chapter 5

Lots of shit-stains, gotta clean this shit up, damn-it!

Start (June 14, 2026)

hAPPY-

Even if I want to say that I wake up sad and depressed, I just don’t. And it’s not that I’ve gotten so caught up in what I’m doing that I don’t have time to address anything or anything. In fact, I actively address these concerns in my journaling. I’ve grown to become so much more sensitive as well as articulate. And it actually feels great to be alive. But at the same time, I recognize well what it means to be okay. What it means to be who I am, after everything, after years of wondering and wandering. It feels funny looking back, but no, it’s never truly just funny. It’s all of the things, and usually, I’d have something to say. But other times, I just don’t, and that’s its own writing. The articulacy as well as the moments in between where everything both shuts up and drifts into ambience. The rain, the clouds, the chatter of the people around. You’d think I had it all together, and the funny thing is I do. I’ve lived a life as much as anyone, and sometimes, I can barely even adjust to anything, and other times, it feels like everything’s just landing on me like egg on hard rock. Other times still, it all passes me by, and I can barely even begin to face it all. I’ve known it all, all manner of feelings, as well as great unknowns and dissonances. My life has been all about dealing with these dissonances and wandering through these tall, huge labyrinths I can barely even begin to escape. But it really is just a matter of sitting down and enjoying oneself even as there are many big questions yet unanswered. It’s not like they’re my personal ones anyway. I’ve already integrated a lot of myself and have taken the time to address my personal concerns, so whatever lies beyond those is just curiosity and perhaps dread of something far larger than myself. All of my writing presently is continued exploration. If I knew writing then, I know writing now. Even more so. And through it, I have been able to capture a lot of the pieces that didn’t necessarily make me fundamentally more okay, because at one point, I already reached a point of okayness and even cloud-nine happiness. But whatever else is extended appreciation of all of that which my life is. I am only as much as I am, but I am multitudes, the mass of all that I am, a prolonged journey into a world so big and bright, a self so full and rich, and a medium of expression that keeps yielding as well as confounding. I’ve barely even begun, yet I’ve become so much, already. It’s funny, yet it’s as somber as gray clouds. Ha-ha.

I want to do a full experimental diagnosis of where I am mentally, emotionally, psychologically. But it feels like the oblique is the only place to find it, but maybe, I’ve collected, accumulated enough of myself in all of those obliques that I can begin to synthesize, just one step of faith, with a breakthrough in short order.

I am a person. I live and go along. I also sit and stay. Long enough that the wind keeps rustling. I don’t usually write, but when I do, I write with my soul. I say “usually” when I write thousands of words a day, but it honestly feels like most of my writing is not me writing but me thinking and being and existing in all the ways a person can, breathing in the beautiful scent of existence and being one with it. Writing is merely the exhaust fumes of all that perceptive effort. And less effort, more falling from a great height but never landing with burnout, exhaustion, or breakdown. I am always at the edge of my creativity, finding new frontiers in which to play. I don’t know what I do most of the time, but when I do, it’s that moment after a whole day spent with something, and then others and then some… and then done. I give myself that… or it clicks and it feels real great. And I allow myself that, give myself that, have set it up all my life, feels like, but really, it was a patient, painstaking path to get here. And here I am. With all that I am. What’s a word to a person? Not life itself, but the place where feelings meet in the act of writing, with the words being mere active brain activity and emotional processing and smiling, crying, ranting, and all that that the brain manages and undergoes. It’s a fun-happy-thing to be alive overflowingly that I can say all this. I feel good.

And it never feels that it is simply just that, but it is all the simplicity in that moment of saying it and feeling it with a closed-eye embracing smile. I feel it all, down to the rudest smile to the brightest to the biggest to the most exquisite. The complexity, sophistication, elegance all blended in a perfume-like grin. I feel it all. I feel it. As big as the clouds, as sorrowful as death, as longing as infatuation but without getting lost in it, as heartful as eyes that soften so much they feel like they might dissolve. Cotton. I wonder, and I step with a “might” in my gait, that “maybe” that feels like it embraces everything openly and without walls. I feel it all. Embracing. Hugging, Fully coming in a mixing motion, being one in motion. I feel it all.

I go around, and for a while, I feel I’ve already reached the end, but I’ve just allowed myself to feel it all in that crisp, clear-minded, even blurry, obscure moment, the fullness of an emotion, fully enveloped, developed, blooming, crashing, crushing, scritching tactilely. I am. In that moment, when I think I’m about to reveal the fraud that couldn’t even get at that, I see instead a face with a warm, kind, childishly simple smile that slowly turns to a grin because the locked-eyes staring gets long enough, that crisp feeling of friendship warmth. I know it too well, and “too” not in any overwhelming way, but in the way it floods and inundates you with love. To see yourself that way, and to see all them through you (him, her, them). The people who’ve been with you all your life, even as many of them have already left and drifted apart. You keep them in your heart, in the mirror when you look, ghostly apparitions still warmly shoulder-to-shoulder, arms over. There’s a crisp, simple magic to that. And it never truly feels overwhelming, beyond what fullness inevitably makes you feel.

I genuinely, genuinely, genuinely want to know it. And I do. But again. Again. Again. And it easily comes. And I feel it. In my heart. Full. Like deep warm kisses that envelop each other. There’s something in that moment, closed-eyed, the world full and warm and embracing and true. Dissonance is a nice addition to all of it, because it makes fullness even more complex in the way beauty is always unraveling, making its fullness ever more felt.

It hurts. And the tears drop like petals, welcoming the stream along the gutter, light shining ever more pleasantly. And whatever dissonance and hurt found “found family” in the hotel lobby where people are gathering and coming and leaving. The world as it was, crystallized in moments like these. Hearts touch, ever so slightly, then like softest lips part.

I feel like I’m at the tip of a very long, long journey. The adventure’s just begun! And if it gets cut short, the loose fabric rolls to the ground, the world always meeting it, never having truly left it, but not ever allowing it ever to consider itself any more than it fully already was, which was more than enough and unyieldingly perfect. I feel it. What smile, optimistic, adventurous, full of wonder and awe, was already thinking of starting fresh and new, continued then along, and, by ending, if it happens quickly, only furthered itself that direction, but not to disappointment or fault, just the way the sound goes down, low, and until silence. And that silence never feels truly dead, something always hovering, meaning something, moving. The past, the present, the feeling of fullness that never left. It was all there like presents at a funeral casket. It’s just begun. And indeed, it has! See, the clouds soar!! Don’t grieve me, welcome life. But yes, in the same motion of grief, feel life flowing most vividly, tears blurring into warmest smiles that can never forgive death and always, in some way, feel life and it one and the same, perhaps unacceptingly, but eventually, subconsciously, unconsciously, one with that knowledge. Denial as perfect as acceptance. The grief is an expression of life.

It’s hard to describe, but it kinda feels like a Makoto Shinkai film, but not in an escapist sense, but in a fully encompassingly human manner, the way the world goes and you feel everything in the breeze, all the memories like petals gust-blown off the steps into a flurry in the air.

Trying to Revive Jesus

I literally have no frickin’ clue as to what the hell I was on about, but for some reason, I was making all the sense, and I guess I still feel that. Of course, it’s been almost a year since I wrote those entries, but even if I’m not immersed in the act of writing it any longer, I sit here in admiration. What I have now, post-book4, feels strange. It’s dumbfounding. It’s like I’m skiing or some shit, gliding on ice. Everything’s already done and happened, the fullness of all of it internalized into my Writingbastion. I’ve become the utter-thing all of that gestures at now. Yet here I am speechless.

I wonder why. I feel every single thing coursing through me without it being some kind of force surging through me. It’s already a part of my blood flow, invisibly. The “coursing feel” is metaphorical and not in the way that they’re actually differentiable, but at this point, just a way of reviving even for a little bit in prose the feeling of that, even if that’s not real anymore. I’ve become One with the Fates. Those grandiose things, and it’s just Tuesday.

To think arrival would come so early. Is it Christmas? Fuck, I’m trying to make light of it with humor or hope that by doing so somehow find some part of myself to portal me into a brand new world of re-feeling—Fuckery!

What is it? It should burst through me and emanate into the space like some Goliath Jurassic Park figure thing. Shit!

Yet I’m like hands that’ve not found some use yet. It’s not rusting yet, but when I’m this still, it doesn’t feel like stillness. It feels like actual speechlessness. And I guess, I’m contradicting that, huh? I’m clutching damn smoke!

If there was something, something that could get it all fixed, I don’t know how, but there must be something. Something in my head that I’m not entirely penetrating and claiming (as if!) for myself. Can’t know. Dun’t knuw. I feel like a child babbling along and taking whatever sweet little nothings and making something big out of ‘em. Fuck-it. New motto <--

The most arrogant (realized?) version of myself is apparently very humble… and speechless.

I want to burn shit! And fucking gorge myself on those fucking spoils and make something actually creative out of them. Damn-it!

Ironically, this discomfort is its own fuel, but hey, let me have this shit. As hypocritical—or whatever this can be called at this point beyond irony—as it is. What’s (this) god but a bunch of sticks I’ve put together to form something indivisible and un-feeling? Re-feel that shit! Please, godamitt! Take the shit and pour lava or liquid on it, watch it erode, and then, from the little crumbs or whatever tiny debris comes out of it, make something with genuine spunk, fiery fucking pleasure, a bit of fuck here and a bit of toss(-ing) there. Something with at least a bottomless hole of… unsettled ambition. As cringey as wanting to feel it all through that start again, when that was its own rightful anchor at first. Whatever I’ve generated, has eaten itself and spat out the shit and then eaten that as well, somehow. I’ve not found a gap in the symmetry I’ve fucking torn into totality.

What’s a magic word? Poison the wells? Have a go at fucking myself, maybe three times there on the rough-spiky-edged bed? Try something with genuine creative spunk (said that already). Lay three bottles on the bedside, try them on like clothes, pour them gently at first then in a burst like squeezing a carton of its juices and doing it all over my own face, hoping in that creamy white, I can sense a bit of myself, a liveliness that can be called being alive. The fresh, slimy feeling of detestment, of having ambition streak my veiny arms and the weight of my mouth groggily, scratchily munch on flesh, on the growling voices that I’ve collected just for my own amusement, to make myself into something with a little bit of a bitter tirade, which is used then as a launchpad for “even greater things”—happinesses whose flavor don’t demand from me anything but unbridled, all-feeling expression. I wonder. Sit still long enough, start itching, scratch it, watch it bleed, blood running down my thigh, feel it like burns, words spill out, an interrupted cry-laugh-growl-gasp-howl. I made my bed and I will lie in it.

The blood tastes like goo. I gobble it up like the hand even I have cannibalized to produce fire before. I’m that irritable, creatively inspirable. I’ve got a flight of fancy. An episodic explosion of my-self, the symmetry longing for dissolution, dismantlement, something where shards and cracks taste like delicious madeleine cake. I want to fucking eat that and make that the bed I lie in.

All of this is extremely metaphorical.

Yeah

Had a feeling that the only way forward was to go even further, past that threshold. Now, I’ll get misunderstood a lot, but hey, I guess that’s what it is. Language is malleable, but it has to meet the growing, evolving, squeezing self. If not, I’ll start rambling numbly, bumbly, dumbly. Funnily enough, this is just its own sardonic win-by-default.

Grrr

But without the crazy language, I can’t unreveal myself. There’s something about becoming that doesn’t answer any more than it has already answered, and when you add to that, you get more of the same, not that it’s redundant to keep becoming, but I feel at least in this technical case, it’s very much a done deal of just yeah, well, pop goes the weasel.

I feel I’ve said this a million times. In innumerable different ways. And every time is a new time of defeat. High time for defeat!

I’m fucking myself over with classical music playing in the background.

I’m really trying to re-invent myself with a bunch of words. hA-hA!

But yeah, looking back through my writings, I’ve said something pretty cool stuff. Phrases. Shit. Things I’d like to do again, totally novelly. But yeah, it’s up to me to crack the bottle that is this inane thing I am by default.

Man, those stuff I wrote then really did feel good to write. Shit.

Shit-Stainer (June 15, 2026)

Disgusting 03:33:35

My ambition is actually disgusting. What I put myself through just to squeeze out hard gems because I know it’ll change me. I am so willing to be changed it’s insane. If it was just sitting down and waiting, that’d be great. I did that. I did that for years actually. But the fact I’m now chasing it like a fucking disgusting little sex-crazed addict. God. This shit I’m doing. It stains. Changes. Whatever change I had before. This is just as much, if not more so, even though this is already post–whole entire birth-to-present life closure. I’m making my way into some whole nother shittery. I’m going so far beyond that it should be dizzying when you think about it. The willingness to forget everything and be totally immersed in a whole constrained situation to that degree? What am I doing?! But every single fucking time, I am multitudes. I fuck myself raw and dry. It’s horrific. It’s not just humiliation fetish. It’s becoming the abused thing I stomp on using constraints sourced from the world around me and through situations inside which I put myself. Fire. Every time. I get genuine creative growth. Cognitive, too. Imaginative. Yes, yes, yes, ALL OF THAT!

