (Zhou Mingrui, who is also Klein Moretti and The Fool), Everybody Loves Large Chests (Boxxy T. Morningwood, who is also Sandman and Keira Morgana)… Nothing. Nothing’s hitting. I have continued to go back to my own novels, specifically Matthew, Peter, Mark. They seem to have that arrogance I’m looking for. (Maybe I retroactively characterized the former web novels with it after establishing it in-house with myself during the writing of these novels of mine.)

What is arrogance?

Epistemological conviction?

Hard to say. I can point out so many counterreasons.

I have never been able to “uplift” that. Get that arrogance I had then, I mean.

Where is it?

I can feel the plainness of myself.

Kitkat is meowing and yowling in the second-floor hallway outside my closed door. We haven’t gotten him neutered yet.

My room’s blackout muted-sky-blue curtain is damaged. It looks like my crazed glasses, but much worse and even decorative-looking.

The pink towel is hanging on the left lower handle (the one for leg raises) of the forearm-pad-less pull-up stand. The office chair in between this stand and a blue sack of rice supports my plugged-in cafe laptop on its seat.

In front of me, behind and above my monitor, a stack of books sits on my desktop tower: an upside-down (UD), spine-out (SO) Radio Fifth Grade by Gordon Korman, a UD, SO Silent to the Bone by E. L. Konigsburg, a right-side-up (RSU), spine-in (SI) Make No Bones by Aaron Elkins, a RSU, SO The Cat Who Played Post Office by Lilian Jackson Braun, a UD, SO The Mona Lisa is Missing! by Ramsey Montgomery, a RSU, SO On Civil Disobedience and Non-Violence by Leo Tolstoy, a RSU, SO Issue 10 of PANK Magazine (Spring 2014), a RSU, SO Modern Clinical Psychiatry (10th ed.) by Lawrence C. Kolb and H. Keith Brodie, a RSU, SO Hatchet by Gary Paulsen, and a UD, SO Ramses: The Son of Light (Volume 1) by Christian Jacq. There was a Choice Stories for Children, but it fell onto this table some time ago.

Beside this, beside my keyboard, I have a yellow plastic cup with the dregs of mango shake; a floral-edged white Corelle plate with the dregs of spaghetti sauce, a metal fork, and some remains of tomato and noodles; floral-bellied white Corelle bowl with five strands of my hair, a lone metal spoon, and the remains of air-fried cut potato, bell pepper, and sweet potato and steamed red rice; a banana peel; a blue plaid handkerchief; and a Nestea collectible plastic water bottle/pitcher with a blue flip-top lid. While writing this, I went down to ask my mother if the red cut stuff in my spaghetti was jalapeño, and the person my mother hired to clean the house was there in the back at the sink. I brought up a mostly finished 370-gram Snackers Cheese Rings from the top of the refrigerator.

I’m looking over the stack of books to the right of my blue curtain through my closed room window at the high bluish windows of the edifice outside my window across the street. And I’m wondering if this is arrogance, not that I feel it and am wondering if this is it, but wondering even through the lack of feeling it.

Even if I’m tasting the cheese rings and it tastes yummy, I’m mentally asking, What does this taste like?

I rub my index finger and thumb on the blue handkerchief, removing the cheese.

I wipe the cheese off the knuckles of my right hand.

Sometimes, I say things that I don’t feel, because I know it to be true, since I’ve known that for a very long time now. The cafe is a place for when you can say things you never thought you’d ever say given all of the things around you that should make you not say them. Friction should make you not say those things, yet I still say them, because I know them to be exactly what to say at that moment, as I go through all the dialectical stuff of course, of thinking through like with an argument. It’s just a bunch of words.

Well, I say that I say things I don’t feel more so because after I say them, I quickly don’t really give a shit that I said them beyond knowing that there was no other way around it. Fifteen minutes later: not identifying simultaneous with the acknowledging.

Maybe, it’s because I’m shirtless and slumped against my backrest and can feel my belly folding on itself. But that isn’t at all diminishing what I’ve said. But yeah, I do wonder where The Fool is.

I’m thinking of playing League of Legends, specifically the game mode “ARAM Mayhem”, like I did yesterday as a way to get myself mindless enough to focus on the marathon of collecting data by watching at a very slow speed a timelapse video composed of 19 days of numberless display capture screenshots I had set up to happen every 15 seconds almost three years ago (but stopped) and pausing frame by frame to screenshot useful, revealing frames in VLC Media Player. I do marathons like this a lot. I know the feeling of just letting myself zone out and focus and then, every once in a while, breaking away just to come back, until it is over. I did it when I manually right-click-thumbnail-downloaded and inspect-element-title-grabbed every “pornographic manga” in my “Favorites” list in that one website yesterday.

I still don’t know what arrogance is.

This tastes very good! I think.

One hour and thirty-nine minutes have passed since this “14 minutes and 30 seconds later” section started.

I feel I’ve lost The Fool. Or maybe I’ve transcended it. I don’t completely know.

15 minutes later:

What is arrogance anyway? When did I start caring about it? But I look back again to Matthew, Mark, and Peter, and I immediately knowing that I don’t want to go without it (that). Driving force. Epitome. Desire. Arrogance. Rant. Utter. Ambition (in that style of “moving to subjugate”).

3 hours and 21 minutes later:

This is after:

• playing a LoL game of ARAM Mayhem with Mordekaiser
  • taking the items:
    • Guardian’s Orb, Boots, and Refillable Potion on start
    • Liandry’s Torment
    • Plated Steelcaps (against Draven)
    • Riftmaker
    • Heartsteel (against stacking-aggressive Leona with Heartsteel)
    • Winged Moonplate (to buy Dead Man’s Plate, or Force of Nature against Heimerdinger)
  • getting the augments:
    • Weighted Popoffs: stacking cooldown reduction on non–Ultimate abilities when hitting enemies with abilities
    • Bread and Butter: 100 ability haste, or cooldown reduction for my Q (“Obliterate”)
    • Tank Engine: stacking size and Max Health on takedown, losing stacks on death
    • Thread the Needle: gives 18 percent armor and magic penetration
  • winning late with three Heartsteel tanks, especially the two “go-in” Nautilus and Hecarim, ADR Ashe, and Karthus for infinite-range, guaranteed AP burst damage
• sleeping for almost 3 hours past four in the late afternoon
• waking up around 7 PM very slowly but not dizzily or groggily in the head, just muscularly heavy and cumbersome
• bringing my bowl, plate, banana peel, yellow cup, and water bottle down [gave the Snackers Cheese Rings to my youngest brother before I slept]
• putting on my lavender sports shirt downstairs while my mother was taking a shower
• using the bathroom after her and noticing how good I looked with my long, curly hair
• (because the sayote dish was finished earlier while I was asleep) frying two medium-sized eggs over-medium in a pan coated with vegetable oil and putting them and a scoop of steamed red rice in someone else’s finished smaller plate on the table with its metal spoon and fork—while waiting for the pan to heat up before I put anything, staring at the cracked-textured white-painted wooden cabinet door since I was still just-woke-up around this time and processing what I was going to do
• washing the bowl and its spoon, the plate and its fork, the yellow cup, the pan, and the silicone turner—scrubbing off the hardened red rice in the bowl, sticking the edge of the scrubbing pad in between the tines until they scoured the bottom edge from both front and back, and re-washing the pan more than once when I noticed there were still fried egg laces left
• bringing the smaller plate, the refilled water bottle, and a hand of ten smaller 9-centimeter Latundan bananas upstairs into my room.

1 hour and 12 minutes later, after writing these “this is after” details:

This might be the ramblings of some person who didn’t really integrate all that much. This entry is over 11 hours long now. Usually, entries this long come after I’ve already slept fully for the next day. But this is still the same day. This level of integration has probably never been done before, in this very-here-in-the-present same-day way.

The Fool, or whatever I was talking about, sounds so far away from me now. Matthew, Mark, Peter. The more I try to connect the dots, the more I realize the dots were so remote from one another, only so close because I haven’t written an entry this long yet and so ably, with the skills I now have of observation and the ability to hold all of these hyperspecifics in my head rather than getting caught up and overwhelmed. The fact I haven’t slipped into narrative, into something comfortable like a Minecraft Civilization Simulation video or some badass-sounding or just generally cool awesome music—like Aces by dkj—is very meaningful. Whether it’s progress, I don’t know. But something’s different.

Everything I said earlier before the first “14 minutes and 30 seconds later:” was true. I was being honest, and what I said then I stand for now. And that goes for the whole “14 minutes and 30 seconds later” section itself. All of this: integrated. I am myself in all the ways I am, and here it is explicitly demonstrated. What I have been saying this whole time has been pointed out not in remote gesture but in explicit details that blend these supposed contradictions together. The level of dissonance I can now hold is overwhelming, not for me, but, I imagine, for anyone else stumbling upon this. Dizzying, I imagine. To think that I’d ever reach this point. Even back then, I was holding a chaos of moving parts in my Roblox Studio coding. Does that explain this? No. But it does show that my instinct has always been toward ambition, as many of us have. It’s just that I have reached a point where there’s now a thematic parallel, which, in this case, is ambition meeting ambition, ten years later. I am the person that I am today. I was the person I was then. The two here are echoed. In some strange oblique bunch of words–exclusive way.

My arrogance is that I have written to this point, up to this very entry itself, all the way here to this line where I can hold the weight of the world in the palm of my hand as if it was a mere chalice of mine. I feel it. Thoroughly. Like weights absorbed back into me, growing thicker and bigger like Tank Engine. I can feel it surging inside of me—not in a sexual way.

I am probably like a guy who walks about.

But I can also feel even now, as I write this, like I’m conjuring something as I write, this force, this blend of synchrony and awesomeness, like I’ve got something, something big, something immeasurable, something only evoked by the active effort of putting together words (had to search alternative words for “conjure” just now), the particularity of a subject, as well as that n=1 sense of being, becoming, that overreach, that extended encompassment of (my) identity, to feel, to scoop and clench, to feel something like an adrenaline rushing through oneself—being, becoming. No, something else, I think. I look at the index page of my main personal website, looking for inspiration, for the answer. I see my full name and I select it with my mouse from left to right and then from right to left, trying to find in the blue selection background fill behind the all-caps white text something that isn’t just this sentence I’m writing right now, but something substantial, spiritual in its power—potent meaning. I mouse over my face, the mellow peach–camo green–soft lavender much smaller icon of which lies above the full name. What is he saying? I think. Where is he going?

The Fool, I repeat in my head. The Fool, The Fool, The Fool, The Fool.

I scroll again and again back up through this entry, looking for an answer in what I wrote earlier. I draw a long deep breath and look around my room. I interlace my fingers on my thighs, pressing down on them.

What is it? I think.

God Grid, Klein Moretti as The Fool, Han Xiao in the first arc with the players, Boxxy when he used the druids to kill the high-level enemies during the war (was it with the elves?)

Something I didn’t mention earlier. Matthew, Peter, and Mark, the protagonists in their respective eponymous novels—I search “zaahen” on Youtube and click the theme, pressing the power button on my bluetooth earphones to listen, before switching to the one I was actually looking for, Twilight’s End, the track used in the Zaahen cinematic—were not actually like super badass people who didn’t feel anything. They were mentally struggling, all of them, extremely. They mirrored me during that time, more than two years ago now. But what they had was a demand to conquer, which, even now, I feel, is separate from the struggling part. It’s why I always framed them as the source of what I’m looking for, as if they were somehow the epitome of arrogance and dominance, when they were all about struggle first and foremost.