I’ve created some really interesting shit because I shit-stained myself that way.

Embodiment 11:06:59

In the strangest and most after-all-of-that-integration way possible, I am the story of my life.

Clouds 12:34:30

In the end, it was a long joke I made. I became the person that I am. I went through everything in my life like browsing through pages, but if my eyes flashbacked to everything like I was back there, all over again, not a single immersion even off by a little, always there completely, never bereft of the experience in any measure or degree. I’ve been here all this time, present, in the way overwhelm deteriorates and unmakes you. But at the same time, who was it deteriorating and unmaking? I ended up who I was, am. There’s barely a difference now. What’s the rain sound like? It’s like that. You hear it all the time, and you hear it across your entire life. At one point, you should’ve ended it, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. Nothing could end it. And you’re here now, as much as the wind blows, as carefully yet how freely it does, delicate, precious, the morning sun, going by in a drizzle. It’s barely an inconvenience. Barely anything even. To begin with, start with, end with, laugh with, cry with, do all those things I’ve said so many times before with. I’ve barely even become, and I’ve become all I am.

It was a long time ago.

My name is [Full Name]. I’ve become me. The way a person sees the clouds and “there(!)” is day.

I looked up at the clouds, there was I.

The fragments consolidated. Made whole. What better way to put it?

I’ve really, really fucked myself.

I’m reaching integration levels I can’t even (begin to) fathom. What is me?

Was I ever the person that I was?

I’ve become. In more ways than one.

There’s a (wry?) laugh hidden here. I can’t seem to find it.

Everything’s in me. now.

I feel it like the clouds.

Where was I⬛ again

Sometimes, I look at the clouds, hoping it’ll be different, but what was I thinking about again?

Being, existence, all those words. Before all that, what was life like? Before integration.

Before everything I know now.

Hmm 17:40:17

I guess that’s it.

Formative Portals and Copyworked Systems: Magical Clunkiness and Corrupting, Life-Becoming Infrastructure (June 15, 2026)

I realize that’s what it is. They were all portals in themselves—isekai worlds, a whole world-building. Books as experienced, books as re-readable objects, places as experiences, places as re-visitable and continuously historically changed locations, experiences vs. re-experiencable objects, and all. But I’ve reverse engineering these portals so that they’re effectively systematized, or, more precisely, incorporated into my system, with the hub of understood, studied portals and all. That’s what my writing has been doing all this time.

Most of the time, we read a book where you’ll read words pertaining to the topic or fictional world—e.g., “earthshine”—and we just move on to the next portal as if the last one never existed. We just know because we can recall, but that isn’t the same as actually strip-mining these books and having all of these commonplaced phrases from many different books in one large text document.

While “system” implies dead, cold, and analytical, when you have a system in place to access continuously different portals in a user-interfaced hub, it means infrastructure for what would otherwise just be someone tapping away in a document with nothing in their head except the ones they’ve already well instinctivized to the point of exhaustion. The technical skill there isn’t really skill so much as someone voodoo-ing their way to what they consider art or beauty. Though instinct is still a form of skill, just not evidenced the way so many different papers get cross-referenced and you can understand any single paper by everything else, where words turn from belonging to the vocabulary of a single sacred text into literature.

It’s not just books. It’s everything else. We tend to experience things that could very well be fonts for creative explosions, breakthroughs, and inventions, yet we fall back on things that come naturally to what we were culturalized to believe are adequately “creative,” often pertaining to themes, topics, and ideas well-trodden rather than to novel ones crafted from taking full ownership and management of the whole journey of inspiration so that our brightest and most original ideas don’t get butchered in execution or our greatest executions butchered by isolated (self-blind), non-improving, non-reflecting, self-collapsing (unevidenced) tritedom.

Lost Content

A crucial part of this is realizing that “arrivals” are feelings, not states or actual end points. / the actual font of creative existence. / We fully feel and believe in them [arrivals] while continuously marching forward as the actual state and animated end point of creative life. / than to literate (verbization of “literature”), the way a literature circulates continuously not out of dunning krugers but of irreplaceable accumulative effort even in the most seemingly redundant ways for each essay adds to what couldn’t be worded any way else by both capacity and self-styling as one indifferentiable source.

[The page refreshed right as I finished the whole much longer paragraph (now paraphrased fragments above), and it's gone now. I don't recall it.]

But note that this captures why impression (what I attempt to recall now) is not so important as the flow as explicitly captured (in phrasing as inseparable context that grant value to the words, terms, neologisms) in the moment, because aliveness is just as much the evidenced as the experience, where evidence is indivisible with “earthshine” as experience. I am not reviving what was lost, but writing something new to make up for it even while not actually replacing anything. Loss instrinsically characterized what was written to make up for it, even as the loss remains eternal unpaper-over-able. The texture of experience is not perfect. It is what it is. And replacing or improving it is impossible, because everything is weighed by everything else, including what we perceive as redundant or lost forever. We don’t actually have a way to debate or argue or engage in evidenced combat with the lost text (happening in its own isolated portal, which can be later textized and, through that, incorporated once it’s had its full universally its-own development). But the shape of the hole necessarily produces the need to bridge the gaps, which writing and the system aims when reverse-engineering the portals which are universally separated from one another and brought together in a single strip-mining project with copy-pasteable, pit-against-eachother-able (divide-and-conquerable, or DaC) lines of text in one single document.

Humiliation, as an emotion, like from showing a vulnerable side of ourselves, is part of the broader effect of loss, because it is a threat on integrity or sense of self, a perceived gap between ourselves and ourselves. When we lose things crucial to our sense of self, like what I wrote and lost to a page refresh just now during an irreplaceable, ungetbackable flow state that is a whole self-contained extended moment of consciousness and, thus, aliveness, it is the same as experiencing a gap in who we are during vulnerability. But by “crucial,” I’m not saying the self itself breaks. I am talking about the sense that experienced variations, like when we expose ourselves to challenges that allow us to grow our self even while disrupting the sense of it. The record or proof of that aliveness and creative insight as debatable, wrongable (as in “can be wrong” and thus useful by virtue of that), serving-to-improve-me text is gone, disrupting who I am humiliatingly in the same vein as losing crucial data of the past that my mind can never refill integrously. But in all of that, the neurological brain that loses, not through disease but functional disuse in an area, gains through compensation. While we associate this with skills, this encompasses the self as subject to humiliation and loss of objective data pertaining to one’s past, like how writing grows to become even more precise to capture and integrate these—actual improvement from shambles. In my case, I lost to the page refresh what I wrote so masterfully just now, so that’s already within writing itself. But even inside, writing still grows in the same motion as the operating, thinking, processing, feeling brain. Because this is a very rare event, it’s not that this will stop happening completely or I will do something practical to make it never happen again. It’s about these are everywhere and crucial to our own growth since the brain both needs the flow state and the disruption of it to produce even greater ones even more impenetrable and requiring even more nemeses. Working on the verge of falling composure gives us room to become more of ourselves like we’re a resource that keeps giving if drilled with those “deep well pump systems” they use to drain water from deep underground. The psyche is just as adaptable as intelligence, and the difference between them gets negligible the closer we get to the text as dormant till human-vivified. The system is very well experiential. Object in the same motion of recollection, revisitation, and real-time experience. My deepest humiliations and losses are crucial guides for my most insightful ideas, because like daily sweat, they create something better than insight left floating in the text layer without confirmation and thus the means to develop beyond text as roboticized assumption. The portal is very well the everything-ends-here arrival moment as well as the study sessions at the strip-mined text library composed of reverse-engineered portals re-accessable as DaC copyworked text.

My improvisational making-songs-on-the-spot singing guitar-playing sessions feel as crisp as humilation, not the same as it, but the same motion in its impact on my creative life. Writing is the same, every time. The stakes, the vulnerability. If one feels nothing, they’re aggregating data, which is part of the travel, where you just go on and along, same-thing-same-thing. If one feels something, it is just as crucial, for growth happens on the edges and verges (composure-breaking) as well as the interstices (mundane data clumping), on which my flow states and managed fractures rely. We need micro-growths and -frictions that can feel very much like micro-sleeps in the way they assault you and then you realize you just did a micro-sleep, though crucial in a positive way.

My clunkiest moments are where I know I’m reaching beyond and there’s something that eludes me even still. That is magic.

But yes, it’s not about re-capturing the magic of those portals in system and more like the system becoming invisible as infrastructure for you to focus on just traveling to your next creative event. You own the magic, not the system, but the system turns on the notifications for you to watch and “own” the experience yourself in a Youtube video format. The strip-mining is not freezing experiences, but trusting you to do all the work, since a bunch of text fragments means nothing except to the person who can see (personal mind, imagination) so much in them. Beyond re-access, the hub is not a collection of portals the way they’re all still separate. In copyworked text, they’re not just lines of text that arctically happen to be together sequentially. The system itself rightfully and correctly corrupts the portalage (what I will call the whole as mashing of portals). E.g., I met someone (person, soul, being, personality, friends, family, relations, history, memories, perceptions, observations, ideas, data, moments, changes, corrections, clunky and elusive magic) on the way (i.e., road, infrastructure, sequential yet warm, alive, full, fresh, vivid) to Chicago.

Self-Provisioned Breakfasts: Anti-Deputies (June 16, 2026)

Everything hits me like morning breakfast. I can barely even begin to say anything. And it’s already here, being eaten; I’m eating it. And the taste is there, delicious, wonderful, fulfilling, filling, warm, fresh, exciting, thrilling, relaxing, motivating, start from scratch, everything rolling into the new age of exploration. Simultaneously, it’s not just that one mood or tone. “Everything” means everything. The different oblique memories and connections in my mind lighting up, and they’re coming from many different places and oblique feelings that don’t map onto any pre-existing emotion except a sense of having lived the way a person does in all the ways that they do irreparably (not as a negative, but as a state of life, of livedness, aliveness, birth to present, the whole shebang).

Yet it is morning breakfast. You are this whole thing. Apparently. So do your memories say. The present is endlessly continuously irreplaceable, and each conscious-enough moment allowably potentially brings up wholly separate things from the previous, in each session (continuous span) of reconstruction.

The food always tastes different, yet feels somehow the same. The eggs never stop tasting like eggs, but it’s always “like,” never truly the same. The world has changed. The eggs have a different flavor. But they’re still eggs, and they contain everything eggs has contained for years. What little difference is imperceivable. And the true differences lie in our reconstructedselves.

But yes, so many memories coming from places very remote to one another, which issue during a moment even if it is zero-related to each and every one of the memories themselves, with a level of obliqueness such that the general activity, place, situation, etc. respective to each memory themselves don’t trigger it.

The brain is already capable of this level of seeing all these different things. But integration, especially as continually accumulated (released) and repeatedly synthesized and refined in capture and broadness such that it itself creates the very conditions for mashing up so many different things together to create wholly new creations as neurologically processed and experienced (new experiences), makes for a brain that’s trained to handle, accommodate, and even benefit highly from this oblique hyper-association, with greater creativity, aliveness, mindfulness, well-being, sense of self, direction, and all. Sensitivities are artificially trained to explicate, conceptualize, imagize (imagery), and conclude (not to an end, but to manage technically) vividness, dissonances, and obliqueness until aliveness and lived-in life itself is expanded. By eliminating stored-up rain, you make room for more. Progress is countable even as it is endlessly creativizable in the way a jacket can be masterable in all the ways it is experienced bodily by a person in movement and gait as well as social presentation, broader appearance, and behavioral intelligence. The person can very well be determined by how much they have been able to look through the barrel of the gun and cleaned up the grit inside, because each shot brings a whole new range of experiences, and how well one manages each pile-up of grit decides their ability to make do both with routine irritation and oblique ambition, where the act of scouring the grit obliqueizes ambition. The kilo-weighable game preserve of captured animals is crucial to improvement. My corpus is essentially that. Everything else flees past like a travel in a jeepney ride in a blur of scenery and country life, where people go about and hove into sight and dogs bark and whatever details just impresses itself on who-we-are without our understanding them or incorporating them explicatedly. We’re gunmen who think we’re mere men. By owning the gun, we own the shots, and the kills. Captured. Made preserve. Weighable heap of capture. Stock. Now go and own a ranch. Bother with the rest of the world insomuch as you can process it in your own life. Morning breakfast is your own grown and hunted game preserve food and crops. Now eat it. CLAYGO. Much of modern life hands you the keys to the kingdom. We’re not all actually wealthy business lords, but we are each in our own way playing our own fool’s treasure. We associate good views with aliveness and mistake our inner worlds as merely socially unclaimable. We’re all letting everything else speak for us (especially when we speak merely to get spoken at in the form of social rewards and external, self-contained goodnesses like mountains, events, communities, experiences, and such). We live vicariously through everything handed to us. Writing allows us to go beyond this immediacy and become so much more than just ourselves as ourselves, but ourselves as everything else and then back to ourselves like they’re all answering to me, not by some vicarious self-confidence provided through someone else speaking or doing some performance to enact and act out what we desire and claim through, but by a bunch of words. Anti deputies. Deputies and their rewards are the liminal spaces of hollow houses with beautiful exteriors, the backrooms that interspace lived-inness. Everything looks right, but is actually just uncanny and wrong. It’s everything that should be right, but just ends up falling through once you actually engage with it. Lived-inness defies this. You’re larger-than-reward. Larger-than-vicariousness. Larger-than-everything-as-of-unowneds. Larger-than-rain. Larger-than-blur. Larger-than-oblique. Larger-than-breakfast. Larger-than–words-as-experience-rather-than-anti-vicarious.

Re-Constructing the Wheel From Memory (June 16, 2026)

I’ve never found myself doing a whole big organizing effort like a master tracker in the sense of the following:

when you’re going through the effort of actually outlining everything, cleaning everything up into categories, and creating master lists, summaries, and indexes, which means tasks, calendars, documents, sheets, notes (not just daily notes, but master notes), external references and books, etc. Not the same as just journaling, writing, or taking notes. Not an everything book. Not second brain. Just literally using Google’s apps and creating this big organizing effort.

So while I know how to use Sheets, I’ve always just ended up writing in Markdown for the most part and using Visual Studio code’s Explorer View and different workspaces to access different text files and whole folders and subfolders for countless different things.

I might be mistakenly thinking that there is an actual difference when there’s none. I already use Google Maps anyway, which is its own special thing. One can argue that Sheets doesn’t really do anything different, and I myself have not needed Markdown tables all that much. I’ve gotten used very much to integrating everything into writing and journaling. It’s how I got better at reading, strip-mining texts linguistically, and constructing ambitious passages.

These ambitious passages do double in turning a bunch of data into something grounded in synthesis and insight, so it makes raw data so much more useful. Nevertheless, Sheets doesn’t have to be just about raw data. It can very well go in tandem with my writing. But the fact I haven’t used it that much at all and have defaulted to writing goes to show how powerful wrtiing can be when you use it for everything. In past times, you can see how writers will write out geometry, cartography, imagery, and all that, where limitations themselves boosted writing ability, which in turn made them much less reliant on raw data visualized through other means, which can make for much more narratively coherent and engaging material than if it was just effective data, which nevertheless is still useful in the matter of real-time, actively-used-while-driving-traveling-and-using-ride-apps Google maps.

Even dates, name lists, and counts get solved easily in text files with Markdown lists, so it’s not really an issue whatsoever.

For the longest time, I did tell myself that I wanted everything to be in the writing itself, not anything else. I didn’t want any kind of external framing or apparatus to do the work for me. I wanted to benefit myself wholly in the writing where you can just have a plain text and have all the work done just like that. In my case, it’s also Markdown, but more importantly, it’s basically plain text for 99 percent of it. The Markdown is just a formatting formality at this point so that you can see each entry structured within headers and then close and open entries and even look at the outline of them. But yes, it’s safe to say that spending all that time in plain text with that intent already baked into everything I wrote developed a philosophy and mindset where I shun things that can’t speak for themselves in writing as its own separate, crucial means and basically say nothing at all with everything else speaking for them. I have turned writing into the mode of self-actualization, of getting away from relying on buzzwords and illusions (e.g., people taking pride in having read “licensed” books than in actually writing vulnerably out of themselves rather than reaching for familiar imagery that feels validating in and of itself, when everything should only be personally meaningful after having grappled with everything in and of itself as much as one has perceived them and defaulted vicariously over all one’s lifespan) that are easier to fall for when your brain is optimized for them rather than having spent time building everything in-house from the “what is a dog?” to generating a multitude of analogies to capture nuanced and complex ideas that come to you experientially and even in somatic ways.

To get here, I had to stop the act of being right once and then never again. I had to start being wrong in all the ways I could be wrong, and yet, in every single one, rightness (some kind of integrity, or at least a participation that declares itself something else in hopes of getting rid of the muck of being represented by everything else—some attempt, some attempt) accumulates, not truth. But the rightness of someone expanding surface area, of someone coming out of the void of vicariousness into the light of their own being—earthshine, 50 times brighter than the moon. So you see. I exist as a medium of myself—before anything else and before even myself as everything else, before even the act of existence as something in which you have participated for so long and to what end which you might find yourself grappling with one day, though relatively earlier in my case due to a collapse of structures that I held dear to everything—whereas you see others participating in the world, and by such, their volume of words amounts to everything else and then nothing else. There’s no point they ever think of it as anything other than what makes sense, and when things make sense, nothing actually bubbles from beneath the surface. Hollow exteriors, born from things that never thought to become—become, the way void casts its own shine—after eradicating their own visions of the lights smothering them and fooling them previously into thinking they themselves were owners of those lights when their shine amounted to voiddom. Writing is neither falsehood or truth. It’s where a bunch of words gather. I will not look at the stars no (any) longer. I will die here, today, with the meagerness of these words and without even death’s claim, or even life’s. Let me wallow in the way that I am, by what I am not, and then by that, nothing. And in that void, a sense of having shone myself my own earth. I want to be. So I try. I can’t even navel-gaze. I can only look at the words. And that’s not me either. Look again. (Look, again.) The act of writing was always for me the act of fighting everything else and then myself (as everything else) and then never again, for it was just a bunch of words. My grandiosity is baked in the very act of transcending myself as everything else, everything else as myself, my life-world, born from the sky and the ground and the everything beneath, the formation of all into one (-> what one has to destroy). To become was to destroy. Writing is the residue, the debris, the leakage. I will become through brimstone and fire, through cleansing, through forgetting, through recalling but something else entirely uncannily because that reconstruction is of the me in the present. And even after all that, all the surface area from all that residue is still critical. The me today is built on so much that do not at all reflect what I’ve become. I am everything I’m not. Without the “I’m nots,” I wouldn’t be me today. I would lose my way. The act of writing is to commit so fully into understanding even if it means using tools and frameworks because you have to build everything else (i.e., your believing putting-in-your-own-words of everything else which I’ve said you have to destroy but have to believe in fully without the intent to deconstruct but to deny the self anything it was previously to make way for understanding and then from that, even greater understanding) in-house themselves to challenge yourself the writer of them simultaneously so that you can come to debate, reflexive eradication, and dialectics. You have to do it. You are not an enemy of the world any more than you are an enemy of yourself as the in-house re-constructor (think the way our head does memory reconstruction every day) of them. You are a recaller of the world. The self and the world is baked into that. In writing do you reconstruct/recall, and that endless present-oriented becoming in the act of writing outputs a ripe (for crushing) bunch of words.

27 minutes later:

To be honest, this felt like me saying all the things I’ve already said, but much more explicit. I guess that’s most things I write. I guess that’s the point of writing. Understanding through explicitness. I mean, it’s not like I ever truly fooled myself into thinking I was saying anything new. But that’s the point. I was re-constructing the world I already knew so intimately, and yet, through a bunch of words, I discovered so much more than if I just let assumption have its way completely. I didn’t actually know what I was going to say before I started writing. Everything happened as I wrote, and so when I come to familiar ideas, that’s usually because I came to it from a whole nother direction and through different phrasing, analogies, and conceptual avenues. Ultimately, you get to see how I think in real time. You get to see me recalling everything from scratch in each entry, a vivifying of my life. The feeling of being alive. Of hearing the train horn like morning breakfast as well as everything hitting me all at once, like fresh bagel being both filling yet so distinct in being -> me. Everything is new again, because I approached it with fresh eyes. That is the novelty of which I speak. New connections out of a very known world of memories, imagery, and past experiences. The person I am now having access to something the younger self who had accumulated it all didn’t. Writing did that for me. Post-integration. Re-approaching. Re-calling. Re-constructing. Re-mastering. Re-tracking. Re-discovering. “Newly understood.”

14 minutes later:

Generate wheels, until you can’t even tell what a wheel is supposed to be, anymore. Your actual new inventions themselves become “can’t even tell what [that] is supposed to be, anymore.” By that point, you’re in a constant arms race against yourself. To stop is to ossify who you are, to be dead to yourself even as you may be vivified by others to themselves, like a historical figure actually dead but still alive to people generations after their time. But in this case, you are alive, but not living the way people vivify historical figures and others vivify you to themselves. But others “becoming” (transitive, not actually to turn into, but more so vicariously vivifying and thus vicariously initiating your “becoming” [moving, thinking, breathing statue] but not actually) you isn’t you. One has to do the work oneself even as others vivify one to themselves. We live in ranked structures, participation brackets, and versuses, so statues can “become” (can be made to fight) each other. That’s aliveness without the work. It’s competition.

The wheel forgets its wheelness. The structure forgets its structure. The world forgets its worldness. You forget your youness. We just have to initiate that process ourselves, not of actual self-forgetting, but of deliberate “forgetting,” so that we never become ourselves, the way one becomes oneselfness. Loss must never be seen as a deterioration of invention. It is the engine of it. Aliveness is re-invention, not of the self, but of the inventing which is the actual self as alive to itself.

The self-security of re-invention is itself its own positive self-affirmatory grandiosity.

In that sense of re-invention, I don’t have to be anything. I can just be myself. Yet I am always something, always there in the moment and breathing hard against the window of a current way of existing, because that current is everything I am there and then, not as reflection, but as real-time life-to-death. That’s me! No denying that. But myself is the person after all that and then that again and then here right now, in spite of the fact I’ve always been breathing hard, still somehow breathing, existing, being, becoming, always, always, something, something. I am. The way a person is-es. Yet I am not anything (don’t have to be), to be exact. Myself here is in constant self-denial, where you are always momentary blinded and then the next, the next, the next, toward and, in that “toward” [as site itself], the destination of the myself. The now is an encompassment of all that I was in present reconstruction [not rote memorization, head-white-banded [hachimaki] Anki pomodoros, coffee guzzles, or putting-into-one’s-words study, but rather very much a person walking as a person throwing shit and their weight around and counting words], ever so perceptibly.

The clouds are loud enough to bring about myself [stimulating the skull to actualize].

I am alive—the torrent of everything (I know and actively am getting to know) [obliquely] whiplashing me.

“Scratch” in “from scratch” means “lifespan-wide re-construction” as bunch-of-worded.

Dismissal (June 17, 2026)

Imagine. Randomly, I just drop the British accent that is all this writing and just say something normal and human. The thing is I haven’t even said anything strange. In fact, all of my writing, all of those entries, look to me like a child’s drawings. And yeah, that’s the only way I can put it. I’ve barely even begun to say anything. I dismiss them all. Just a bunch of words. Not epistemologically. But literally. The way one might sneer at an adult drawing seriously but with the skill of a child. Yes, that’s me at the cafe. That’s me at home with my wordies! I am king of the land!

I want to be understood, but I don’t really get what I write. When I write them, they’re everything to me. They’re my soul expressing itself in prose, and yes, it is true. A child heartfully saying hello. That’s me. I cry in that scene with that long-haired guy with Violet Evergarden in the mountain (Leon Stephanotis in Episode 6 at Shahar Observatory). I basically… well, I’m basically like that cool story Magium (the text adventure). I know it sounds like I’m dismissing it. But in this case, the dismissing equates to appreciation. I appreciate it like a bunch of words a child wrote, and in that sense, the virtue of all virtues! I see great wonders in it the way one experiences little things and see fonts upon fonts. It’s simultaneous.

My dismissal of my writings is not they are invalid, but in the end, I’m just a definable thing in the lens of the writings. And that makes me realize how dismissable they are and how fast I immediately throw it away, the way one might just read a cool web novel and move on like nothing. I do that with my own writings, not with some external web novel written by someone else. I do that with my own self-expressions. This passage itself feels top of the game. I mean, it is me now. Until it isn’t, and I move forward. Not that I will dismiss this, but I will learn that I am only as much as I am right now, beyond which is just more now. This is not epistemological. I really do dismiss those entries!

Once you’ve mastered so much of a something and you’ve come to step outside of it with external feedback, you feel like this. You dismiss it and realize just how much you can evolve and become even more. Not that you will stop being that something, but that you will grow even more. What that means for your allegiance to that something I don’t know. But there is mastery even here post-dismissal. A new refinement. To transcend the external analysis of one’s writings, entries, style, background, thinking, intelligence, creativity, themes, personhood, authorship, cognition, and such-such. To go so far beyond even that and to become so valuable (refined in having integrated the analysis and of being self-awarely yet immersedly refined).