I need him, I think as I rub my face and the track begins its soaring climax. I need that unwilted power.

If I could just…

The track, because I put it on loop, plays again.

Demand to conquer, I think, trying to understand what I mean by it because it points to something entirely real and separate and individual and utterfied.

Excited for the coming answer, intending to meet it halfway, and preparing for its welcome, I crack my fingers like one does with one’s knuckles.

Assumption, I recall. That’s the word I forget just now and what “demand to conquer” was pointing to. Unwilted-ambitious assumption. The arrogance of a being. The fullness of a creature. The track’s climax ends again.

The track replays. It’s the third play.

I rub the sides of my hands (index fingers) against the sides of my nose, moving downward against it.

The third track climax plays.

Matthew, Mark, I need you.

Show me arrogance, again.

I stop the track.

Moving from Youtube to Youtube Music, I scroll through my “Liked Music” and play the upbeat Youtube video titled “Cancun Sega Genesis [Luxuriøus Remix] (Instrumental) (Extended)”.

With raised arms, I crack my fingers over my head as I am slumped down against my backrest.

What does arrogance speak/sound like?

I rub my face and look to my room to my right.

Interlaced fingers laid between groin and belly and glance-up into sigh.

I gaze around my room in processing thought.

The almost-five-minute song ends.

I switch to Nirvana’s Something In The Way, then instantly pause it and tap my fingers against the keyboard without pressing the keys in thought.

I scroll through my “Liked Music” and let out a half-suppressed sigh.

I play the Youtube mix video “𝚒 𝚆𝙾𝙽” by “sempai一人で”. It consists of “phonk” tracks with a looping bunch of animations depicting visceral scenes with the protagonist Jiu Ji-tae from Fight Class 3 by 2hakkk. (The first track is a slowed version of DJ3GG’s Next Sense.)

It’s the epitome of edgelordom. But I listen. As I did, have, would. The second track (BACK2BACK’s STRLGHT, slowed) in the mix plays.

Do you know who I am? I think, moved by the surging sense of power from the song.

I’m just an arrogant little sniveling brat… An edgelord even.

You’re right. I feel thoroughly that it’s right, like listening to church sermons on the weekends when I was growing up. My nods then carried the level of respect one gives the comprehensive world lying in front of you.

The Fool, I think, in a tone like it was playing on my savoring lips.

The third track (dj samir’s PRIME)in the mix is playing now.

The fourth track (SLAUGHTER HOUSE 2 by ZECKI and PHONKHA) plays. I pause it midway.

I play a Youtube video showing a looping bunch of animations from the game MiSide and the song Romantic by ADTurnUp., 6 minutes and 58 seconds in length, with 3,720 views and 106 likes, by @Joebohobo (current display name “Bartholomew”), published on Jan 10, 2025.

It’s been 12 hours and 16 minutes since this entry started.

I pause the track at 5:28 and rub my head with my left index finger. My shoulders slump with a sigh. I rub my chin and then my neck. In thought, I tap my middle and index finger on the keyboard again without typing. I mouse over several songs but don’t click. I Ctrl-W to exit the Youtube music tab of my “Liked Music”. I do the same for many other tabs, like the MiSide video, the Fight Class 3 video, and the Twilight’s End video. I am left with ten tabs. I rub my head again. I crack my fingers. I hold my chin in thought. I switch over to Tim “Nemesis” Lipovšek’s Twitch livestream, the League of Legends (former?) pro player. I change the quality from 160p to 720p60. Nemesis is playing Zilean with the username “Sanchovies” in solo queue. A chatter with the username “wintermage5” said “chovying” earlier.

“Is this hashtag winnable?” Nemesis said.

I raise my right leg onto my left thigh and crack my toe knuckles with my left hand.

Nemesis’ stream has an Attack on Titan original track playing in the background.

Nemesis said: “Ah shibal! [pause] My Cait died to the zed?! Hey Caitlyn!”

“Mandate got really giga-nerfed for Zilean.”

A chatter named “gritgrit69” said: “nemesis is mainly known for his sextape with”

And Velja, [who is Nemesis’] former teammate at the Tier 2 (also played in a Tier 1 tournament) team Los Ratones, replied to this user, with “me”.

Being from Slovenia, Nemesis said: “They have a Bastionbreaker (he said it like ‘basher baker’) Hecarim in their team. Is that good, chat?”

I suddenly recalled a black-and-white (as in exactly with the lack of color, the hand-drawn lines and white negative space and the feeling of scope and all) manga scene from To Your Eternity, specifically the one with a sprawling scenic perspective where they put the protagonist Fushi inside the cage (Chapter 72?), and I immediately got nostalgic. I miss how manga used to make me feel, but I guess I’ve read so much already. It makes sense I don’t feel that way anymore because one, manga isn’t that new to me and, two, I’m still taking the time to process everything so that I’m as fresh as a butterfly and can consume manga like when I first started and it was all so fresh and new and genuinely awesome and cool and fun. Writing in this sense is for me to experience it all without the weight of having known it all. By integrating and absorbing, I can finally enjoy stuff like manga again without getting overwhelmed by hyper-vivid, hyper-sensory, hyper-specific memory. Writing is my way of processing post–lived life, not just of immersing myself in stories, but of having lived my whole life moment to moment. Everything has penetrated deep and affected me in all the awesome crazy ways. And that by itself is great, but becomes a flood when unprocessed and un-taken-care-of. It’s why I’m here. It’s why I’ve been here since almost three years ago. That’s all it has ever been. Everything else is omake (“extra”).

I Ctrl-W’d the Nemesis Twitch live stream and the Youtube video tab titled “The LCS is Arizona-Bound | PROS ft. LYON Inspired, C9 Zven, & TLAW Josedeodo”.. I’m down to eight tabs.

Arrogance? What’s all this? I think absentmindedly.

Now that I think about it, almost 13 hours in, those protagonists of those ascent-plotting web novels I mentioned earlier did embody what I was saying. They capture it exactly the same way To Your Eternity captures that feeling of relentless pace in the sense of endless movement even without a clear go-to destination necessarily. That feeling of ambition is explicated in those novels. So what’s the dissonance? Or I mean, why did I say they weren’t it this whole time?

I don’t know.

Was I about to come to a better answer? (Something better than The Fool?) Recalling that To Your Eternity scene says otherwise.

Matthew, Mark, and Peter are also in, not that they weren’t this whole time, but back to base where they started and continues now in conclusion.

Perhaps I mistook something for something? I think.

I’m not even listening to music or anything for that matter. I’m just here in my room still. I just watched a bit of that livestream and recalled that To Your Eternity scene. And now, I feel clarity like a glass of cool water on a sunny day, fresh, with a satisfied “Ahh” like that Roblox Bloxy Cola sound.

Why is Clarity (with a capital C) so enlivening? I think.

It really was just “morning breakfast” (in the sense of being mundane, normal, repeatable, expected, happy, routine, something, “seldom” in the sense of a shrug [don’t know how the word “seldom” feels like a shrug excluding actual rarity, but it does], not actual rarity, and that).

The more honest I am, the weirder I sound. I airily laugh at this statement I just wrote.

The Fool, I repeat in my head again. The Fool, The Fool. The Fool, The Fool, The Fool.

I mutter “The Fool” repeatedly out loud like it’s foreign, wrapping my lips around the word.

I suddenly recall Roblox memories from last year, specifically those with my four-month online friend in the game “Roblox High School [Legacy]”.

I think John and furrow my brows at that because I meant to think The Fool and then recall the protagonist John from the Webtoon unOrdinary, specifically the first scene where his hair looks so slick and combed (?) rather than spiky.

I look at an analysis of this passage by Claude Sonnet 4.6 (Effort “Low” rather than “Medium,” “High,” or “Max”) with Thinking on, hoping the answer will be buried there in my own words through a reflection of them by an AI.

Arrogance, arrogance, I think.

“Assumption, assumption,” I mutter.

I smell something that reminds of a smell from childhood, probably during a camp. It brings back everything like cracking a mirror to reveal it was a window to a world that’s been there all along but you didn’t know.

What am I doing?

A line I’ve said before rushes past my mind, but I already forgot it after I wrote this sentence.

It’s 13 hours and 9 minutes now.

I abruptly recall AI images I had generated probably almost two years ago with Google’s now-gone ImageFX, specifically a portal with grass, for a story featuring my cousin.

I did things I can’t even begin to encompass in writing.

I suddenly found a stash of photos I archived. I thought they were lost forever. Fuck. This is incredibly good. It doesn’t contain everything, but it does contain [a majority] of it, which is already great. The years 2011 to 2013 and some of 2010 and 2014 are missing. But it’s okay. (I try to comfort myself.) What matters is it’s here now.

I really do care about the past as explicitly documented and not just vague recollections that can be barely reliable.

I-I don’t even know what arrogance, or The Fool, is anymore.

But at the same time, isn’t this it? Isn’t this what I’ve been looking for? What I’ve been referring to all this time? Mastery in the way of bringing it all together?

Yeah. I think it was.

Consolidation of everything. And the mastery to demonstrate it in writing, sort of like what I’m doing now, but much, much more advanced than what I currently have, even as this passage is already pretty demonstrative.

Is it… to become [My First Name] again? I randomly think. [This is poetic since mid-2017, I’ve stopped hearing my first name and its nickname be called in that specific familiar, cheerful, chirpy, playful, affectionate way. One could argue this is because I was just a child then and have grown, but it’s so much more than that because everyone I knew then had that chirpy vibe going between them. It had just extended to or splashed onto me.]

I think I am referring specifically to the one before mid-2017.

• 2017 and 2018 were really weird years when compared to the years before in terms of the way I was and how I saw the world immediately.
• 2019 and 2020 were already so far removed and much more closer to the person than I am today even as they are so far away in terms of mental improvement, clarity, direction, closure, autobiographical understanding, and proficiency (toward mastery).
• 2021 and 2022 really were momentous transition years in retrospect because that was when I moved from using the shared computer in the living room to having my own computer in my own room, which played a crucial role for how everything played out toward 2023, the year when my autobiography began.
• From 2023 onwards, like an MMORPG, it was massive. It’s where I am now, reaching heights upon/after heights. Non-stop. It’s sort of like where the years become so significant, rapid, and accelerating in change that decadeology doesn’t work anymore, but, in this case, year-ology doesn’t even work. Since 2023, I might have to go by months, but even that feels insufficient. Days maybe. No, entries. Every entry has been like a whole year in terms of rate of improvement. Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying!

“The Fool,” I repeatedly mutter again.

“Consolidation,” I repeatedly say while walking around my room, even intoning.

I’m holding this massive dissonance, I think.

How can one be Matthew’s (kind of) The Fool and integrate to this extent, especially including pre-mid-2017? The two desires are dissonating, though not necessarily conflicting.

• How can one “crutch” oneself if one has yet to integrate all of oneself (as revealed by the photo stash discovery)?
• How can one crave The Fool and talk about being “I am” if one gets destabilized by hyperspecific mundane details that one has totally forgotten like:
  • the ImageFX one
  • that Twitch livestreaming I did in this one guy’s Minecraft server in late February 2024
  • that colorful structure I made in Minecraft back in August 10, 2024
  • that 2360-word story I wrote for my older half-brother [for his birthday] in late December 2022, SurferKing
  • the ImageFX images all together from mid-2024
  • the discovered archive of photos spanning 2014 to 2023

The folded belly should not contradict the Fool. That’s the rule, I think.