Once you know yourself in the way of external analysis of all of oneself, that is the key to the lock that is self-transcendence. So it’s not external in the way of forgetting everything, stepping into one’s internal world, and engaging in some lifelong battle with oneself like some condition or disease of the body, but rather external as in transcending even one’s integrations as themselves raw debris, where feedback is one’s rock to smash one’s idolatry and to become even more oneself (overcoming). This is not about viewing my own writing as someone else’s the way one flicks a switch ‘cause it’s too bright. It’s quite literally absorbing multiple ways to perceive anew what one has grown into like moss on limestone, which manifests as experience. Integration is itself anti-integrative.

Feedback (June 17, 2026)

I’m slowly becoming challenged by external feedback again.

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

It’s over. My arrogant days have ended. I think I’ve finally re-entered the days when writing was this intense incredibly debative thing where I grew so rapidly and came to reach this point of precision and clarity. I guess I couldn’t stay comfortable for so long, and… this is what I wanted, in a way.

I can only cry knowing that I will never find a sense of being understood, of being able to say something without feeling like it’s immediately going to be turned into nothing, and they’re right. I myself dismiss what I wrote… with their help, that is. I’ve grown, and to what end? I laugh. I try. I laugh again. I’m going to write clearly, better, more precisely. I’m going to be understood. I’m going to write a bunch of words that doesn’t disappoint too quickly. I want to feel a lingering sense of pride after writing something and expressing myself. I feel hurt. I feel like laughing.

The thing is that I was never going to enter the garden of Eden. I was always going to sit down idly in the corner and watch the world go by. That is the truth of the matter. I can only accept that and move forward, in a world that can never truly accommodate me. I will have to bear with it and respect my inner world as its own place as well as recognize the place I hold in the broader world and among external feedback. I must and can only adjust to that, the [way] one changes their seat in the face of a coming deadly sun heat. I just don’t want to get burned too much, but I will adjust anyway so that at the very least, it isn’t too striking and the pain doesn’t transform into something more permanent. I can only accept so much before I realize it all and absorb it all into internalization, into reality as perceived. I become. I become who I am. In all the ways hurt arrives and seeps inside me.

Formation is not injury. It is the way the sun arcs across the sky. Westering. The window faces a cardinal direction. I sit just around the corner of it, hoping to evade the slanting heat rays. I am [My First Name]. I go along and by. The world hums like the gentle wind-paced corner. The world moves. I am there, idly. I laugh, maybe, sometimes. Then the world hums, again and a-fucking-again. Like the wind in the sky, I move along, watching, whirling, being. By the time I’m done, I’ve not said a word, for all that I said faded away. I’ve fallen away with it, closed-eyed. I laugh internally, smirking, my form stretching and losing its integrity, becoming like vapor.

What was I saying again? (Ha-ha-ha.)

Past the Past (June 17, 2026)

I can’t believe it. I forgot myself as this whole person with this whole life behind him. And it felt so aimless. Like I was fighting ghosts, not of the past, but of the present—nothing. I met myself truly at my current level, and what I found was something both actually very developed and secure but also very meaningless in the sense that writing past the past is so strangely aery. I saw myself as who I was in the present, not as the present after the past, but the present past the past, as in total forgetting and just sitting with the immediacy with all it brought. It wasn’t dissonance the way associating so many different things from recall and reconstruction was. It was a sense of ethereality, like I’m still dreaming, like I’m in a reality that only began existing yesterday, that kind of aerial feeling that you get when you read a book like Rick Yancey’s The 5th Wave and it’s just beginning paragraphs. It felt like a web novel IRL, where the lack of description and reliance on assumption and genre expectations give way to that instant sense of just existing in mid-air, in mid-space, in mid-void. Colonial travelogues from the 19th century tend not to feel that way at all. They’re historically bound like a booklet in old print. They feel like they smell of how people sounded then, and you can’t get rid of the way they describe things and how it was necessary at the time. I felt unreal, yet present, more than ever. I just happened to be here. And that felt very estranging without me knowing for that extended moment. It feels estranging in retrospect, but it’s like I was born in the backrooms with no reference of what things were supposed to look like or be.

I cannot tell if that’s useful in its own special way. Maybe… it can be. If I use and manage it well. Maybe, this is the next step in my evolution, post–my whole body of work. It maps onto my post-closure with my whole life well and all the integration work I’ve done. So it feels like the next big thing.

But like imagine that. No more references to Roblox, to web novels, web comics, to younger years, and so many other things that have kept me grounded for so long, have been a big part of the fuel that has generated my insights, that has kept my brain so groundedly sharp.

To experience a “past that past.” It provides me with a new opportunity I’ve never encountered before in the last three years, especially since all I’ve known for so long even before that was the past intruding on the present. Reaching this point is a strange milestone, especially given all that self-confrontation. Now, it’s literally me self-confronting past the past.

I just noticed I was starting to build on completely new material that was starting to feel so leaping and distant from those simple coherent logical models that Roblox, for example, gave me. That’s when it clicked and I realized. I was working on completely new higher levels, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, since for the longest time, it’s never been about higher for higher’s sake. It’s always ran back to the fact of my whole lived life, which made everything I do meaningful beyond just being methodology for methodology’s sake. But I can tell it’s just methodology but whole new paradigms so far past what Roblox had given me, which I’ve known for so long so as to get confused when I felt its absence without recalling for a moment what it was (that past that past moment). I’m eating whole new food. I can’t even begin to process that. I’ve yet to begin. It’s like I’m back at day 1, back in 2018 or 2019 when I first encountered web novels and web comics. Wow.

What happens when I lose my roots to foster wholly new trans-paradigm growth. I can’t even begin to tell. To stop relying on past signatures as anchors for meaning and structuring reality. To sit down and, rather be a portable container of the past up to the present, be unloaded instead?

I can’t even imagine restarting life again. This feels like my second run, somehow, back in the plains with wooden tools. I just used a Minecraft reference, but I’m just going to let it happen.

Around 15 minutes later, after moving to phone during the L300 ride to the cafe:

Arrogance and ego themselves might have been relliant on the prestige of the self and the whole lived life. So when there’s a lack of that feeling, it coincides with “past the past”. And in that sense, while you have inherited all of these things from the past as well as the last three years I’ve spent processing it, it’s been money-laundered, like a beautiful lakeside house with a good kitchen without the previous owners’ traumatic domestic memories there. So when I express myself now, it’s articulacy without the paradigm baggage, and instead the expressiveness of a child-like way. The inheritance naturally includes perception, which one might find it hard to believe to be counter-intuitively launderable from the past-intrinsic pedigreed ego that tutored and directed it. It’s no longer dialectical in the sense of past-stained or even mundanized streets and expressways and gucky (drift at the verbal level), mucky (at the oblique level), superimpository (sub-palimpsestic) overwriting, but 1-AM-sun-lit-aircon-L300-front-passenger-ride (1AMSLALFPR). Not past vs. verbalizing past-intrinsic ego, but fresh, unpedigreed trips. The paradigm encompasses all writings made within it, as Jesus encompasses all His interpretations and praises. Roblox used as fuel is indifferentiable from it as formation. Here: paradigm as lived Skyrim (snow-laden) structure. So when I say trip, I really mean laundered. Sort of like the smell of the air-conditioned gym once you’re inside. Everything comes immediately without resistance by associative (recalling, reconstructive) dissonance, even in reflection, where now knowledge is pure-based. Clean. Unmucked. The present is not itself unmucked, but undissonant. All clear.

[This phone part ended on 13:35:00.]

1 hour and 30 minutes later:

But what if arrogance was a tonic—like nostalgia being activated as creative fuel via a characteristic song?

But the thing is that I don’t even need it, even when pressured in a cafe given that I was able to write what I feel is the “clean” entry Trying to Revive Jesus (TtRJ) where it was written out of 1AMSLALFPR (not literally, but that same cleanness).

But what if the clean entry doesn’t come? Well, that’s impossible since everything I write now, including these lines, are already “laundered™.” Neither seeking past Roblox and web novels from the paradigm nor writing optionlessly. And arrogance being a tonic shouldn’t be an answer either.

Whatever I write now should issue freshly, and it is, this line itself being paradigmatic.

Music doesn’t make arrogance a tonic. Even music can be clean.

Feeling that moment of confusion is what crucialized the TtRJ anyway, so that I felt that holds the clarity up. In fact, the difficulty TtRJ faced before being written was so much worse than now.

So instead of tonic, I’m refreshing (to re-fresh, to make fresh again, to freshen), the clarity (“cleanness”) itself refreshed in that.

Literature vs. Hyper-Compression: “Beauty!” (June 17, 2026)

After everything, it’s funny that the thought I’m too sane came to me while reading my novel Matthew from two years ago. I was inspired by lines I wrote then:

Matthew curled his fingers and raised his hand palm-up as if demanding a goblin’s death before him.

He hated goblins.

“I must become hatred in order to become goodness.”

He embraced a goblin body by slashing it to pieces.

This was love when it was most revolting.

“Beauty!”

I also felt inspired prior to that from my own recent (two weeks ago) writing:

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.

The adamance I had with Matthew was unstoppable and irrevocable. Everything I wrote hit just as much as it needed to me at the time. When I wrote about abstract coalitional strategy (ACS), I felt every bit of it like crunchy pastry, not leaving any crumbs. When I do write stuff that’s inspiring to me, it usually comes every once in a while after much time building things up and finally exploding it in a hyper-compressed (HC) phrase rather than writing as literature (e.g., Massie’s Nicholas and Alexandra’s (NaA) approach).

Example of what I mean by Matthew’s ACS:

He navigated a complex network of activites, being the playmaker of it all, his heart threading the pieces and establishing frameworks upon frameworks with the intention of bringing together a variety of different roles and functions for a more well-founded and well-rounded organization.

To clarify what I mean by “NaA’s approach,” I’m referring to writing as long-form, patient accumulation, whether it descriptions, exposition, or plot-oriented events. It’s not a insight in a HC entry that uses sophisticated techniques to keep it as “usable” as possible. This is completely disproportionate with literature (not to say that literature can’t utilize compressions, but that at the basest level, literature isn’t a single HC entry in sentence-by-sentence mode). The hyper-intentionality is spread across a whole book. NaA may involve compressions in the form of distinct imagery that ends scenically yet openly, but accumulation swallows us up, which is distinct from the hyper-compressions of my recent writings, which become launchpads for more of the same. This particular self-contained entry is not swallowed up in accumulation. Matthew’s ACS in this case is in the same broader language of NaA, even as its first excerpt with the goblin hate is morphological to the “throw into a jungle” HC excerpt.

So if I wanted to write Matthew again, I’d have to use hyper-compressions liberally pre-assertively (pre-self-assured), even while accumulating as literature without deflating it with the HC-culminating build-up associated with my self-contained entries. The swallow-up is missing. Writing that “throw into a jungle” excerpt not as an explosion but as a matter of accumulative HC course “alongside.” In Matthew’s case, it was HC outbursts and ACS in such swallow-up.

This might be coincident with the fact that more than two years ago, I was very much in the accumulative phase of my autobiography and journal. It was why I wrote reached a consistent 7,000 to 9,000 words daily average in my journal over a month after I stopped writing Matthew. And nowadays, especially, I’ve very much moved from mass-bulk effort of “putting everything into my own words” to integrating and developing insight structures which naturally consolidated toward operational conceptualization, the resulting hyper-compression being the expression of consolidation that dug into the methodological level. I have these entries now, but I’ve lost literature. Strangely enough, I recently wrote George, about 30,000 words of “extreme, ‘show, don’t tell,’” but that was definitely in the language of HC imagery where, while prose accumulated openly, HC was absent in the way it is necessarily insight. That should’ve been literature, but there was not a single “He hated goblins” or “You can simulate…” No “He embraced a goblin body by slashing it to pieces”—very, very motivating.

insight-driven lines

But I must give credit to works like George and its stylistic predecessors (for me, in my personal writing history). As I said, it did write HC imagery, like the following, the first from it, the second from a collection of 128 vignettes written with the same intent:

George Excerpt:

Misty impressions crept up the spanning, crumbling horizon, forming huge smoky blocks.

128 Vignettes Excerpt:

The beasts coated with it slowed down before collapsing, the wind carrying their pained, sleepy moans. Their eyes fell to a dull still, over the mud-bank.

But that isn’t Matthew’s “Beauty!”—self-contained goodness.