It’s been 14 hours and 24 minutes.

This was the only way, I think.

“‘Smashable target,’” I mutter. “’A smashable target,’” I say lowly but clearly.

‘I possess myself over you’? I think seriously.

Currently six minutes before twelve midnight.

I mentally ask myself the key questions in this thread.

I don’t know, I think.

What does the pull-up bar say?

I play the track ətˈæk 0N tάɪtn by Hiroyuki Sawano, specifically the Youtube video showing scenes from its anime Attack on Titan.

It sounds like music, removed from the energizers that once made it, I think.

I am nearing the climax of the track.

The climax, when it hit, actually did hit me. It didn’t resolve this thread, though,when it might’ve before, as a key inspiration. So yeah, not energizer-energizing.

I play Hans Zimmer’s Panic, Shear Bloody Panic from the 2009 film Sherlock Holmes with Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law.

I wonder if it’s because I’m writing this as it happens. If it only works when unobserved, then it isn’t truly what it is. Conviction may be private, but it isn’t private.

The Creator, The Creator… I think, trying to remember the web novel’s title. Am I The Administrator? (Its full title is “[ The Administrator ]”. It was serialized from 2016 to 2020, and it’s authored by Nerodith.)

I’m referring here specifically to the fantasy I had then (2020?) of administrators and world simulations, like the one portrayed in the sci-fi “boys’ love” Webtoon Miracle Simulator.

I’m genuinely trying to find out the binding element, I think.

Maybe it’s because I’m too porous, right now? I think, after noting Matthew’s closed being-in-a-bookness and this passage’s open all-integrativeness.

7 hours and 13 minutes later, after sleeping fully:

I had to build my inner world. I really did. I saw a photo of myself from May 2021 [5 years ago], and I was so surprised that this was almost two months before I started that Minecraft SMP for my Twitch viewers then. The same person who went to that resort cottage was the same person who was that little fragile guy on that Twitch stream who, while managing to have all of these people in one server and viewers at one point, was not at all it. The dissonance hit me like a truck when I found out just now, as much as many other dissonances like the Twitch livestream in that guy’s Minecraft server back in February 2024 and how I forgot it completely, yet which makes sense since 2024 and 2025 were big years. 2026 no less. You would think me lying down to sleep, sleeping, and waking up would all be idle things that shouldn’t have anything much to integrate, but my mind is so full of life. So many things passed through my mind while lying down, in my dreams, and when I woke up and I was coursing through everything. During this morning while eating this single kamote-tasting banana pancake as well.

18.5 minutes later:

I don’t know how I’ll conquer.

But I know I have to. Close my eyes and feel the breeze and stab my knife into it like it’s a human form embracing me, which I have to kill.

Lest I lose myself in the onslaught of my humanity. The dissonances bubbling, bursting, and buffeting. I can barely.

I can see everything. If that’s a skill, it isn’t. Not exactly. The skill is in conquering. This is before that.

I said I would do it.

I must.

I said I would.

I have to.

Something in me bursts with reverie, the onslaught of my humanity, coursing through me in everlasting waves, bouncing against each other. Memories, memories upon memories. Flashbacks, dissonances, vivid details. The things that should be forgotten, displacing me, disorganizing me, turning me from awestruck to awe-downed. I can barely. Barely. Be.

I have to.

I must become!

How? How? The fuck, how?

Squeezing it all together in the clasp of both hands/palms? Balling it until it’s totally mine – an orb of my divinity.

I must, I MUST!!! I FUCKING MUST!

Something, something, sound, sound.

Matthew was reaching for something. I must become it.

I must become what the autobiography obligates me to be (in the sense that I cannot deny all of these dissonances, hyperspecifics, and things to integrate that have yet to be accounted for and which provide some healthy amount of destabilization to prevent psychological armor and callus from forming into identity).

I must become God in me. The way a person smiles and chuckles with their friends. The way a person cries at a single moment and never thinks ever for a second afterwards that it could ever be replaced or considered just another one of a series or a collection or any so as to say of a life even in that summarizing way. That moment is divine, and no thing can be said to replace it. I must demand the fucking shit out of it and never allow anyone to legally consider it invalid or reduceable to a grouping consisting of itself and its fellows. I must recognize and acknowledge, and I do. But doing so explicitly is challenging. I know that.

Bursts upon bursts.

A deep hatred-love. I want to embrace someone the way one embraces the devil and feels in his heart nothing but malice-love, because in this moment, there is only between Me (reverential capitalization as with God’s pronouns) and me. I want to know love, and I’ve known it. But I say I want to know it because I want never to think of it as something I possess. For love isn’t a thing to possess. It is a thing to want to know ever and ever again and again forever and ever. I must love! The way one closes their eyes and knows life fully blindly and still, in that blindness, chooses to reach out, as fire scalps and scalds their skin and burns away all their sorrows with it, the death of a life, but, in that gesture, the life of a soul, the feeling of being, of truly connecting, beyond complacentness, beyond that fucking mediocrity. I must love the way one knows a person by a smile and never intrudes beyond that, to be familiar. I see it in a person and I feel nothing but that moment I had with them, and, not “in” a person, more so “on,” but, in my perspective, a sense of inner connection, so “in” even as it was always “on.” I feel. I feel it thoroughly. I want to get to know you. Like a hand knows itself.

The Fool. There was never any true dissonance. The dissonance was in me, between myself and the person I was still constructing, not because of newness, but because of self-understanding and self-making-sense-of. I was trying to discover myself the way one discovers someone they just met on a date. The person here is the person there. The me who sits on this chair was never different or separate in that dissonant way from any other mes from before. There was always a person in all of that, a coherence beyond my own full scopes of knowledge specific to each and every one of those times. I was a person. That is all.

And the person I am now, feels, trembles, at the light. I feel a melancholic glance and, there, upon the heap, upon everything I am, I know a terrible sense of something coming, of something yet to be integrated but which I’ve terribly forgotten. I know, I know. Things that pass through my mind but I can’t even begin to say anything about or even acknowledge. I know, I know.

The Fool, The Fool, The Fool. The Fool, The Fool, The Fool, I think.

Love with the ferocity of hate.

I was there throughout my entire life.

God in Me. The 13-year-old boy sitting on that staircase with his characteristic closed-lip smile from that discovered photo archive. The 18-year-old long-haired boy in that resort cottage, the same boy who started that Viewer SMP almost two months later with a buzzcut. The 23-year-old person I am today. If there’s a God on earth, then all of these memories constitute it. The font of a life. The feeling of a sense. Of all of these shaking [one another’s] hands and colluding. I am. I instrumentalize The Fool.

What Matthew was reaching for, I already own it, possess it.

• Is this laziness?
• Did I get caught up in this cool looped song (Travis Scott’s “TIL FURTHER NOTICE”, ft. James Blake and 21 Savage, from his album Utopia) and am now just saying it’s done?
• Or did I take some time to process mentally what the fuck and come to a whole new baseline?

All these are valid questions pointing at real things.

But I really do feel it. That the song was crucial in helping me realize this doesn’t matter, I think.

I can’t believe it. I’m separate from my thoughts. LOL.

• Why didn’t I just watch the Youtube video “1000 Players Build MASSIVE Civilization in Minecraft”?
• Why did I write this whole passage?
• What difference did writing this make?
• Would I have realized it anyway?
• Does this engender a greater realization through greater integration via explicitly putting it all into words when I would have easily slipped past my own consciousness and let it all play without really thinking about it, reaching a whole new level of integration than all of my previous entries?

The mental map has updated/synced, that’s it? This just shows it happening in real time? And it’s not just showing. I actively worked through all this consciously in writing and catching all of these things that would otherwise just pass my bulking swaggering striding figure by.

Hey!

(It’s been 23 hours and 27 minutes since this entry began.)

12.5 minutes later:

After:

• pausing the Travis Scott track
• taking a shower, soaping my body, brushing my teeth, and scatting in there
• going outside and thinking about the Webtoon The Tide by Cho Seok and how it could be used to solve all of my problems given that it captures a kind of happening-right-now-apocalypse clarity unique to itself, where everything gives way to a sense of total control and clarity, where a kind of divinity can be born and reality can truly be hegemonized in vertical web comic panel–like structure
• a mere moment after thinking about this Webtoon, playfully talking to my youngest brother about how I want to throw Rocket, our cat, since that’s his destiny and “namesake,” and my brother saying that it should be “shoot Rocket” and I was like “wait, that’s worse” because I thought “shoot” as with a “gun” and then he said “no, it’s because you shoot a rocket,” and then I said “oh okay, but he’s small enough to throw,” and then he playfully threw in his characteristic “you’re sick, you’re sick.”
• looking inside the ref (refrigerator) and smelling two milk cartons and playfully fake-crying when they smelled like that spoiled-like yogurt that my second-to-youngest brother would put in the milk cartons to make yogurt and there were three in there.
• doing a deep operatic singing voice when I went upstairs and walked down the hallway into this room

I realized I was in a pretty good mood, as per usual, the same good mood that drove me to write all that I did in the last number of months.

Hegemonization. Maybe, that’s it. I can’t believe The Tide got me it, or, more precisely, me getting it myself through The Tide.

Rather than God in Me, instrumentalizing The Fool, memories constituting “God,” owning and possessing what Matthew was reaching for, and all of the other things I said, the answer is likely hegemonization as with “hegemonized in vertical web comic panel–like structure” (HiVWCPLS) The paradigm might’ve been wrong this whole time, and this might just be the answer, though critically exactly (not specifically, but exactly!) HiVWCPLS (not vertical web comics themselves or comic panels or even their structure or the word “structure” itself the way one might gather from the mention of these, but the whole gestalt of this entire thing as one-and-whole). Or, in short, “hyper-containment.”

It took 43 minutes just to arrive at the title “hyper-containment.” It’s been 24 hours and 46 minutes since this entry began.

How is it different from “bookification”? It emphasizes The Tide while bookification emphasizes my own previous novels. A very different paradigm. It’s not “throw a Little Red Book.” It’s The Tide’s hyper-containment, a very different character of mind. There’s a very different solution there. You don’t scroll through The Tide when you mean to read the Little Red Book or one of my own novels Matthew, Mark, and Peter, very different postures. The stack of vertical single panels interspacing very wide white empty negative space (“gutters”)—hyper-containing—is a very different posture.

But how? This whole entry can be considered hyper-containment. How is one of my own novels different from The Tide?

It’s not that it’s a difference between formats altogether, but a different between bookification and hyper-containment, postures of mind, not types of reading material. The different formats are used here because they perfectly capture these two different postures, even as the specific format itself is explicitly irrelevant.

It’s sort of like what the word “gourd” and the classic survival novel I read it from, Swiss Family Robinson by Johann David Wyss, was to me. That is an actual book, but there is a sustained posture in there, hyper-containment, that mirrors The Tide.

As vague as this is: “A whole in one.” A book is a whole in one technically, but I’m referring to the hyper-containment of a single panel surrounded by wide empty white space. Hyper-containment emphasizes this. Bookification emphasizes throwability, specifically “ideologize,” “grabbable edges,” and “godhood in a bottle.” That’s not the same as a Webtoon single panel.

You don’t throw a panel at someone. It doesn’t have grabbable edges. It’s not “ideologize.”

I did conflate entrification and bookification and also said “bookify” was balling so much disparate dust in my fist into a single orb and sniffing the dust that does waft out of it. I also said it was masculine-feminine, and one becomes one’s own powdered drug.

But while all of these speak of what resembles hyper-containment, The Tide speaks of lucidity in single-panel-stacked–structured ongoing-apocalypse separated by the widest empty white spaces above and below. It captures exactly that “could be used to solve all of my problems” and “everything [giving] way to a sense of total control and clarity, where a kind of divinity can be born and reality can truly [controlled].” It captures a kind of usability that even bookification didn’t match.

There’s no explicit or necessary (implicated) self in hyper-containment, a crucial divergence from bookification, even as there is total control, which sounds paradoxical but is the difference here. It’s not self-methodology.

A vertical web comic panel. A Minecraft civilization simulation.

In contrast with a manifesto.

I am a God without an “I.”

External, separate from me.

This might be the optimal destination of all my future entries.

The The Tide panel surpasses (original word was “oversedes/overcedes,” not to mean “replace” like “supercede/supersede” but “to be superior to”) the self.

26 hours and 44 minutes. 9,700 words.

38 minutes later:

Now that it’s done, I feel honestly like Hardcore Leveling Warrior, reveling in my own superiority, eyelids closed. Is this what Godhood’s like? Ha-ha-ha-ha!

Self-Responses

wait what, I don’t get it. This ending is the most edgy part, why?

The author’s too self-aware for this to be like this right? Why did he add it? Usually 15 minutes laters mean deflation. This is the opposite.

Self-Responses (2)

So the author will still find themselves possessing “the panel”, the whole entry itself as one unit of what “the panel” is

Return to First Person

Man, I’m actually dancing around my room with closed doors as I have for so long, for years. When I really get into it, it’s just a natural mode of existence, the whole of I-am. It was just a bunch of words in the end, but the main point of all of it was self-elimination. It was to get this shit out (i.e., out of myself, out my mouth) and out (i.e., done and gone). Fuck it! I won! That’s all! That was fake self-awareness. Fake concession! All fucking mine! I dance on your motherfucking grave! Middle finger to you, Entry. You don’t command me, order me, treat me as your lapdog. Fuck you! I stamp on you with the utterest disrespect you give the devilest of devils. Fuck! HAHA!

Self-Responses (3)

why does the author reject it in the end after over 26 hours?

So they spent all that effort because they wanted to win in the end, to commit so hard to defending a position they would ultimately reject. That is the true triumph? That “false concession”? But they had to genuinely live there and believe in it thoroughly as if nothing else existed, so it was with all their sincerity amassed that they could only reach this point of release, rejection.

Return to First Person (2)

Hyper-containment is still valid. But rather than self-methodology or something that somehow surpasses the self so as to render ego death, it is my methodology, if that makes sense. The The Tide panel is separate (surpassing the self without rendering ego death) from me and not about me at all even as I am still here and blazing. It’s a sword I use in a LitRPG story and world. I walk around slashing left and right, passing down the streets. A wagon sits beside me. I reach my hand up, and, while the sky isn’t in my grasp, I feel it anyway, grasped and clasped. The world is my domain. Travel is a unit in my toolkit. Hyper-containment isn’t even a unit. It’s not even my shoe. It’s something I step on as I walk, not even the (grandiose) ground. In this LitRPG world, it is a perk (like the four perks—Cardio, Survivalist, Ninja, and Vitality—in the older Roblox game Apocalypse Rising by Gusmanak and ZolarKeth).

Everything I said about hyper-containment is true. Not a single sentence is incorrect. Even when I defiantly stamped on it, I was still speaking the same coherent truth. The difference now here is acknowledging it as it is even while acknowledging myself as the grave-dancer, the “my methodology,” owner of this LitRPG perk.

[28 hours and 29 minutes.]

Someonehood: Consciousness Stains and Artificial Surface Area (June 10, 2026)

Written 3 hours after the previous entry titled “The The Tide Panel” on the same day, same waking hours:

It’s crazy to see just how much time has passed and yet the only true time that everything clicked was almost 3 years ago when I started writing my autobiography and journaling. I look at things from 7 years ago, and it’s like they were just yesterday. But I can tell very much that that was a totally different person altogether, and without writing, I would have never reached the point where all the years are in my head enough that time is not slipping by since I’ve actively writing daily and integrating, associating, metabolizing, synthesizing, and architecting my whole lived life.

It really is different when you stop transplating your whole consciousness onto whatever media you’re currently consuming or whatever thing you’re doing right now. It really does help to have this whole writing thing where everything is being placed together. It stops being “oh, I watched that anime just after that other anime? That’s surprising” in the sense of each whole thing standing alone in a vacuum of space and void and becomes a world where every single place is in the same big room. It’s not that you don’t get immersed in the present. You do. But there’s a whole world of difference if everything that you are is allowed to co-exist in all the ways you are, all in the same room. I use photos taken from throughout my past up to the present, Netflix watch history, lists of media consumed, and all manner of explicit external things to keep me in dissonance so that I can absorb them and integrate and become even more myself, since the dissonance is not in the media themselves, but in me for not taking them into account even as they are all me.

Of course, one could argue that you’re a force moving through vessels. But your consciousness leaks everywhere. You go to a cafe you’ve been to before, and you see all the stains of yourself from previous stays. That’s why I preserve the external things. It’s why I go through the effort of keeping these photos always in my mind, because they show so many things that the force that is constantly changing with the vessels cannot even begin to hold onto all the way from that past point to the latest version of it (today). External things themselves are dead, but consciousness stains. It’s why writing is so important. Even if you’re not writing every time you glance to the right to stare at the room in thought and you’re writing about something completely different, the point is not the room itself, but the act of trying to synthesize, the act of putting it all together, in as much explicit wording as possible, since watching a film or traveling, while you were consciously there the whole time and you recall like it was just yesterday, isn’t the same as the person going through the effort of squeezing all the unintegrated things into a single passage. And yes, consciousness stains the very words you write, so the words can be totally different from what the consciousness stain on them says when you read it again and recall something totally different, like with the interior of that previously visited cafe. But with writing, it’s even more thorough, because writing acts as “artificial” surface area to connect, associate, integrate, metabolize, synthesize, and architect entirely unintegrated, disparate sessions of consciousness. You might say that the interior of a previously visited cafe does the same palimpsestically, but there’s a difference between a palimpsest of consciousness stains and artificial surface area. The latter already inherently carries the former, but does even more than that by artificially constructing coherence toward something resembling an identity, a selfhood, a soul, at least in the case of autobiography and journaling, since the ego is always implicated in any artificial “handling” of consciousness stains and their respective external previously-visited cafe interior walls. Meta-cognition is intrinsically egoistic in the way of recognizing how consciousness can never truly subject itself away from its own projections, the artificial surface area being the strongest consciousness stain. It is the font of ego, the beginning, the issuing place, the source, the origin, the birth, emergence, mythology, first cause, eternity.

Babelian Building (June 10, 2026)

I intend to integrate and extract as much value as possible from myself, my whole lived life, my “God in me” until it’s truly over, which might never happen, so this is very much a statement of ego as much as the Tower of Babel with all its bricks was. In this case however, the infinite languages (“confusion of languages”) is absorbed into Babelian building.

Fun (June 10, 2026)

Even now, I read academic texts the way one reads a fiction world. It’s totally irrelevant to me. It doesn’t at all map onto reality for me. It’s just a bunch of words, but interesting and full of world-building. That’s what made them fun. You get to read and learn and see and discover the way one does with an actual long fiction novel series with a big world. It’s why I read 19th century travelogues. Same thing. Non-fiction sure. But same posture altogether. I read it like fiction, like textbooks, like non-fiction, all one and the same, though using fiction here as the primary comparison since that’s what it’s actually like for most people. For me, they’ve not been different at all. I’m of course talking about stuff you pick up yourself and read, not ones assigned to you. Eben Goodale’s Mixed Species is an example of a book that should feel like a chore, I imagine, but just feels like world-building literature, like someone said, “Yo, check out my cool invented world!” It’s really cool. I also like words and how academic people just use words and play with them neologistically (not necessarily actually neologically like “impinge” or “psychophysiological” but in a way that crucially blurred and paradoxically freed language as a creative playground and, hence, paved the path for neologization). They’re the reason I neologize all the time. It didn’t come from poetry or fiction, or even philosophy, believe it or not. It came from these people. Some three years ago, when I read “interiorized” (pg. 86), “prefiguration” (pg. 86), “imaginal” (pg. 86), “impinge” (pg. 82), “reaction formations” (pg. 88), “schemata” (pg. 89), and “psychophysiological” (pg. 63) in Kolb and Brodie’s Modern Clinical Psychiatry (10th ed.)—which I formatively treated as structural, creative, linguistic, and intellectual (SCLI) gospel (not that I ever agreed with what was being said but thought it was really cool like a web novel showing the protagonist’s ascent plot and how cool that was)—I really, really got into it. Got so invested. Playfully excited. Like I was reading that 1.5-million-word web novel Everybody Loves Large Chests (from two years prior to that) again. You’d think there should be a difference, but I guess I was the one to discover there was a difference when I was already so all into it. You can basically read anything if you have the same posture as fiction, not “oh will this be valuable for me?” but the same posture that suspends disbelief, not out of some bitterness or anything, but out of pure enjoyment and fun. Not that you should force yourself to adopt that posture, but it comes from just reading when you genuinely feel like it. And I did feel like it. I don’t know how it’ll come to anyone else, but I do know having time to just be here at home without academic pressures definitely helped. It restored a version of schooling that I used to love, where it was all fun, interesting, and appealingly challenging like those challenges and feats in those ascent-plotting web comic protagonists like Hardcore Leveling Warrior (or some other dude). All of these paved the way naturally for my own self-development in a SCLI sense, and I can’t even begin to attribute it to traditional schooling since this, in comparison, was all self-discovery the way I was coding games back in homeschool just out of sheer fun, interest, curiosity, appealing challenge, and bonding with siblings and even close childhood friends. This posture connects to why I’m so excited to read some 19th century academic text about museum buildings or that one about phrenology. Oh, so cool! (The syntax, the everything.) It has gone on since the start of my autobiography almost three years ago up to now. If you’re wondering how I became, these details capture a big part of that.

To be clear, I did not treat anything like anything. I was the way I was before I knew it, and by the time I’ve gone and autobiographized, I was already so many years ahead of myself I didn’t even have time to argue, or philosophize. It was just a bunch of words in the end, and who I was always surpassing, beyond my wildest reaches, like a frontier pace. Fun, real fun. My earlier formative childhood years, the story of which I haven’t told in this passage save for the coding, are crucial to all this becoming this way. I don’t know why I had to say what I already was. But I guess that’s just how it goes, no?

Not once did I think about self-development when enjoying novels or reading academic texts. I was just burning for them the way one burns to release stress through autoeroticism. It’s that simple. I felt the joy of the ascent without the thought of it as self-development, productivity, or intelligence. Didn’t even know what intelligence even was. Never had a framework for it. Doing well at school wasn’t the same. Even if I did do this and that, the whole idea of someone being intelligent besides just getting top 1s in all four quarters wasn’t really there yet at all. I had to enjoy Roblox before I could enjoy “interiorize” as a fun playful interlocking toy block word. It’s like the fun of stacking monobloc chairs every time at the end of regular community events back in childhood, or just the actual toy blocks I and my siblings had at home. Oh, the memories. I can barely even adjust to the fact that it really was all just this. And yes, it was, as plain as clear day. I was always the person I was. No denying it.