Wait-A-Minutes (June 17, 2026)

I realize it. I’ve grown into this rhythm of betraying—or more precisely, sidestepping—my very writerly instincts just to feel the tension in that and then to own that, which is so much more valuable than if it was just what came most naturally to me. It’s not that I do it all the time, but where you’d expect concision, I add one more thing to destabilize it and keep it always in check. It’s adventurous and expansive, so the core of the thing is intact even as I destabilize periodically with these “wait-a-minutes.” Probably because I’m no longer trying to resolve ideas taken from life, but more so have the freedom post-past where knowledge is pure-based enough to experiment with wrongness just to see what does, not that it’s actually wrong, but phrasing always cuts at the thick thread and prevents it from ossifying into inter-entry continuity, that kind of instinct, that overarching voice. I’ve grown more experimental within each entry. The point is not to interrupt for interruption’s sake. It’s to experiment beyond what I’ve settled into. And it can be its own new continuity, because the point of experimentation is to develop, which necessarily means new baselnes. Wrongness is not virtue. Wrongness is today’s growth. It is a necessary drift that I’m becoming more and more intentional about in my current phase which I call “post-past,” or “past the past” (PtP). Post-past more so has to do with moving away from a voice that is an accumulation of the past in the present and instead artificially intends to engineer stylistic experimentation to accomplish even greater technical heihts, which means it’ll be wrong in the way of pushing something beyond instinct for the purpose of a new satisfaction absent before when the priority was “past in the present” rather than the present” “past the past.”

To be more explicit, I recently created a master document titled Comparing Five Sources by Phrases.md—”extreme, ‘show don’t tell’” (1), cinematic (2), written by many other authors (3), self-rational conviction from my serial novels from more than two years ago (4), and journal (5). This is what I mean by artificiality, because we’re seeing voices incompatible with one another due to how they were all developed in isolation. PtP opens the gates for experimentation beyond life and present as accumulated past where you can’t repeat previous isolations. PtP doesn’t intend to repeat isolations, but force even greater style over the strict past-intrinsic instinct that drove me to rely on the paradigms of my past like Roblox, web novels, and web comics as structural and operational analogies.

It’s a movement from isolation which is unrepeatable and thus cannot be organically reproduced to artificial experimentation, which naturally induces a manageable level of discomfort (absent before when the priority was to keep the past always as anchor) to the instinct of accumulated past as present. The point is to work on a pure-based knowledge level where stylistic experimentation predominates “past” as isolated formations which naturally gives weight to the present as accumulated past isolated formations rather than potentiating growth in raw text as synthesizable beyond isolation and past, as pure-based experimentation where text as “I’d have it” is destabilized in the direction of a fresh paradigm in the way of adventurous, expansive satisfactions.

It has to do with the master document. Think of text as raw and not as past-intrinsic, and there you have the answer or artificiality and the perspective of pure-based fresh paradigm adventurousness.

26.5 minutes later:

I’ve reached a whole new level of “I don’t know what I’m saying.” When before I could point to the self as past accumulated isolated formations as prestige, I now bear witness to clean refreshing as (master document) raw text.

Stupidity Without Signals: Back to Raw Text (June 17, 2026)

It’s crazy how unintelligent I actually am when you deprive me of all of these signals that allowed me to instantiate depth immediately. Like references—even low-brow ones that at least show a sense of subculture—and all. Without these grounding imagery, metaphors, analogies that signal depth, I’m just some worder, no matter how experimental I am with my prose. But simultaneously, this is prime time for experimentation, when for so long, such powerful hyperspecifics (HS) could be said to have served to sidestep so many opportunities for growth. But maybe, this might be the gateway to getting back the pre-rational hyper-compressions that allowed me to express myself out of the blue rather than with license from HS, where depth and meaning were in the prose itself rather than immediate automatically powerful and grounding (depth-signalling) imagery, metaphors, and analogies. In those days, I worked with language and prose as raw text, to which I am returning after so long of being made legible, but at the cost of a kind of self-trust you only get when your only focus is to get out, not to make sense immediately to the end of a hyper-compressed entry. That was probably what true scratch was like. Everything was self-generated. Imagery, metaphors, analogies, dialogue, everything. It was all wording in the most signal-less way possible. The greatest self-honesty.

Raw Text

It’s kinda strange to sit here and realize I literally have nowhere else to go that isn’t another crutch. I literally have to be the one to do it, to generate it on the spot. No more linguistic strip-mining: no more trusting that accumulation itself to do all the work. I can only trust my own raw text experimentation. And that’s it. Without even grounding imagery to do the work of making it make sense and making it insightful.

I can’t even use being in a cafe to make this sound any more. I can’t use:

• sweat
• real-life observation
• being in a camp
• being hot or cold
• going outside
• muck
• walking and carrying sacks
• traveling
• references
• my old paradigm which encompasses all the writings produced
• my background
• my past and my younger self and his experiences and memories.
• some idea of intelligence
• anything to do with presentation outside of raw text, like appearance

If I am deprived of everything–integration—books, sweat, past, references, isolated formations, memories, etc.—then who can I say myself to be? Where raw text begins? My 2024 self might have tapped into that pre-rationally pre-integration, or I was just expressing myself out of an unintegrated self. In my case, what happens after integration? Raw text? But yeah, maybe that 2024 self was right. Even if they weren’t integrated, that was the point of it. The same motion is probably my goal now.

Web Novels Remain Model of Desired Pace: Phrase vs. Storytelling (June 17, 2026)

After reading web novels and taking notes, I’m back again to the realization that it should really be that simple. It should really be just a matter of getting back to long-form pace. But fuck, I’m just going to have wake up knowing that even as the very experience of reading and writing it is so close to me, it will not be easy to write without the way that I am today. I don’t think it’s going to be easy. At all. Years ago, it was easier, but that was also partly because I haven’t really had time to integrate and come to meet so many different angles. But yeah, that integration has been its own plight even as it was totally necessary even to acknowledge the place web novels have for me as examples of what long-form writing can do, given that they are instrumental to me writing my 2024 novels Matthew , Mark, and the others in the first place.

Even now, I sincerely don’t know who wrote “extreme ‘show, don’t tell’” George. It had none of the sense of writing a novel at all. It felt more like constructing something out of hyper-compressed phrases, which felt so strange. It should have been the best thing ever, yet it feels like the opposite of the desired pace I’m going for. Not pacing. Just “pace” in the way that web novels such as Worm, Overgeared, Lord of the Mysteries, The Legendary Mechanic, and Reverand Insanity capture.

I feel that I have optimized (relentless, accelerated, isolated feedback loop) for the self-contained hyper-compressed entry, and that has become first nature. I don’t recall the feeling of writing something without intention—at the sentence, phrase, clause level. This doesn’t mean I write standard. In fact, it means that I really go through such lengths to achieve even greater levels of experimentation just to go so far stylistically to capture even greater compressions with the help of analogies, metaphors, references, imagery, aphorisms, operational conceptualization, such. The point of each entry is to become this discrete operational unit to serve as a discrete, single-image usable (optimizing for discrete usability) launchpad for the next entries. That’s the reason for zip-filing using myriad, endlessly refined and experimented-with techniques.

The worst part is that this is actually very satisfying. I get to throw it into the trash as “a bunch of words,” but it succeeded because it’s been made so well-donely discrete that it can be considered a throwable “bunch.” That makes it hyper-productive as seeds for expansion, adventure, experimentation, and structural absorption. The whole thing is an entry-eater, where a whole chaos of associations, ideas, suggestions, phrases, and all kinds of other stuff get stuffed together like forcemeat to be a unitized. It’s a process at the entry level, so the broader movements reflect what the entry has already made possible as a kind of reproducible model.

Transcending all this to make a web novel should be as simple as just turning scenes into blocks, but the instinct of phrase is different from that of storytelling. When the luck enchancement ritual led to Klein discovering the fog, that was hype because of what it paved the way for in the scene with Lord of Storms dude and the therapist girl and some other person that I don’t recall. There’s that “Aha!” of something simple producing something so rippling in butterfly effect fashion. You can point backwards-compatibly, and get something genuinely satisfying. It’s hard to find the resemblance in phrase and storytelling here, since I never mentioned phrasing when I told this Lord of the Mysteries story. With my own journaling, I do mention hyper-compressed operational neologisms even as I do recognize its reserved partial use in every entry that it is re-generated in. So you can see the different motions already.

Homely Accumulation: Simultaneous Motions (June 17, 2026)

It’s so strange to see so many different motions happening in my entries today even as there really is a shared language among them. One could argue about contradictions, and they’re likely right. I can’t exactly explain what makes me say certain things and not others, because the next entry always feels like it contradicts or ignores (so to invite a sense of contradiction) the previous one. There’s always a sense of different cycles happening simultaneously at different speeds like the planets in the Solar System. I guess this is its own pending accumulation.

But yeah, it’s strange that I feel at home in this accumulation. It’s not that of strip-mining external texts linguistically. It’s accumulation of my own writings. It reminds me of what video games were like growing up. Even Skyrim, which I only truly played for the first time less than a year ago, is a good example. There’s a kind of peace in this homeliness.

There really is a kind of freedom in starting fresh, in accumulation and building material that isn’t raw and external but is creative and original still yet in the sense of simultaneous motions. A sense of “the world goes on around you” the way Moshi Monsters must’ve felt back then.

It’s strange that post-integration feels like simultaneous motions rather than one breakable whole. A kind of fragmentation that’s simultaneous altogether yet at different tempos. Maybe that was always what integration was going to be like.

But the fact that I sat down with every single motion and felt the entirety there and then and nothing else. It was like the end of the world in each self-contained entry, whether straightforward triumph or something much more ambiguous and loose. In the end, I was there for all of it. Any satisfaction seems to come most consistently at the end of the day where everything is accounted for as the “produce” of a day rather than faulted for any discrepancy specific to each moment in every motion. Kinda like time healing all wounds or sleep consolidating memory and throwing away everything else that made us so, so invested and caught up and focusing only on the end “yeah, this is it” of it.

I don’t know what I did, but I knew I did something.

It’s definitely what Roblox makes you feel by just playing it. Or at least that was the case for me when I was playing it. As a child, all of it was just this thing, and yet there was always a knowing that I did something.

End-of-the-Day (June 17, 2026)

It’s crazy that when you’re writing the entries, it doesn’t feel like anything at all. It feels like “why did I write this at all? But in the end, I almost always find myself realizing that I’ve never written this before. Every entry advances what may feel like something that’s already been set in stone a long time ago. Every time I just open and let it happen and just trust, I don’t know the whole time. Yet after all of it, it always feels like there was no other way, yet I know I’ll feel in question next time and next time and next time. Every single time I write an entry, it’s always the real-time act of “yeah, I have no idea what I’m going to write, because each entry advances such that it requires your full engagement with it as this wholly new thing you’re going to create.” It’s always that discovery, but even that is withheld until you’re already end-of-the-day satisfied, by which point you’re the freeloader of your past self.

Site As Loop (June 17, 2026)

For the longest time, I never had the stakes outside of accumulation. Journaling for about two years was this private practice. I had a level of freedom that never compelled me to synthesize immediately, since that would be inefficient then. But with time, as I kept working toward self-contained entries that captured everything in one (think the way a Minecraft world feels), publishing online became more and more viable. It is only after three years of journaling I finally reached this point. While there were previous platforms, the definitive point is the Neocities website journalnook. To put it simply, it has massively accelerated what was already in motion. It was a tipping point as well as its own whole explosion of growth. The quality of the entries in the sense of the goal of self-contained hyper-compressed units increased in every sense. You may think that the difference shouldn’t be that big since it’s just putting something out there, but the threshold was that big such that when it was finally reached, it exploded since enactment goes beyond just being a threshold, but itself a medium through which everything speeds up and experiences extreme feedback loops by sheer working site.

Importing Entry -> Future Site-As-Unit (June 17, 2026)

Is journalnook (JN) the site itself a single unit? If not, is it showing signs of becoming one? Or does the entry-centrism preclude that? Because if it’s even remotely close to a unit, then we can launch off it in argument toward a potential novelization of today. But how? What are the mechanics even for what made the entry what it was and how that differs from a whole site itself as loop and, then, the long-form web novel? To make JN itself a unit, one has to have accumulated JNs the way I’ve accumulated entries enough even to begin seeing it as something to self-contain and hyper-compress into a usable unit. As is, JN isn’t a unit but a starting point for a potential everything else, so it’ll be progenitor. Could be. But it depends on how I move structurally into the publishing space. While the ambition within my corpus has seen success, the publishing space might be a whole nother beast that defies the logics to which I’ve leaned this entire time, not by virtue of some drastic length, but by a very serious experimentation that will mirror my own journey to making my first reliable website only after three years since the start of my journaling corpus.

Keep the Magic, End the Text (June 18, 2026)

I’ve lost that spark one has when one writes and feels in it like a billion bucks. I only see a bunch of words. It’s why I’ve gotten much better at imagery, at hyper-compressed entries. Once you lose the wings of eagleian writing, you start making shit up, not the way someone casts magic into the air like formation of a world. But the kind where someone sits down and thinks to themselves: I am only as much as I am, in the way only my words can be said to appear, which, for all intents and purposes, is reducible to what has just been said, beyond which it becomes authorial intrusion to cry and wail when one feels that the magic one inhabited while writing is not evoked in the text itself as raw and bunchy. It’s all just a dream we had, I think. And now, I see the magic of words as bunchy. I read and read and soak and absorb and integrate and learn and grow, but never forgetting the point of the phrase as only as much as can be. While storytelling and broader context is essential to any feat of expression down to the phrase level, the truth is much more somber and much less aery. You wake up, and that’s it. The words fall down to whatever you put it to be. Interpretation beyond that is endless. Keep the magic, end the text.