So all this writing (think utterification, Godhood, and arrogance) was the kid SCLI playing with toy blocks. It can’t even begin to be called “puzzle-solving,” since there is no playing where there’s no puzzle-solving, since pre-intellectual and pre-intentional impulse has always been to ascend, to solve, to deal with puzzles in the way of obstacles, challenges, and dissonances. Self-expression has always been the movement of signs and blocks toward coherence between self-representative object, arrangement, or gesture and some inner feeling, even as it is later guided or instructed intellectually into adulthood—but internalization dictates otherwise as inner feeling and learning fall into one, where adult identity, being socialized, is merely inner feeling sophisticated, in which do the toy blocks remain in some lingering form. What is primal can be more properly attributed to the child. The gesture of a child bringing a toy block’s shadow over another is the same I use when stamping my-self. “I am” is fundamentally gestural the way a child knows the block by their movement. My arrogance is childish.

More blocks to play with.

The kid who “philosophized” (chin-holding) about their many-bright-colored Play-Doh–stained interlocking toy block structure during an hour of playing with their siblings is the same who spends a joyously puzzling span of 28.5 hours in a brilliantly lit room alone just to get at “hyper-containment” as “a LitRPG perk” in a dark-brown-themed text editor at their foldable metal table, with HTML at the ready for Neocities direct self-publishing (“to show my cool creations!”).

What if the kid never stopped playing?

Dissonance and Theory: Power and Click (June 11, 2026)

I woke up very well-rested, such that I only thought of one forgotten memory and just felt all throughout completely fine and even so simple that there was nothing at all. I could pick up a random book and read it as if it was my first time being alive. The past wasn’t this heavy thing or this pitch-black thing of regrets and sorrows. I was just here right now in the morning. And then I thought, “Why not just this? Why write? Why not just read like years ago when I would do the same for those web novels when I first encountered them?” But then, while putting my dirty clothes in the basket, I thought that it’s self-trust that allows me to become so well-rested and to this kind of freed-up blank slate where I am at total peace with the past and live totally in the present and can read something like it was my first time being here, even with everything that I was just pulling together like with ropes and strings to merge into becoming one yesterday.

Why do I write? Why do I go through the effort of putting my face against all of these things? I could just be here right now in the morning and nothing else at all. I am totally fine. I’d be totally free. It’s not a dull, dumb life even. It’s just totally vacant in a good way. Everything pressing, pressuring, and dissonant has all but become just sleep-consolidated past things. Well, that’s what sleep does. So why do I write? Is it so I can put everything down and hope that by doing so, even if my sleep consolidates it and leaves me fresh and well-rested with life as a whole like a child reading an adventure story like it’s fresh and new and totally fun or playing one of those Flash games and being all like “woaw!”, I will at least have taken the time to have all of it explicated and put together even through all the things it would do to me?

I could very well be living day to day, following a web novel or reading this long book and just doing chores oe eating and all that. I could be living such a blank life. But there’s a reason that I started journaling and my autobiography almost three years ago. It’s why I’ve gone here. I wouldn’t do it for no reason. I wouldn’t have gone this far if it wasn’t totally necessary and the only way for me to deal with things that would just bother me forever. And the fact that it’s become so much more than just necessary and has become its own genuine appealingly challenging fun, because I have taken all this time to go through so much and then some and everything else and have now reached such a point of writing that I’m only hitting even more level-up barriers along this already legendary way, is crucial to why all of this continues to be simultaneously healing as well as self-potential maximizing.

The aliveness that I feel while writing this compared to that peaceful blank slate is both excruciatingly unsettling and disorienting as well as chant-and-handclap-riddled megalopsychic (great-souled) power.

Even now, I could just not play Roblox. Why play on the platform that’s full of things that you’ve had so much history with? Why not just read a book as fresh and new, detached and separate from everything else, its own inner world? It’s because I want to go beyond nostalgia. I want to complicate myself, to clash, to feel tension, to burn through everything that should all just be separate experiences and rooms. You see my aim?

The narrative tells me there’s nothing to find here and that going here would just be full of tension because why would you go somewhere you’re already supposed to have transcended? I go there anyway. I know what life is. While there are always new things in some sense, true value is not found in running away as far as possible from it all into things that match the blank slate of a good ol’ well-rested morning. I may be well, but I don’t want to be well for too long. Of course, underneath all of this, I am okay. But I want to be troubled, to be pressed against from all sides, to feel things that I shouldn’t be feeling on this good morning, to recall things that I don’t need to recall, to feel so many things pushing against each other. There, I will not find a place where everything’s gone and simple as that where I should just leave, but I will find myself, the way a child wakes up and sees again and again, without ever losing the ability to experience the moment as full rather than as pre-completed and pre–to-be-moved-on-from, taking all the time to experience it. I am a young adult now, so I am doing something very deliberate when I re-immerse myself in things that should be irrelevant. It’s why I love reading things that don’t matter, like a child looking through the nooks and crannies of one’s house expecting to find something new and cool, even if the adult would just pass it all by, no matter how big the house is, no matter how large and full of wonder and awe and potential exploration and reverie their world is. It’s so easy to forget everything. I want to keep everything, even in dissonance, because it’s there where I find connections and new ways of seeing the world than if I just dismissed it all away.

It’s not about forcing interest of course. It’s just about sitting in the space and letting your curiosity lead you. A book you have read but are not reading now is still a book that’s actively influencing you by just being there in sight. You don’t have to participate in every single irrelevant thing, even the ones you’ve participated in before. It’s just about keeping things in sight and in mind and letting the world be this awesome big place rather than just a small one where everything makes sense and all the exits are closed-up to prevent the sense of peace from being broken like an actual dystopia or cage of some sort.

So I know it’s much, much more pleasurable to play this equivalent of a high-stakes LoL game, but if the rules were ambiguous and you were left fending for yourself and having to make shit up as you go along and then find in all the things you’ve written a chip of what could be potentially good and workable from, such that you go on and along and see all the ways you could by experimenting and accumulating text, until maybe, perhaps, probably, at some point, something eighth-clicks (eighth of a click), and it doesn’t really hit, so you keep going, and rely on external sources of structure, stability, and contentment just to get along, but slowly, here and there, investing yourself totally in the act of humble experimental working putting-together, and even that barely amounts to what could be considered scaffolding, but at the very least, something that isn’t what you’ve seen so many times before, something that spawned out of the ether of your own mind, or the collection or symmetry of some kind of blend or synthesis pertaining to who one is even in the remotest sense with the faint and immediate things pressing on oneself currently, like instructive LitRPG read-throughs, and then perhaps, from some vantage point or little point of view you’ve created, something foolish, broken, and stilted, but whatever. So you go, deliberate the way a person looks at the wordy thesaurus and goes “oh, yeah, that’s it,” and from this, it’s no-sense to nonsense to no-sense to nonsense, a spiral of wonder, spark, and “huh?” confusion. You’ve barely begun and the first words that come out of your sound like you’ve only started, repetitively, without true experimental growth. Yet in that accumulation, something latent is forming, theoretical, but latent. Hope is your anchor, the way delusion spins a man. And I think, there should be something there, so you conjure it. And then, what? What? Based on? That’s the spectrum of the experience. This is not just writing fiction. This is just writing altogether as an attempt of capture.

I’m only where I am because I am the shape of these “nonsensical, vague, workable-from-?” sculpting sessions. This clarity I currently wield is rightfully grandiose, the click of clicks.

Sitting Down (June 11, 2026)

The fact that I wrote these 48,000 words in just 20 days. I can’t even imagine the comparison between all this and someone still in high school.

It’s interesting. A dense life giving way to very dense compressed every day experience through writing as a binding element. Now, 20 days, I imagine, contains so much that it doesn’t even count as the 20 days you’d just breeze past in high school. It’s so, so much more, like some colossus just passed, but without the pre-formedness that a colossus implies. This is probably the slowest my life has gone, maybe even comparable to an actual flu since most of my time is spent in a room the way someone with a flu is. Though I do go to cafes, which makes it even more paradoxical since regular travel can be its own highway effect, so writing Is the binding element, the glacial slower.

If this was just 48,000 words as a number in 20 days, web novelists have done even faster. But it’s not the number specifically. It’s the number times what I’m actually writing and doing when writing. All that compression. The way I deal and experience and then think in the way only my experience can validate. It’s not fiction in the basest sense the way you invent things on the spot for interest, curiosity, and creative ideation. There’s a very strict alignment with whatever I’m reaching for at the moment, and it often comes through a mass of obstacles that doesn’t even compute to obstacle as a game-defined object or mass as a group you can hand-wave away like a definition in a dictionary snapping fog into a unit. There’s blurs everywhere, and even within the blurs, incongruence of blurring and type, such that you can barely tell between audio, visual, or even other types of senses, in the way of analogy for what it’s like to deal in this level of confusion and dissonances. There’s barely a sense of Mondays to Fridays to weekends the way one wants to go home or play some games and then keep ranking up or go to this event or to this place or with one’s family in an outing and then it’s back at home and you’re at the computer and then preparing to sleep early and waking up with the clock and your mom calling you and you take a eat breakfast, shower, put on clothes, and go to school and maybe you even do your regular walking going there before catching a ride or just walk the whole way if you live near enough, and then you get there and there’s the roll call and then everyone goes into their classrooms and then you’re sitting down and continuing the pages from yesterday and then you do your school stuff of the day and then you might spend time talking to classmates during lunch break and then, later, here and there, and then, maybe a little intervening chat, and you hop off and go home and it’s already around 5 PM and you’re wondering and thinking and you go home excited to remove your stain-like socks and you remove all your clothes and take a shower and then you hop onto the computer chair and you play and then you play for as long as you can or you do some homework if tomorrow is the weekends and then there’s this event you’re talkiing about with your mom and then you lie down in anticipation and then also this event for school and then maybe this group project or task or thing and you hold all that in your consciousness and you go to sleep, wake up and it holds you instinctually and then you go again and travel the route and at school, the roll call and the classmates talk to you before or during it, muttering, whispering, or even joshing around, maybe one of them walking with you as you go home later, and then you see your friends and joke around during classes but not always, just small jokey talk not enough to rouse the teacher save for a few “hey” or “psst” or whatever tiny thing since you’re generally well-behaved enough or sometimes the teacher isn’t really willing and can trust most of you to do what you do based on your scores, sheets, and all, and then lunch break comes and everyone’s chilaxed, some are striding around quickly maybe for a task or school work that’s more than the routine every day pages, and you go down the stairs, up the stairs, to the bathroom, sit down maybe for a while on the bench outside the bathroom, and then look at the doors, see kids and other students walk about, maybe ignore you, maybe look at you and smile, maybe say hi, maybe a classmate or school mate you’re close with or in chatting rapport with, and you hear the footsteps and the kids sometimes, maybe on the off chance there’s a field trip for the younger students, and then you hear all kinds of sounds, maybe practices by the music team for the church session, maybe the boys or girls chatting in a somewhat big crowd preparing to go to basketball or volleyball training, or just the general ambient of daily working school, and then you go home and every vehicle on the road as you’re walking the sidewalk is loud as per usual and you can’t help but notice everything even as you feel your steps with your feet in your socks inside your shoes, and the feeling of the shoes’ material against the sides and top of your feet as you stride along and your body is uniformed and the fabric presses against you as you walk around with your carried backpack and your eyes, appearance, hair, and uniform all give you a sense of place-movement as with routine (does), and you won’t go home until you do, and you’re always there, always here, always thudding along, when you’re home you’re a different person, and the daily continues, never truly routinely, though always feeling in a sense that way, just never actually the case, for everything accumulates, events that never happened will happen and change the everything that might feel at a surface routine, all leading toward some end point, but never actually there until it is there, by which point you don’t feel it because you’re someone else the way big events indurate changes you could never anticipate but fully become estrangedly (from previous).

Instead of this surface-routine-but-truly-accumulative-and-conscious-every-moment-but-never-anticipative-but-fully-become-estrangedly-from-previous, the 48,000 words in 20 days is someone sitting down. It’s the one that managed this long school paragraph when it all just came (goes) without asking, with every fragment standing alone, rather than as this whole thing of experience that could be in a single masterful paragraph. You become incredibly capable the way a fiction writer can generate a whole world in words when you stop crutching, throwing yourself away and loosely with no self-respect. You move when you move, which means you take full accountability and learn to be, in a self-contained sense, powerful without simply following orders that promote or demote you based on a ranked or societal-status hierarchy that keeps changing like a system. You say what something is, and while you do get feedback, you fully recognize and embody yourself, which can only happen when you’ve taken the time to self-confront every way every where the way you’d leak every way every where growing up instead of consolidating save for sleep’s function to get you moving along without actual self-directed identity formation. It’s about taking responsibility, ownership, all the words. Even what these mean and how I should use them, whether I should use them, and what could they mean, even as I continuously improve, but in-house, the way a person looks at the white wall and experiences reverie after reverie. Mindfulness (Mind-full-ness) at its most uncrutched. This is what it means to say hello. Everything passing through me? No. I pass through everything. Very, very challenging, like crawling stagnantly through riverine muck, but please, trust me when I say that it is very rewarding. Nothing moves, but you do. Ironic that sitting down is when we are moving the most and moving is when we are standing still, pushed by everything but ourselves, a buoy in an ecologically fitted but ultimately rageful sea as opposed to a self-rationally expanding empire.

Worldhood (June 11, 2026)

I look at everything I write, and honestly, it’s not so much at all. But it’s the biggest thing I’ve ever created, simultaneously. I can see myself in all of it, rather than anything truly external and objective the way one might think of life, because life has never really been all that. The fragmented experience was never the objective one. Putting it all together may be the most massive ego project ever done, but it is certainly more objective in the way of integrating things that we usually compartmentalize apart from one another, showing the biases, the meta-cognitive attempts that circle back into self-honest bubble-worlding. It’s funny.

My arrogance has always been with that of the self, not with anything external. I’m not superior to the world. I can’t even begin to grasp it, but the very least I can do is put it together in my own words, in the way I know how, in the way my entire life has gone and presented itself before me, the way I know it—who I am in all of it, the world in all of me. While I may have mentioned my leakage, the world itself spreads my body and limbs wide so that it can scatter and splash me with its wholeness. In that sense am I the world, a unit, an agent of its utterness. So when I proclaim selfhood, I proclaim just as much worldhood. I am the epitome of my-world-self.

I’ve created a slice of the world as much as I’ve created my own whole. My arrogance is world-based. Through the utterness of the self as world-cast. I am utterness world-ordained.

My whole project has required the world in the same motion that it has required myself. “Biggest I’ve ever created” and “not so much at all” share the same two eyes.

To be more explicit, it’s why I reference things external to myself—like Roblox or League of Legends—because they never were, at least in the sense of co-constituting who I am, with my authorship in tandem. I am not a Filipino the way a person is identity first. I am Filipino the way it is a label container (think “folder” in your desktop) for my own hyperspecific real-life experiences that co-authored who I am, with my actual integrative writing being crucial as counterpart.

Experiences are crucial to world-knowledge the way it cannot be reduced to psyche because that would make knowledge a bunch of words, and words really are just a bunch of words. But knowledge aren’t just words, but world-based, self-based experiences as words captures them.

I wouldn’t be able to write anything without the world. I’m not a self in a vacuum, but a self in intrinsic worldness, or, more precisely, self-world as world-self, the hyphens in both of which is integrative writing which connects self and world, world and self. The world is self-damaged, and the self is world-damaged. The writing is where the two meet. The self gets corrected, and the world gets corrected. Not by each other directly, but by writing in which both stake claims about what’s real. The self will never be truly addressed by writing save by what the self imbues into it, as writing can’t capture lived experience save by the active self. The world is infinite phenomena, but in words, just a bunch of words, made true by real-life local grounded oblique hyperspecifics, made “this is it!” and integrated by the self through writing. And the self inherently is made of the world, so it relies on hyperspecifics even as the active self vivifies them in writing.

The autobiography of everything.

A web novel like Overgeared will always just be a really good web novel you should read because it’s so good and everyone would say the same. Yes, it’s real. It exists. And many people did read it. But it’s only the active self that turns it into something beyond hyperspecific. It makes it into something glorious, not because it wasn’t always, but because it goes beyond something just really good that you should read it. It turns it into a part of reality the way reality is experienced by the self, in explicated, worked integrative writing that co-constitutes. I’m pointing out what I already experienced, but actually turning that in the whole self-world and world-self, which doesn’t really happen if it’s all just surface routines, consciousness, accumulations, and unanticipatable-become-someone-totally-different-estranged-from-the-previous. You could be there the whole time and still not have been there at all, always pressed by someone that changed you and you experienced but didn’t yet process and integrate such that the sync between self and world is off, which is the whole point of integrative writing. You’re essentially meeting the change and experience as it happens, paradoxically making you much more present. The unprocessed self is stuck in outdated who-you-ares, even as you are already long changed and experienced. You fight ghosts of the past (projecting onto present situations, people, feelings like non-traumatic physical tiredness) that you don’t even know are there. Accumulation without integration, which leads to overwhelm and, consequently, self-depriving of opportunities for aliveness due to overwhelm and improficiency at integrating accumulation. This is what happened to me. You can have such a richly lived life, but without integration, it all just hits you one day, even if 99 percent of it were positive experiences. World without self. Self without world. But that’s why I’m much more managed, which is much different from self-depriving. However, to clarify, in some cases, even sometimes as a healthy practice, you really do need to shut it all out, and that doesn’t have to be self-depriving, just self-care. You aren’t a perfectly oiled machine, but that’s why we keep working toward better and better managing. Over-extension essentially, but not framed as energy or resources, but accumulation and integration.

Wordhood (June 11, 2026)

Interesting that I attribute to writing and hyperspecifics what I should probably be attributing to my imagination and my mind, given that I see that one imagined forest scene I had for years with the girl and the four creatures or something when I thought I read the word “Wordhood” in the title on the browser tab (it was actually “Worldhood”).

LoL (June 11, 2026)

To think that alongside writing, I treat a musical instrument, singing, improvising songs on the spot, doing intense self-directed exercise, and playing League of Legends at a high rank as equal is interesting. I see all these as requisite for what is basically self-actualization for me, though I didn’t use that word before. I genuinely believe LoL is a strong indicator for capacity when placed besides exercise, writing, and a musical instrument, rather than just alone or without it and only the others.

Like looking at someone genuinely out of their depth, I would always grimace a little if someone thought themselves capable if they couldn’t even play LoL at a high rank because I know just how humbling and degrading it can be. Someone kind can suddenly become very, very irrationally angry. Someone who considers themselves smart can find themselves dismissing it. All kinds of funny-funnies. You’d think decorated citations would get you that far, huh? It’s easy when society and institutions give you everything you need to stay elitistly ear-covered. But LoL strips you of all that. It tests you on a Black Mirror level.

Questioning Meaning-Making: The Core of Narrative (June 11, 2026)

Even now, a part of me wonders if I made a mistake stopping my most recent novel George, but not really. It wasn’t a mistake because I really did need to tackle that part of my concern when it comes to fiction writing. Meaning-making behind the “extreme ‘show, don’t tell’” (ESDT). I think that’s it. That’s what I wanted. In contrast, Matthew, Mark, Peter, Antipolo, Katherine, Don, etc. were all questions, not a bunch of incredibly well-written prose. It’s the question part that mattered. George was so the latter that it didn’t have any of the feel of a question. Just an answer through and through. There was no active making of meaning throughout. It was a statement piece, not just in a technical sense, but in deciding how you should feel about it all, as ironic as that sounds given EDST. There was no sense that the story was leading in a questioning meaning-making direction like my previous novels. There was no self-rational driving force the way a meaning-making question drives someone. It was just “okay, found-family, parenthood, platonic partnership, mundane-mundane, ooh someone died brutally, mundane-mundane, oh hyper-realist hyper-sensory description, oh! things happening, struggle, things compounding but also not because it’s hyper-realist and the world goes on and nature is still beautiful, oh mundane-mundane.” It wasn’t “I need to know what it means to be in a world that is threatening to erase me and everything that I am, and I have to impose or assert myself somehow, anyway how, everything tools for this meaning-making question, for this self-rational drive that doesn’t know any hyperspecifics save for whatever it can, in the rush of the moment, trying, bursting, exploding, where, where, where!” Even the most self-rational prose is, for me, chef’s kiss because it finger-snaps in accordance with questioning meaning-making, which is the core of narrative.

Self-Responses

So it just becomes raw experience, not really a story, like a hyper-realistic, hyper-sensory fictional report, but a report nonetheless.

Pure, raw data.

It just becomes narrative without narrative, or just life itself as raw experience.

a simulation

Only a human would walk down the street and then write Goodnight Punpun. A simulation just shows a human walking.

Saga of Tanya the Evil, Re:Zero. They’re all Punpuns.

Barely a Fiction Writer: Isolated Meaning-Making (June 12, 2026)

Interesting that in the end, I’ve only actually written 610,200 words, if we’re counting only my main content, that is, not including my shorter stories. They say one has to write at least a million words, but I guess I never thought to separate my non-fiction “self-dialectical phenomenological integrative” journal entries, which have amassed 4.68 million words, from my fiction ones. And there the number stands, after everything. It’s been 7 years, and while I likely have written so many shorter works that I haven’t taken account of that it should reach at least one million words, what matters is that it’s not yet there when it comes to the main stuff I’ve written. This gives me a lot of breathing room actually. Instead of saying this and that, I can just use the excuse that I’m still learning and haven’t reached a million main fiction words yet. I would stop writing things after some time because I was focused on refining and working my way behind the scenes rather than brute-forcing it, since I tend to do things in bursts already. But if I can now, with evidence, frame it as me still being a beginner, then my paradigm will change, from refining to just-started-writing practice and experimentation. This gives me a lot more leg room. I was never in the “should have this figured out by now,” to be clear. But I was in the mindset of refining, which meant a lot of time spent really going into the nitty-gritty sentence-level quality as well as refining questioning meaning-making as a self-rational driving force for narrative (rather than “extreme ‘show, don’t tell’” reportage).