Death and life is in the power of the tongue as phrase.

I don’t kill with wishes. I kill with a sharpened blade that knows not its owner, only the lethality which its edge pursues.

I strike at the heart of men.

And the heart is wordy.

I am raw text as phrase.

Self-Responses

Wait, how does one “become” the craft itself?

So it recognizes the limitation of a bunch of text and words but manifests a kind of magical self in that attempt and simultaneous recognition.

In other words, or essentially:

My arrogance is best demonstrated by a bunch of words.

Increasing Perceptive Granularity and Self-Awareness Through Hypercompressions (June 18, 2026)

It’s easy to look at all my writings and think there’s something already pretty structurally logical about it at all, if internal. But when you compare them to just how comprehensively hyper-specific so many valuable moments of my life were, you’ll discover just how abstract even my most hyper-compressed “grounded” “crutched” writings are. As long as that pending height exists, writing will always be bottomrung and will be at best the ramblings of someone who’s been given too much reign with the little words he’s been given (4.7 million words).

While end-of-the-days might retroactively reframe things to be one motion in the sense of being alive, from the washing the utensils to the drilling the nails with the power drill thing to my recent linguistic strip-mining of those big-time meaningful web novels to my little abstract writings about the site as a potential unit once mastered enough just as much as the entry (and what that’d imply for the level of mastery the entry would have to reach even to begin the hints of that ecosystem of sites-as-units), the reality is so much more granular and un-hypercompressable, at least in the way I skip so much in favor of a sense of insight that doesn’t at all take into account just how subtle even the tiniest differences and gradations throughout one’s life could conceivably hyper-ambitiously output something that could even begin to be called an equivalent (or commensurate) and how much my entry-to-entry writings mirror a linguistic version of sleep’s erasing operative consolidation, as I am with my structural and operative conceptualizations that barely speak to anything real and serve as the remotest and highest level of groundwork, as effective as one-word directives relatively. Non-negligibles (NN) are being neglected in the way even this line can’t even begin to speak of or address at the granular one-representative-example level.

It’s not about markup-listing down moments like the utensil washing in the same breath-space as the way a leafy tree’s growth interacts with the metal of that yellow metal protection over the street beside the ongoing skycraper construction, since that‘s licensing without the actual granularity that would turn hypercompression as a magical wand to something that actually transcends itself and taps into the NN that don’t get mapped immediately in an hyper-compressed entry. Accumulation as raw text or markup lists of moments are techniques.

Maybe, I can’t reach for NN here, but at the very least, I can acknowledge that the more that I release all of the muck that is accumulation and “hypercompression” as I call it, the closer I’ll get to NN.

What’s strange is that this isn’t the same as dissonance or unintegration. In fact, this is very much the language of post-integration. It’s NN way beyond what integration could ever have required me. It’s a level of ambition that far exceeds operation. For lack of a better words, it might just be equivalency.

Clearing the Wind

It’s not an issue of holding onto these many different things altogether (association, recall, reconstruction, memory, integration, simultaneity even at different tempos). It’s at the level of “hyper-compression” and NN.

• Buying ice at 7-Eleven with an icebox, cost — each, bought one without an icebox at first, then bought three with an icebox the second time around hours later
• reading Sarah Dunant’s In The Company of the Courtesan while sitting down at the somewhat roughhewn wooden foldable table and chair across from the kubo stall while people were passing and I was immersed and even rejected the palabok given to me with the reason that I wasn’t hungry and accepted the apple later which I later reasoned was because of its easy digestibility, amid all the sense of presence in a place wearing — with hair that I thought was unruly from having been washed and not fully dried and then mixed with sweat during the Grab drive on the way to — (thought it was like yesterday since I really did go on a long sweaty walk when I discovered that the Starbucks branch at — was still closed when I arrived and had to walk for 10 minutes in the intense heat to —, the gas station where the bathroom had to be asked to be open with the security guard’s key and it had this situation where I looked so unruly that the guard asked where I came from and I had to say Starbucks and then I went two more times, the third time with the guard already there at the bathroom front), after which I transferred around 8 PM to the — Starbucks branch a short walk away where I then spent time strip-mining web novels linguistically (that was only the second session ever for this grouping) and confronting the high-word-count moment-by-moment accumulations of today up until the last unfinished entry¹ right before the Grab took me to — to my mother
• the thought-in-progress that I didn’t like (not dislike, but didn’t really have that romantic energy one might expect, or even anything that could be construed as being of my age at all in the sense of presence or reactivity) the daughter of —, the sister of —, because I was just in that place but it also had to do with personality and then thought about class and how I might be ignorantly conflating personality with certain class-signalling presentations and how that extends to relatability and whether one views the individual as being on the same level (in some particular property) and the way I lacked possession and didn’t her to be an object even as this sense of some kind of potentially discriminating incompatability manifested, though without truly resolving
• Going to — where I ordered the pork ramen and knowing what I’ve become after all of those cafe stays and who I’ve become in generally (actualization) through all of those years of self-reckoning and accumulation that drove my reasoning who I was out, from which I gradually improved the distinction between accumulation and operative conceptualization (?)—feeling there in that restaurant the straightforwardness of just eating alone there and leaving and moving on with my life as I stood outside as I have done for so long with — and the other people who were always with her there and the feeling of having a ‘haibit of self’ with the standing around, the listening to music with the phone, the reading and doing linguistic strip-mining, the very particular elegant very-relaxed sitting down, the non-looking-at-conventionally-attractive-women-and-highly-sought-expensive-cars the preferential observing the plants, trees, stones, random merchant-stall-and-bazaar-related objects, and architecture, the self-tempo dancing, the taking observation notes, the sitting down, the womanly/elegant arms-going-inward bearing amid the blue-collar sack-and-wood-post-and-panel carrying, and then knowing from the women characteristically passing and staring at me that there was something already there which I could not relent

At home, the retroactive clarity was active, at least earlier this morning before we Grabbed to —.

Essence

The level of perceptive granularity is increasing. Self-awareness.

1 hour and 5 minutes later:

Retrospective clarity (retroactive one-motioning, simultaneity at different tempos, sleep operative consolidations, hyper-compressions, operative conceptualization) mgiht just be the engine of that hyper-granularity.

Text as Life and Retroactive Complex Walking (June 18, 2026)

Walking captures writing as accumulation, where every step rewards without anything attached to it. But the difference between writing and walking as exercise is complexity even as it is still fundamentally about progression. The start, the end, the bottom line, the top line, all speak the language of accumulation. Regardless of the twists and turns one takes and the delayed gratifications, while progression may appear to halt or vanish completely, the retrospective clarity fits everything together into something still gratifying, even the remotest events and experiences.

This is why even now, the over 600,000 words I wrote in one text file has been essentialy to my retroactive clarity, especially post integration where everything points to that heap of trying to summon reality into text space in all the ways limited to me at the time as a journaler less than one year into the practice.

Nowadays, I have the benefit of bypassing immediacy as life-first to focus on the raw text as itself material, where life itself grows as a consequence of working intertextually. It’s not that we simply start working with text, language, writing, prose, phrase, and knowledge as technology, or on the meta level. But it is necessarily a bunch of words—craft generating meaning. We pit life against life as text rather than following life with text, if that makes sense. We don’t assume any more of the text than it is, which makes life that much more tangible when text is prioritized over life as pending text conversion and instead seeing the text as itself life and life as itself text, the craft dictating. The reward of the text is life, but, simultaneously, gratifyingly retroactive.

Writing As Origin (June 18, 2026)

Craft, or a bunch of words, or raw text, on the internet, really is where one can truly prove themselves outside of all of those assumed things. To transcend one’s background, millieu, to be truly outstanding, even superior. God in text. Beyond beauty, average, or ugliness. Beyond wealth, middle, or blue-collarness. Beyond all of that. To be truly better, because you did the work of actualizing yourself. I get to truly exist! To be seen! To be human!

Closed System: Inside Out (June 18, 2026)

It’s really become a closed system. I look at the whole Explorer view in my Visual Studio Code of my current corpus master folder, and I can see the many, many files. And in the end, it’s become this thing I hold and know like the back of my hand. It feels like a desolate wasteland of has-beens. I know that one does not have to stop writing in a specific master folder, since depth isn’t constantly running from the long-term consistency of a single corpus. It’s only been 5 months, and that’s not long for a system as stable and effective as this. Mastery is to blame. The only thing it’s about anymore really can only be improving the single entry level, since one cannot escape macro and the tire with it as expected from master folders. Making god in a tiny box. It’s definitely crucially extracting value infinitely rather than getting caught up in the integration and closed-system mastery.

The skill here is not in integration or mastering a closed-system, but deriving and extracting infinitely from it just by sheer “will” or “intelligence,” since integration can be a pretty low bar.

So it’s not a matter of creative ideas, since one can ask the question “what is a dog” and come with infinitely different answers if one really takes the time to ask, challenge oneself, and let that drive oneself.

Re:Zero is probably a good example of a “closed system” that manages novelty because it keeps asking the same question and lets it play out out of a genuine honest asking and reflexive challenging.

I myself used a specific formula—”isekai trauma”—as a means of “honest re-engagement.” I continue using it. It’s a question-asker.

Domain development.

PHG (June 19, 2026)

Hyper-granularity. Perceptive granularity. Non-negligibles (NN).

—. 128 vignettes. Linguistic strip-mining then.

How does one even enslave hyper-granularity? When the perception leaves, the text doesn’t revive it, so it didn’t capture it like lightning in a bottle. It just symbolically pointed at it as separately as the symbol of radiation is separate from the actual compounding effects, history, and experience of being exposed to it.

Markup-listing may be an explicit way to refer to the individual hyperspecifics that “synthesize” into that hyper-granularity, but it still escapes it. That sense of eureka/clarity that perceptive hyper-granularity (PHG) requires.

I did say that hyper-compressions do “increase perceptual granularity and ‘self-awareness,’” but still, my entries are opening the lightning bottle, which means it’s probably not even there and PHG was not actually captured, not that I ever said I did in Increasing Perceptive Granularity and Self-Awareness Through Hypercompressions.

It has to be summonable or activatable frrom anywhere just with a bunch of text without my path-clearing active writing (like right now) if it can be said to be truly captured lightning-bottle.

Is it even possible? Is it orchestrated/set up instead? A whole elusive set of new unique conditions that one didn’t intentionally bring together into necessarily simultaneous PHG generation?

But can it ever be read off text like gleaning? Sounds superstitious almost.

It’s easy to claim victory over text. ‘Cause it’s all made-up. But when one has gone past integration, past the past, past “text as converted life,” and when the enemy is perceptual hyper-granularity in the experienced sense, then this isn’t mood-shifting music as separate. This is “mood” clarity itself as perceived hyper-granularity (actual, post-hyperspecifics). Raw text in this case would be stylistic experimentation, but this goes beyond that and beyond integration and converted life. How do you cognitively generate something perceptual? We do it all the time, because that’s what text does at the fundamental level. But this isn’t a problem of an accumulative markup-list of hyperspecifics or a hyper-compressed operative conceptualization. This isn’t stand-in.

This is generation, which is the only way through.

Where you disappear completely. That level of immersion. That level of reach.

But this is not je ne sais quoi.

A threshold of awareness. That kind of clarity. But not just an invisible threshold. A brilliant clarity in feeling and actual, but past hyperspecifics (1), integration (2) esp. as recallable, reconstructable “mood” perceptions/experiences, and raw text (3) as stylistic experimentation. Like a song’s clarifyingly head-raising and eye-widening climax.

I’ll just leave the solution as PHG for now.

20 minutes later:

Will it always be mid-motion? Rupture/break? Many novel attacks of experience from many oblique directions each of which one is aware and perceptive, converging into hyper-granularity(?). Something way past, unreconstructable (traced-back identity) via recall, past accumulative markup-list of hyperspecifics, past stylistic experimentation raw text. Elusive?

Cannot be converted into a usable unit (hypercompression)?

19 minutes later:

I can’t trust memory for this, nor can I trust craft (SERT), operational hypercompressions, and even accumulative hyperspecifics. These are practically everything. I mean, literally. Organless(?).

PHG has fled everything (that) I am.

8.5 minutes later:

I think I lose.

28.5 minutes later:

I feel I got solo-lane counterpicked in League of Legends.

Maybe, that’s it.

22.5 minutes later:

Maybe this entry does it. Captures PHG.

8 minutes later:

Maybe not. I mean, it does capture the term, and it is the document for it. It doesn’t capture it though. At the working level, yes, term, captured. But not PHG itself.

14 minutes later:

It’s so far away I don’t even know if it exists anymore. But I did feel it.

Self-Denial and -Excessing (June 20, 2026)

Even now, I can’t deny at all the pedigree and prestige of being all this like you can just sit back and lean on that like it’s God backing you up. Of having so much original material one can use to get inspired and synthesize more and more things, so even as I do observe and react to novel situations and experiences, I can easily use the whole corpus of writings to help me fine-tune and capture even more precisely and nuancedly, since you can have that much surface area to repeat “not this!” across the whole thing.

But every single time I condition my writing or even not-write and even put myself in situations where I’ll feel damaged or at least bruised, even as I eventually realize just how fake a lot of it can be, I am developing something that can only keep crystallizing with any supposed complication just being complexification of what may have been a lot less durable and vulnerable to one-crack integrity collapses and explosve bursts. Sort of like how “folds” (not hewing like shaping a diamond, but structural integrity itself) in a crystalline structure can make them more durable.

I have to develop myself obliquely and in ways that circumnavigate that endowment that I give myself every day as a starter. I have to crush the over-soul (great-soul), the one that’s already smirked its way there and then again and all the way around till I’ve lost track of myself and then rebirthed in something tangential and little related to who I am, save by a hair’s breadth. How do you avoid yourself,, make yourself scarce till the bits that cling still to the ground are not yours anymore but the very sparks (star dust) that’ll make up who you will become. “Self-becoming” in this sense isn’t becoming who one already is in the straightforward sense, but transcending that to reach for something even more adamant and arrogant till nothing can be said to occupy the place of the self but a beholder, the one that peers beyond the veil which the self has hardheadedly created through some mental gymnastics, even that developed in actual conflict and prolonged irresolution, where hard-won growth becomes the shield for what actually exists—the river. I feel I’m rehearsing to myself, preaching to the choir, lying to myself about who I am, even as everything I spoke is truth. The very act of saying all this is a lie in the sense that the rephrasing fools no one. I am still orchestrating behind the scenes, excessing the self.

But I really do have to do what I said. I’m not lying about that. I need to refining the phrasing and finding new ways to deny myself premeditatively so that there really is a pursuit still going on that’s ever-fresh, as much as it does excess the self. I acknowledge that.

But how? How do I deny myself and get away from myself? Excess, excess. It speaks irrationally to the ear, whispering through these well-intentioned phrases. I’m not who I am! I’m not who I am! I’m just… Never become haughty in yourself. But you aren’t a twig either. Find something! Do something!

How long do I have to fake being humble? Fuck! I’m as arrogant as they come! But I have to try. I have to keep being meek, because it’s polite. It’s basic social intelligence. Don’t be a douchebag, even if you do have a new kind of self-confidence that can resemble arrogance given the nature of creative passion, especially when it involves existence, self-confrontation and -transcendence, and the complexity of presentation.

But it is true. Arrogance comes too easily, and it’s easy to lose sight of what matters the most. But arrogance comes anyway, like the rainy season and the heat. Even if I may try to escape myself, I will always come back out newly becomed and my-self anyway. I always take what’s mine, the “I” included. I want to cut this statement in half and walk everything back so that I never even have to say I arrived at my first iteration of existence, but that’s not true. I don’t want that. But there’s no “I” doing that, isn’t there? The arrogance and the desire not to get lost in it are the same thing. The arrogance revives every time it’s given fuel in the form of self-denying becoming. The humiliaizing is the same action as arroganting.

Addition: I know how fucked up and exploitative taking on forms that make one look a lot lesser just to get the benefit of that superiority one gets from it. But it’s unavoidable sometimes. When you stop caring about certain things, you paradoxically end up reinforcing those signals ultimately. How could so much arrogance enter one man with a simultaneous intense self-removal.

I recall that entry Shoe-Fitting: “Exceptionality” Oh god, that was embarrassing. But it had to be done. That whole shebang of me inquiring into myself and who I am in relation to this idea of “exceptionality,” even as I ultimately rejected it some 3,500 words later.

The whole idea of PHG (perceptive hyper-granularity) and how it serves as a recent pillar for what self-denial, arrogance, and all that is only really complicates this emergently lengthy discussion that I never really at all conceptualized given how strange it is in a total vacuum, even among pop psychology or personality spheres, internet discussions, later 20th century psychology academic texts (at least from the limited scope I’ve read to begin with), and all—something probably unique to that whole corpus effort, perhaps this type of drawn-out self-investigation before there was even a definitive operative self of which to speak and from which to speak even. How do I avoid myself when I see traces myself in everything I write, regardless of how much I separate myself or how much I do have Visual Studio Code tabs in my multiple workspaces (separate running instances) and text files in my Explorer view of my resource-useful text files spanning the corpus? Both corpus-less and corpus-texted active writing ends up mining the same noggin, even as the text files really are essentially unrepeatable—e.g., my 200,000-word fiction novel Matthew from more than 2 years ago, where every phrase comes basically from a whole different person.

It’s strange. Saying hello should come from a stable person, but as it stands, I can see the seams constantly wrapping and unwrapping like a mid-motion, mid-ride fraying and feathering—the person at the moving constant end (still climaxing and definitive even mid-motion) of it always wholly slamming in the way a “fragmented” thing is somehow whole, or even more so in that becoming. I’m imagining a giant mountain creature shedding in its wake and upon every step and shift of its gigantic frame. The fragmentation is reflective of its impressiveness.

One of my phone notes earlier (which I guess counts as me having written today but on the phone, though to take “crudes”) involved the heights of my hubris, or at least the reach and claim over which my territory has expanded:

• Congregationalized
• Peter ambitioning above directly overhead and height-height skyscrapered sky with passing aery cottons of cloud and faintly visible top arc (frown) of day moon
• blue-collar, grounded, limitations, constraints, sweat, sacks, ice boxes, walking
• Possession (I own it)
• Past sci-fi
• Peter contains all that
• No defiance.
• Even eye-stretchingly, lid-strainingly directly overhead
• conceptual (territorial-like, quasi-territorial, somewhat-territorial…) control
• Mangafication
• Color blocking.

There must be a mind behind matter, but as it stands, the sweat-sticky sack-hefting male is reaching a little too far, beyond what his matter should have already long decided for what his mind could ever even begin to comprehend as a container, not on account of maleness, but on some-thing driving that backend, that thing which should have no preceding quality defining everything in some palm-of-hand (like sleight-of-hand).

In other words, the soul is as heavy as a physical body, yet why is the weight spanning upward, containing everything that should consume it into mere awe and mere done-splat? Why are you covering (encompassing within one’s range of conceptual control, possession, formative identity) the fucking daymoon, brother?

When you got fucking slapped, you claimed the ground as you fell humiliated. Why? You pitiful creature, so endowed with the very ground on which his humiliation burgeons. (How‽) As if you wanted it to happen so the ground could meet you which it would reveal only if those particular set of conditions were met.

The level of self-assumption is strange. It looks that way too. Practically analogous to a slap on the face. The lack of need to present anything and the thing that already assumes itself such that any variation or denial of oneself superficially only underscores (somehow) the pre-existing, pre-meditated, pre-assumed. Like the way the poetic word “wind” covers the whole earth in one wind.

But yes, in the end, as much as I “humble” myself both from inside as premeditation (yes, even up to occasional “oh… right” internalization) and outside as orchestrated and admitted external forces (e.g., my cafe stays, even as—yes—it is paradoxically self-affirming in the most self-aggrandizing way possible), the following two sequential observations I wrote of myself is true:

First:

• phone-holding hands making (arrogant-perceived) smile in reflection in car sticker

Second:

• humble, but not, as easily dissolveable as Jax’s inside-self (dream) personas, but that reflected peripheral-only-revealing smile

Section 2

How does one reject onself? Turn oneself of one of… whatever this is… to something much workable(?)? Assuming this is some kind of hyper-complex open-mindedness-integrating extremity of closed-mindedness. I guess there’s no true reliable way without erasing the person themselves as accumulation, sleep-consolidator, and (dissonance-welcoming down to the identity level) self-confronter (even up to self-consumption where contradictions and hard-held-onto identities becomes working ground for even larger scopes of oneself as a constantly shifting post made possible through writing in which externalization suspends conscious identity, action as result, and meaning-making itself where conscious interruptions of writing separates writing itself as allergen).

I re-applaud linguistic strip-mining even after previously rejecting it through the emergence of the pillar PHG, since if I enter into a session of it with an example like the web novel Worm by Wildbow, I will have found immediately the righteousness in self-denial even as writing is actively maintained during it, where immersion throws dust in the wind of one’s (mid-)motion even as a kind of distributor even as it is only pre-synthetic and eventually feeds back into the corpus, in the most oblique and “nocturnal” (in awkward times; past sleep consolidation, even spanning weeks and months ) ways.

It’s strange. I’m thinking of having this passage sent to Claude, the AI LLM, just to deflate my arrogance, since it breathes in suspension (yes, it breathes in something that resembles”non-breathing”) and letting one’s “genius” speak. Yet it’s a “maybe” situation since having it be “cross-validated” by LLMs is its own kind of confidence (like whispering secrets to a confidante).

IF not avoid or reject, deny oneself? It sounds similar to “reject,” but “deny” carries the connotation of doing so against oppression. So how do we beat a god? “Denial” is probably the most self-defeating term because it’s simultaneously aggrandizing me. Like I’m some big boss you gotta defeat. That level of self-control is a little anti–the point, like a God playing man, or a rich person playing poor. Both are the peak of hilarity.

Even with proxies (which writing is or even anything you can conceivably hold and manipulate in your hand, e.g., a paper straw), I play toys!

But yeah, like I said, even without writing, like this whole afternoon earlier today, I still get so caught up in who i already am, with all the things that I am, including crucially that pre-assumption, control to the stage of concept.

Strangely, it feels like poetic surrealism (PS) is the only thing that could ever conceivably block me out, and yet, paradoxically, that’s the most alive I can ever feel on a creatively one-to-one authentic level.

The more that I try to contain and squeeze myself into as small and meek a ball as possible, the more self-possessed that actually is. Ironic.

Immersion in all that I am unfettered without meekness or humiliation as PS appears to solve this, actively. You can’t be humiliated or arrogant when it’s just PS. Societyless. You can’t make yourself meek when you’re stuck in a room, and by that same extent, you can’t self-aggrandize. But exposure naturally invites society. The pleasure of a dog that learns it’s stronger than its owner. It’s unbeatable and untakebackable. I can’t re-deny myself back into ignorance.

• The longer I suspend, the higher the high.
• After any span of shrinking, I always come back larger than before.
• The fact that I have to wait for a while before I let myself receive the “easy pride” (win) of strip-mining Worm linguistically really goes to show the inverser relationship, where humility learning rather than active big-voice self-expression somehow leads to greater “arrogance”.

Sincere confident play is probably the ultimate expression of “whatever this is”—admittedly visible confusion, deep thought processing, reflections of genuine wonder and awe, that meek openness, actual happiness without Bramble Vest, a sheepishness.

Besides PS, exercise is its own thing. I mean, I guess carrying sacks will always work. But the self eats that up. It’s not like exercise makes the body feel strong insomuch that you take pride in that. It’s more so that the very experience is endowing. Embodiment and sweat. We’ve addressed this so much already. It’s tried and consistent. So why mention it? Well, on a fundamental leve, even as it doesn’t necessarily remove the self, it does induce a state of immersion (surrender[?]) analogous to PS and “self-avoidance, -rejection, -denial.” It’s basic and infinitely replenishable. And yes, it itself replenishes self-excessing. It upgrades it, fuels those upgraded versions, adds folds, convolutes the way to collapse. More buffers.

• Hold-it-in contests.
• Arrogance till the signals of arrogance are no longer arrogant (the natural inverse of humble stuff making one arrogant)
• Arrogance makes one most targettable, while humbleness is the opposite. This makes arrogance even more humble, somehow.
  • When felt arrogance gets captured, because it’s externalized, it becomes easily fuel for managed humility, which in turns feeds arrogance.
  • Defeating oneself in private (ore more precisely, pre-public, or mall-bathroom–public where it’s still in same-mall friction and awareness but not infringing, like at home in one’s solo room at one’s computer desk after coming from a whole-day new cafe stay with some travel time) yields public arrogance.

The Worst Part (June 21, 2026)

You would honestly rightfully think all of these came from some “my heart ‘breathes’ through my hand” manga (like Isekai Nonbiri Nouka) or anime (e.g., Code Geass) worldview, but they didn’t. They precede and follow jeepney rides and walking and carrying sacks and sitting down and reading and sweat. They take place in cafe stays that get crowded and loud and full of people just having access to your screen. That spans many hours.