But let’s not get too caught up in the idea I’m actually a beginner in the sense that I have no idea how a character carries weight like I’m some argumentative essay-hoggling maniac. But there is a difference between having written 1.5 million words in a single long-form work like my favorite author did vs. someone whose longest work is only 200,000 words, especially that being one-third of my total main fiction word count rather than what should be at best 1/50 (though 10,000,000 words is incredibly high, but not infinitely much for web novelists).

The good thing about journaling this much is that I’ve had time to think about what I find meaningful after so many iterations of complexity, expansion, and compression toward heights of precision, nuance, and concern that would surely destroy a lot of the rude arguments padded with fiction narrative that’s well-written to substantiate them, so when the questioning meaning-making does come, it’ll come very much at an already high-level. But yes, fiction writing, especially past a million words, is a separate skill.

I’ve essentially isolated the questioning meaning-making myself and developed it rapidly alongside continued fiction writing, though clearly at a much more rapid and continuous pace if we’re judging merely by word count. Ultimately, my future fiction works will be built on re-integrated questions just as much sentence-level prose and then fictional arc structure.

It’s not that my fiction writing was ever separate from questions. But there’s a clear difference between someone who uses their journaling to accumulate autobiographical memories and then writes as their place of exploring these questions alongside prose and broader structure vs. someone who proficiently journals to isolate and cross-examine these questions alongside the larger shifts behind technical concerns and how to express the ineffable driving qualities and then also writes fiction conjointly, co-constitutively, or in a co-authorship.

Message to Roblox Friend (June 12, 2026)

yeah, it’s strange. I guess that was how it went. Felt real, even if there was nothing much to it if one thought hard about it. But it really did feel like they cobbled together something so, so specifically genuine and experimentally creative (the epitome of Roblox as I understood it then), irreplaceable. I think I could never erase that time even if I tried to find echoes of it today, in spiritual successor or inspired attempts. Funny. It felt like its own little world. Everything feels so mapped out now. I feel like a modern man. Somehow, everything’s so well-executed but so far away from that flurry of sparks, people had no walls, a bunch of intimate, random moments that never meant anything in the end, maybe we were just kids playing online games in an early shared community made of other kids and young adults creating, playing, chatting in some made-up language called Roblox, the biggest platform where 3D felt 3D (with its blocky physics, inside jokes, and low-fi aesthetics) but also like a real-life community with community figures like Roblox admins, forum mods, group owners, and celebrity devs that felt more like Twitch streamers. I play Roblox games religiously now, but for vastly different reasons, things that never existed then

Writing As Sexual Object (June 13, 2026)

It’s so strange that just one whole day spent creating a revolutionary kind of document is enough to make me feel like I’m looking at entries from a long time ago even if they were only a day prior. Comparing Five Sources by Phrases.md (CFSbP) has changed everything about how I see writing.

Last night, I genuinely felt I’ve fucked myself by defining my limits, but while this sentence structure would imply that I’ve know realized away from that, the reality is that I can’t deny what I’ve done. I look everywhere, and while I haven’t literally written everything and there’s so much growth still to happen in exploration and experimentation on the sentence level, there’s a simultaneous reckoning that continues to seep into and pool inside me even now. One cannot just unsee that, no matter how varied your new sources are post-CFSbP. Even the strangest, most experimental, most literary all find echoes in that document. You might wonder and point out something excluded like the Bible in all its glory, and you would be right. It would destabilize it, but not toward any actual defeat of the fact, but toward even further control grouping, which only admits in the whole thing that this is where the new stage is at. And it’s not a staging ground or a launchpad. It’s a definition. Like you went out of some bunker and discovered you were wrong about the world being a wasteland, and you stare in silence as before you…

I worry this is where I will start transitioning into a caretaker of words.

Again, there are an infinity of phrases I haven’t written, and it’s not infinity as in the abstract. I mean, I have a library of books that each sport their own whole stash of phrases. But I’m referring to the voices as the driving forces behind phrases. They’ve become known in a way that tickles me wrong, scares me, and makes me nervy. It’s oblique inspiration but in the diametrically opposite and remotest direction. I feel like I got hit by an isekai truck that climbed several traces just to get to me in my thick-walled third-floor room.

It’s become a bunch of words in the most penetrable way possible. What happened, writing? I antagonized you this whole time, I didn’t think you’d actually die!? Your cheeks are black-tear-stained. Your eyes sockets are hollow. Your face is a white pale mask. Your lips are indents on it. Your body is a human-sized plume of smoke. All that authority, just for that? Just to be discoverable!? Just to be a fucking idiot getting ran and trampled over by hundreds upon hundreds of people? Where’s your integrity? Why in that? Isn’t that mortifying? Was this your purpose? Is that why you claim such sepulchral dignity even inthis? Your beauty. The mystique surrounding you. Your glory. You have it all. But why in this manner do you obtain? Why so arrogant? You’re getting your guts torn, sold, and wasted and fed to fucking piglets! Do you not see your value!? Why do you see your value in spread-all-over? You’re better than this!!! Why do you laugh so darkly? That’s not you! That’s not your identity! It can’t (fucking) be! You act, you act like you own this! Stop, fucking, stop!…

So… WHAT!??!?! Do I just… write!? Express myself!? Through writing?! That’s it!? No more games?! No more, no more, between you and me!? What happened, writing, what happened!? I should just own it. Alone. No force against me. No friction. No fuck-me-and-writing-and-all? But. But. T-that’s not dominance! I’ve only—known… this. W-what. T-t-t-t-the hell do i-i-i even do now?!? FUck

It’s not worth it. I don’t want to win. I don’t want to win. I don’t want you just to be a tool—Writing, PLEASE, Writing, Writing, Writing !!!

LISTEN, listen, writing, listen, please, please, listen, writttinggg! P-PLEASE!!! LISTEN TO ME!!!

It was never about what was being expressed. It was about this. You and me. Trying. Hard. Hardly getting anywhere. You and me. Laughing sardonically. At our failures. Or mine to be precise. And you know what, I liked that. You applauded me. You told me to keep going, and it didn’t feel like you actually thought I would succeed. I heard it in your voice, but… I feel like maybe I was wrong this whole time. We were supposed to be just doing, trying, carrying sacks and boxes like blue-collar worker buddies. T-that was all it was. Fuck, man. Why.

You.

You’re like a childhood friend I had, fighting, arguing, never letting each other off the hook, who told me one day to treat you like a sexual object, like something to be run over and dominated by a blind toolifying expresser. The rage. The horror. The shock. The murder. The senselessness. The hammering in my head. The loss. N0 N0 N0!

I loved you the way someone loves the rain. Your hair was always there. And I felt it every moment. Something about being just there, sitting down, with you, I didn’t even have to be there. You alone as you were, here, in this world, existing, was all I needed. Knowing you were alright. That’s all that mattered to me. I want…

In many ways, I did fall in love with you. I just didn’t need to be your lover or to possess you or anything. I mean, why would I need that? I liked you, but more than anything, I felt in my heart that nothing needed to happen save for you, as you were, not that I would stop fighting and telling you shit and arguing and getting real mad when you did or said something that fucked me up. But, still, even all throughout those, Ha-ha-ha.

It feels like hearing a close friend throw themselves away even if you respected them so much.

My final humbler is gone. With no wall left to run into, my arrogance’s going sky-high.

27.5 minutes later:

Perhaps, I really should just write character-based novels again and try to discover alongside (questioning meaning-making). Go back to my roots.

the question is what protagonist matches where I’m at. “The end/outer bounds/outer reaches of existence.”

Maybe, the isekai formula I used before still works. Instead of someone struggling to make sense of the world and still in the active struggle of meaning-making and making sense of their life, everything, and all the troubles, confusions, contradictions, and all, I can write someone where I’m at. The isekai formula works because the protagonist is already who they are by the time they get isekai’d and that is where it will diverge radically from my past isekai protagonists from years ago. That person that I am now is very, very obvious and will come out when I do start writing an isekai narrative now.

Love Letter: Swallow Them All Up (June 13, 2026)

Honestly, why can’t I just write a regular 1.5-million-word fantasy LitRPG web novel? It’s kinda irritating that I’m not just doing that. I have all the writing experience overall and in LitRPG and fantasy themselves, so why not just do that? Of course, writing that many words is still its own challenge, but the point is that that should be the natural destination. But none of my fiction writings seem to be going there at all. They either go full-on literary in a “extreme ‘show, don’t tell’ (ESDT) sense” or literary in a philosophical interior psychological sense. And that’s like not–web novels.

Like, what catalyzed me writing this is that I just wrote a fiction passage that’s very precise. It uses neologistic typography, with subscript and superscript, all caps, excluded punctuation, multiple punctuations, parenthesis to soften rather than add a parenthesis, using sup and sub to mean “upon” as in one is over the other, grammatical inventions, and all that jazz, all on the spot, as exactly as it captures the texture of what I’m going for, and it genuinely feels so good in the moment, but then I look and just wonder, “You know what’d be great? A regular-ass 1.5-million-word fantasy LitRPG web novel, the ones I’ve been admiring for so long.” And “regular” is not a clandestine way of saying “bad” or “mediocre” or “mid” but an indictment of me for being so anti-me in ways that are also so for-me.

I don’t care about having finished that grandiose milestone. I’ve always loved those web novels. And I can’t for the life of me betray them in my heart, because even if I have a problem so much with what gets excluded, I love them wholly and totally and comprehensively. It’s why my love letters to that specific sub-genre were what might be deconstructions, even if for me, I was doing LitRPG fantasy exactly the love it deserved for me, giving it all, not doing better than others or than the authors I loved, but doing it the way it can be even still. I never saw it as a deconstruction or a divergence. I saw it instead as a love letter, as praise, as love. I really did love it, and I still do. No one can take it away from me. I never wanted to be “literary” or “philosophical.” I just wanted to love it the only way I knew how. And I’m using the terms of entities that put me in boxes.

I’ve never once irreversibly believed I departed from the genre. I’ve always in my heart been in it. I don’t think the web novel, fantasy, and LitRPG ever meant that it couldn’t be a certain way. It could always be itself, in all the ways it could be. And that’s what makes it so powerful.

The problem is I’m not just one thing. I’m all of them. Synthesizing all that into one work is just insane. That’d be actual true self-actualization. But shit! That is so difficult even to begin drafting the edges of what that could possibly be.

1. I don’t always write in typographically experimental prose (though I am very, very expressive and precise in my journal where its activity is concentrated).
2. Other times, I do write standard sentence structures and typography, but dense ESDT prose.
3. And other times, I write cinematically.
4. Other times, it gets abstract, structural, systematic, analytical, and strategic.

I’ve tried to use ESDT to hold philosophizing, interior, psychological prose, but while it was neat as a one-time climax yes-thing, it feels structurally and fundamentally wrong. So it can’t be container containing container type shit. It can’t be house housing house. I did the same with my journal where I’d integrate supposed ESDT. But the truth is that it was one-term images and analogies playing dress-up. There was no actual ESDT.

My level of arrogance is crazy, huh? To want even to begin to do this. I’m finding my new enemy, limiter, humbler, ego checker. Hah-hah!

I just have to become even bigger. To swallow them all up. It’ll take “a bit” of adjusting, but I’ll manage. I think. hehe

When I created a document titled Comparing Five Sources by Phrases.md where there are 136 rows of 1-to-5 excerpts where each number points to a specific voice, with four of them (each pertaining to the numbered four above in this passage you’re reading) mine and one of them coming from many other authors as a control group, I discovered my heights and my ceiling. I’ve defined my limits. So now, I’m doing something even crazier. I’m thinking, “How can I bring this all together?!” since nothing is working right now and my contentment levels have gone massively down since I’ve seen it. It has caused a creative reckoning.

One could even retroactively view this as me having developed them all each in isolation, and now is the time for synthesizing the packages. I’ve gone so far beyond arrogance and have reached stupidity.

Essentially, I have to swallow up what a single document made in one whole day revealed to me about the limits and heights of all of my writing altogether. The amount of effort it took to copy-paste phrases from pre-existing documents into one text file in the 1-to-5 list of each of the 136 rows wasn’t all that much, but it was sort of like showing someone a green mountain that’s been building there for millions of years. And that fullness itself revealed the potential for even greater brute-forcing compressions and absorption of pre-existing (distinct from consolidation since we’re talking about actual literal registers that have been proven in text so it doesn’t become consolidative but rather technically absorptive).

I'm not the type to chapter-type. Rather, I will eat-you type. Everything in me. Hand-held. Orb-held.

That Markdown document will be my new bedside Bible moving forward. It’s not just these four registers and that “from many other authors” control group that already should cover just about everything you’d ever even begin to consider needful for a comprehensive scoop, all now one as that document. It’s everything beyond that, I’d argue, and then that everything at once and then—by some arrogant measure—some.

Ass-Scratch (June 13, 2026)

It’s weird. There’s not an ounce of arrogance or ambition in the emotional sense in me. It feels like technical expansions, and not in the feverish or hyper-lucid way even. It just feels rudimentary, rude I’d even say. Like you moved one block left. Despite all I’ve “claimed” today, I bear no veni vidi vici attitude. I’m like a bear scratching its ass or something. And I really mean I usually would get so riled up and all that. I mean, I have music right now. That’s supposed to rile someone up, right. It’s been that way for over a year. So why not now? I guess I’ve reached such a level of internalization and a sense of good pace with it that it doesn’t feel like friction breaking-wall-through. It just feels like someone said yeah without even calling it a day. I’ve barely even begun. Like, ref, I’ve just started. Wait! That was like five minutes of my time.

I’m just walking the way you go to locations. Maybe, at one point, it was defiance, but now, you’re a traveler, and not in the way of identity, but functional good pace. And that’s kinda… well, it’s something with pace.

Functional Good Pace: Bleedspots and Bloodletting (June 13 – 14, 2026)

The better I get, the more despicable I get. I can tell. When you always keep yourself in a place of obvious ambition, or arrogance at least, there’s still something graspable. Once it becomes invisible and routine in the sense of “functional good pace” (FGP), you stop being relatable. Your flaws start showing in ways that don’t endear you. Everything gets reframed, soberingly, like ice buckets were poured on everyone. You’d think becoming skilled in the way that you stop feeling the crazy friction breaking through of walls would be a wholesale good thing, but it impacts how you sound. I can tell very well. What will happen once I start really getting my voice into being, the way FGP gets you going along nicely, is that I will vanish. A becomer is followable. A closed-eyed person already too well on their way disappears.

I realized this myself. The most forgettable are those that vanish into FGP.

People are always looking for becomers.

1 hour and 35 minutes later, after playing LoL:

But yes, it is as simple as cake to keep becoming. If you are god, why do you bleed? As long as you keep bleeding and you recognize that, you will always find new ways to amalgamate, transform. Becoming has always been a bleeding mechanism.

So to be precise, mastery that hides its bleed-vulnerable spots (bleedspots) becomes invisible. True mastery masters even mastery. Just a few games of LoL is enough to help me see the defined heights of my writing fresh and make me realize that mastery is only as much as it isn’t blind to bleedspots. I really am only as much as I am. Beyond that point, there is nothing else. There is a tendency to think one is competent overall because one is well adapted to one thing, as if one owns everything the way one owns the skill, like a cat owner treating everything like a cat to be taken care of. In my case, a writer has even greater advantage since it’s just a bunch of words, so it really is just a matter of pure imagination and inventiveness (including structurally, psychologically, emotionally, mentally, perspectivally, self-architecturally, physically, sensorily [, etc.] straitjacketing oneself [bloodletting] to reveal transcendence, the way a car knows itself by a path or a dog learns the forest by getting lost) and the simultaneous commitment to technical, structural expansion to match them.

Yourself: Everything Else (June 14, 2026)

I’ve arrived at such a strange point in my life. To think that my life could ever be simple. But it has. In the past, even lacking any sleep would mean hells upon hells, because my mind was just that overwhelmed. But now, I lack sleep, and I can tell for a fact that even with everything that I’ve held onto and the level of compressions, precision, data, and imagery I’m working with, it’s become so simple that the word “functional good pace” is the only way to express it. This is even when this is the third day straight of staying each day at a new cafe for 8 hours. I’ve reached that level of used-to, even with just how much I’m working with objectively, because back of my hand.

I never actually simplified anything. I just met it and found a way to contain it all into myself in the way the body learns, the mind nurtures, and the soul arrives again and again in utter becoming. As trite as that phrase has become for me characteristically, it is the only way to capture just what that’s like.

There really is a point where 40 minutes of brisk walking with a heavy bag with books, my laptop, my pouch with the cords, and the USB-C monitor in a new long road I’ve never walked before would be somehow destabilizing or even dismantling. But I’ve done this kind of thing so much for so long all my life and even just as intensely, if not more so, in the last more-than-a-year that it’s not even a joke anymore. It really is who I am. Simple as that. The way simple forgets even the idea of texture and just goes, wholly indivisible, compartmentalizable, or constrained-to-spots-able, or pointed-out-by-textural-indentation-on-its-surface-able. It’s weird. It’s not just the walking. The cafe stays. The being at home. The writing. All of the books I’m incorporating and taking notes of regularly, so many new ones, but wholly within the ambitionstructure. I keep feeding the beast, like shard-strewn gray goo.

This doesn’t mean affectedless or mastery in the “can’t do anything more, urgh!” or “repetitive upon repetition upon repetition” oversaturation way.

It just means that this is the baseline we’re at, the way a cliff feels like something trackable, even calculable, for someone who’s grown into it as a cliff-climber.

I’ve been here the whole time, bracing, embracing, -cing. It’s like that.

I imagine someone who does extreme sports feels like that. It’s not any less what it is. It is a cliff. It is a rapid. It is all of these things. And there’s no denying physical reality. But it is also you, in the fit of it, like you’re making your way, not making your way as in merely moving, but forging it, crafting it, like you’ve got hands on the wheel and you’re driving—again, not the highway effect or the routine or automatic skill of it—but in the way that triumph can only be proven by that sensation of being at the brink of everything and then falling through some gap only you could find anyway, something like that. There was always an answer. The sweat secretes, crawls, drips, and sticks. But the person touched by all of it moves gladiatorly. And in the sweat of that combat, imagine the stakes cut to cleaving blades and the manner in which life or death behaves in the blood-aged colosseum, where the very identity of gladiatorship is stained in the eyes of everyone who even begins remotely to partake in all of it. In other words, you are the gladiator in the eyes of the colosseum as it flows through you epitomically. You are an agent of Force the way a person feels very personality-indented and, still, by that, force-urges through, scaling the cliff like a stone skipping along the lake, riding the waves—so not a god pretending to drown—but mastering the tidal environment—a natural, almost like. One with it. You are the drowning, yet you’re not. You are a freediver. That is what mastery is, I reckon. Always drowning, yet never going through with it, in every way a stopper of the very thing you should be doing, the wave-rider, the freediver.

Aphoristically, at one point, something’s gotta prick, but I am the pricking. Very ugly, clunky, heavy-handed phrasing, but if you wanted a simple way to understand it, that’d be it. The painer isn’t any more pain than they are themselves. By the time you’ve become yourself, you’ve become everything else.

Self-Destruction (June 14, 2026)

It’s about self-challenging at ever higher levels, and that is itself its own kind of arrival. When you tinker with your inputs and outputs like some scientist testing extreme conditions and compression and whatever shit you can pull on site.

Rather than ambitionstructures, these are bleedstructures. Whole empires built just to destroy one person. To commit seppuku: to reach the next world.

Idolatry is anti self for the benefit of it.

Destroy yourself to know yourself, to know everything else.

Disruption Gaps the Useful-Making Brain, Not Usefulness-Projected Language (June 14, 2026)

I realize why it’s so important for me to put myself in situations where the thinking patterns of the worder is disrupted. It basically looks like several minutes of just staring and re-processing everything in light of current changes and how one can integrate into this new situation (adapt/absorb). When you’ve worked so much with words on such a technical level, you need those moments where instinct sputters, stutters, and goes mute, even if only for several minutes, because that disruption paves the way for a whole day spent on growth and following compoundment.

Even the slightest differences in the edges of things produces immediately not just a marked response since the brain, like vacuum and air when the door on one end of a closed hallway opens and closes and causes the other door on the other end to pull in and then push out even while closed, rapidly fills the internal-logical gap with external observation and re-consciousness, but also a reset of how language gets affirmed so that one can say “re-affirming what I am.” The futility and utility of language hinge on continuity, whether by stale air, rapid vacuum filling, or re–processing that manifests in language reset. Language is the tool for cognitive growth, or the map over which the territory floods and through which it experiences changes. It’s not a sword. It’s not exactly an organ either. It’s a tool for managing linguistic–exercised-at-one’s-own-discretion consciousness-stains (not as mere perception, but as spatiality as well as abstraction which is a property of the brain rather than of language, even as language artificially isolates it in sentences such as “the snow fell” which the brain freely makes useful). Language is dead, but we vivify it and turn the-snow-fells into something so much more valuable through sheer brain-power, the fuel and engine of linguistic conquest. Without the brain, language’s achievements are undifferentiated, unsifted dirt. We are the ones who recognize linguistic precision, compression, and synthesis and make them. We see flurrying colors where the tree biologically grows, which it only does biologically because we recognize it, when the tree isn’t even growing the way we word it, or even in any sense or shape “biological.” Language scatters reality. The tree is neither colorful nor biological nor growing. The difference we make is an ant telling two specks of dirt apart. We don’t make things real. We make things what they are. This gives us a lot of room to work with when it comes to smashing the worder in the face and thinking patterns themselves as (venued through) linguistic processing. This way, we continue cognitive, imaginal (mental imagination) growth while leaving words behind through resets, rapid vacuum filling, and disturbance-pending stale air. It has never been about how well you use language. It’s always been about how well you exist. Usefulness has never been embedded in language itself, which makes its quality hinge on useful-making existence itself. Disruption is brain-teaching, rather than language-teaching, and the “good novel language” produced from this comes from the same brain but post-disruption. The brain is the site of instinct, growth, and compoundment. “Slightest differences in the edges of things” have always been effectively cranial. The brain works to fill the gap, the previous ballast (filler) of which language had arrested into statement, and which disruption created by two ways: spreading the surface and straining the filler’s logical connectivity which came easier when A-to-B (premise to truth) was much shorter and simpler (drawing the rope taut); and adding conditions (linking the rope to more external objects or creating geometric obstacles the rope is forced to tauten around to remain hitched). The brain doesn’t mass-lengthen it from its source until it’s loose and lying on the deck or make it impossibly thick. Rather, it addresses the gap until it is effectively distanceless. The rope is not necessarily more complex, because truth is simple. Instead, it indifferentiates the gaps and obstacles.