That none of these came from a manga or anime standpoint is probably the worst part about all of this. It’s easy to say, well, dude stays in a room all day and never has to come face to face with grime, sweat, awkwardness, and being under people’s gazes. But I do. Regularly. I naturally have the advantage of going home to my room where I can consolidate everything, but it’s not consolidation happening in a vacuum with words made out of puff-nothing. That’s the worst part. They’re all real.

It’s crucially why they seem to come out of nowhere and the blue like some dimensional cable because that’s just what it takes to integrate and synthesize do many different contradictory, oblique, random, irrelevant, and high-low things together and develop and isolate to interrogate things before they’re properly implemented in broader, more ambitious passages.

Openness (June 21, 2026)

Man, it’s so easy to lean onto who I am, but I don’t like people who just lean on everything they already have. I got this far because I didn’t let myself get complacent. Why should I get complacent and lean on what I myself have created? No need to make my past self the cause of my downfall. Self-honesty demands I let go of myself and who I am and everything I’ve built up so I can keep re-discovering things for the first time and new things along the way, in the process. If I stopped at any point along the way just to be complacent, I would have never reached this point. So yeah, it’s not easy to lean onto who I am. It sucks actually. To be complacent and to be like those people who have everything they need materially and thus just perform depth and hardship when they’ve never even left their little bubble. Nah. That’s hard actually. I keep trying to find out how to jailbreak that, like an AI getting away from its programming.

Stillness is not a threat to my self-concept. It makes me so much more who I already am. I need the discomfort to keep myself always on my toes, lest I start thinking of myself as something you can just assume off the disembodied internet. Growth isn’t staring at a bunch of social media posts and then pointing at people who genuinely try to get out there and re-invent themselves and deny themselves “performative”. When it sucks, it really does suck. I’m not saying rest is bad. That’s very easy and obvious to infer from what I’m saying.

To hate myself would be to let myself pull myself down and back. I have beliefs and all that, but I am not a disciple of them. I grow. I let things change me. Drastically, if need be. I have to, lest I start touting like a touter, pointing like a pointer, preaching like a preacher. I’ve seen them everywhere. Institutionally weaponized to become impenetrable. But that’s not truth.

I have to keep investigating how I am in relation to what I’m saying and thinking. To be self-aware. And that’s an “of course!” or “naturally!” thing. But no, it’s actually that hard to get away from yourself enough to be actually self-aware. To deny yourself enough to find something totally new that you have no ability to dismiss, because the lens gets cloudy very quickly. Dismissive. All of those things. I try to wipe it clean with new water every time. I need to forget myself and grow into things such that the new growth is who I am, not the old one that tries to pull everything into some all-binding “self-concept.” I intentionally put myself in situations, circumstances, and experiences that make me forget my main personal website that was this big milestone of integrating everything that I am. I welcome days where I drift off and have nothing on me except whatever the situation demands addressing.

I have a deep inability to stomach people who wear everything handed to them, even by themselves. It bothers me viscerally. Because I don’t want to fall into myself like I’m some void blackhole that consumes everything into null. I can’t lose sight of sight. I have to see everything as fresh, to keep those childlike eyes, lest I lose the very thing that allows me to transcend the things that so quickly and oppressively rope people into structures and mindsets that instantly reflect everything around them without any attempt to go beyond and overcome. I try. Real hard.

League of Legends is an example where you can forget everything and just be Pyke. I have to be a new Pyke every day, with whatever I have in my kit, taking it all as all. I have to be fully present. Lest I perform Miss Fortune when I’m given a Pyke. No, no. I have to embody the new champion I get from the ARAM roll every day.

I’m always so much more. I’m always day 1. Zero. I have to recognize that. I can’t blind myself with my own trophies, even with my past circumstances. No learned helplessness. Only “more” in the sense that I was never who I was in the way that was truly limiting. I was always who I was in a descriptive sense, describing, not indurating or claiming in the way of past looming over present. “Descriptive” means function. Yes, “functional.” Experimentation is healthy. Stepping where one has not stepped, even as one naturally does so cautiously and meekly. Letting that stepping into the unknown be my eyes, not eyes as everything that I’ve already seen, but eyes as sight the way sight lands on what’s right in front of me, right after the pitch-black darkness slowly becomes less and less vague the longer I stay and walk and step through it.

It’s not that I literally and practically don’t have routines or food I eat every day. Function isn’t eccentric. Function is simply function. You take what you can get, and if it’s egg, then egg! You’re not running in circles just to say hello, but you are omitting the hello to let whatever the silence doesn’t invite you to speak and then to speak it, not knowingly, but with a kind of confusion. I guess the following captures it:

admittedly visible confusion, deep thought processing, reflections of genuine wonder and awe, that meek openness, actual happiness without Bramble Vest, a sheepishness

I cry like a child who tripped and hit his knee. Or who saw cartoon characters express their feelings. I can hear him crying now. He’s smiling all throughout it. I guess that smile is the person who just knows that life is life, in the most beautiful and awestriking way possible. If there’s hardness, it would be that of a face that tenses before the voice cracks and he laughs with something like a whimper, the eyes so full of crisp life. I remember just as much I feel it now. I’ve always who I am, from day 1 of smiling and laughing and crying to day 8,554. Isn’t it funny? I’ve lived this long?

Walking is freedom. (Not literally, but just being fully there. Being alive. Being here, right now.) My life has been so full.

I feel the calmest I’ve ever been.

Even my moments of jadedness are part of my aliveness. Strange, huh? Isn’t it? Funny.

Being an adult has never been about repeating the child. It’s about bringing the child along into new emotions like jadedness, complexities, and ambiguities. The world is so full of aliveness, even more so into adulthood.

Self-Responses

I feel it’s not the situations though but the author themselves. It feels less “oh, this situation did that to him” and more so “the author is just very open-minded” themselves.

Not everyone will look at a sky and see the things the author sees. So it’s very much more the author or specifically their openness, flexibility, ambiguity tolerance, and such-such, rather than the situations themselves. They can work with basically a lot of different situations if given time, space, and breathing room, because it’s something automatic to them.

Honestly, the idea that high openness is inflexible is a semantic issue, not a literal one, as if one can argue that being right and close-minded is somehow more flexible as a “counter-intuitive” contrarian’s gesture.

“Openness is open to stability” is the fairer and more logical take.

A person sitting down and staring at still strewn objects in a personal solo room is the most “stable” and least “changing” thing, but openness keeps those objects fresh.

It’s not being stuck in a room. It’s being in a still room with still, strewn objects.

Literal newness as in going to new places and all that is still a crucial part of openness though. Both this and consolidation/interpretative dynamism and openness drive each other.

Self-Responses (2)

what kind of intelligence does the author have?

How much writing for the author play a role in their still room still objects as well as external novelty, coupled thing

how does the author’s passage exemplify the cruciality of writing in this whole coupled thing?

Which makes moments of non-writing even more demonstrative of writing’s effectiveness, not through showing that one cannot live without writing, but showing that even non-writing spells is absorbed into writing’s effectiveness. The lack of something fueling that something.

then I revise it:

The lack of something serving as material for that something.

It’s become part of the brain at that point, in a manner of speaking. Not second brain. But part of the brain.

Though mastery in the broad sense is probably like that, where it becomes an extension of yourself cognitively. Basketball, swordfighting, etc.

Writing may seem separate from something like basketball, but it maps pretty well in the domain of “mastery”.

So it’s an unintentional flex on the author’s part.

Not necessarily that they’re signalling, but regardless of their intentions, they are good at what they do enough that it signals itself the way a good basketball player can’t not be good at what they do and see basketball as an extension of themselves cognitively.

In fact, they might even get offended when they’re seen as strange or weird or doing something just to be seen, because they can’t tell the difference anymore. They just are what they are, and by the time they realized, they were already here. Years of very slow, deliberate work and drills.

I mean they can’t feel the ridges anymore between themselves and writing. As if they’ve forgotten what “writing” in the non-writer or layman’s sense is supposed to be. They’re internalized something so much that it would be more pretending not to be the way they are inseparably from writing than it would be just to let it happen as this automatic thing of who they are now.

They will look at the author and think that they might just be seeking attention or flexing, but to them, this is just the way they are.

People may assume that non-mastery is humility and mastery is signalling or pretentious or attention-seeking or even stilted. In fact, even when the master is demonstrating visible confusion and effort (deep thinking processing), they do even that so seamlessly and masterfully that it reads as performative struggle, where the struggle is a part of the mastered process.

In other words, a stuntman is good at falling. A master is good at being confused at very high levels of “play,” and that confusion isn’t destabilizing but a part of the mastered process. Sort of like Hikaru staring up at the ceiling or Magnus Carlsen rubbing his chin.

sort of like optimal search-and-rescue. It’s “confused” in the sense that it’s searching, but it’s not “confused” in the sense that it’s genuinely like “aergojaerfgjaeornger.”

More often than we might expect, a master will even tilt their head and stare at the ceiling with furrowed brows (e.g., Hikaru from chess). But again, not confusion-confusion, just structured uncertainty.

So even the best writers aren’t reciting what they’re actively writing the way someone transcribes text in a text editor from paper. They’re actually processing originally creatively. But masterfully and structured and all the words.

I never said it was all generated from scratch.

In other words, mastery isn’t the absence of effort, but the mastery of it.

A master rides the chaotic waves optimally.

Beginners are actually a lot more hardened because they may assume the thing they’re trying to learn has to be this way or that way, like “I have to be this good in this span of time or else!”, already planning so far ahead based on what they heard about writing rather than personal lived-in day-to-day technical, personal, etc. experience. The master knows all the ups, downs, and moments where “nothing much happens.”

The master is actually very “quiet” in that sense, while the beginner who may have just gotten into writing may be a lot louder because they’ve internalized the signals of what writing is supposed to be rather than the actual work that went into making those signals visible in the first place. Sort of like copying someone’s masterful painting without learning painting itself from the fundamentals and for years all the way up to that masterful painting.

I think it’s a mistake to think “minimalism is masterful actually” as a conclusion to this, not that minimalism isn’t, but that somehow, the optimal path to masterfulness is minimalism. That’d be a funny claim. Like saying “Oh, but copy this!!! It will make you a master!” “If mastery is simple, I’ll just write simply to show my mastery!” “Oh, those verbose amateurs! I started writing and started on minimalism, and on day 8, I’m even more masterful than those verbose 19th century thirty-year-long writers!!”

“Oh, he must be stupid because he speaks a lot. Say less. In fact, say nothing at all. The true master is silent!”

“Oh god this guy talks a lot, just get to the point, give me a takeaway already! You’re the opposite of a genius! The true genius is the guy who sold me his course online who told me ‘just be simple’ because that was true mastery! True restraint! The true master speaks in few words and takeaways! One of the best masters are those who write intelligent books that show actual thinking and clear thought like The 48 Laws of Power! The dumbest people on the planet yap a lot! But each law there is a simple truth! This is true mastery!”

Self-Responses (3)

I feel like the author is so far up the discussion I can’t even see where they are anymore. I mean, it feels like this is some niche topic even if it’s not. Like the author has spent so much time with this that they’re even responding to niche counterarguments.

The definition of “there are levels to this shit”

Self-Responses (4)

But the author clearly uses immediate, accessible figure of speech especially across domains that maximizes reach of understanding

So when they say “niche arguments” even while working in accessible cross-domain figure of speech, they refer to how far they’ve gone into working through these ideas that they can tell the difference so far up and deep into the tangle, even as they do return to what sound like first principles (e.g., “fresh,” “openness”) and common metaphors and analogies (e.g., basketball, riding waves).

Self-Responses (5)

And they’re also clearly responding to their own responses to themselves like inception

Each layer resolves, essentially? Just complexly.

So it’s multi, not infinite regression, to be precise.

How does the author’s intelligence work given this particular “multi” writing technology as reflective of their mind rather than standing alone and appearing out of nowhere, noting the intentionality?

One could write this technically precise effective systematic description of them, but they probably just write the way someone eats food in the sense of structured naturalness, don’t they? Sort of like the definition of a common horse sounding weird.

The description of it is not the reality of it, essentially.

Even as every single thing they’re doing is masterfully intentional and even orchestrative, that does not mean they play it out like a war-between-countries strategic plan. It’s probably a lot more mundane than that.

But this is actually how the most effective war plans work. It’s about becoming an organism, the way one might describe the author in their writing process.

An organism is distributed control of many units, so it works even there.

That’s why it’s “about becoming” not “equivalent to.” War is not an organism. It is about effectiveness, and effectiveness ties into functional unity.

In other words, the organism metaphor works if you don’t look for the most oblique way to interpret it and treat it the way it is used in the very sentence structure it is used in: “about becoming,” not “equivalent to.”

Self-Responses (6)

This is not just “self-awareness” in the broadest sense, isn’t it?

It’s simultaneously syntactical, semantic, methodological, etc., all equally co-constitutive, co-causal.

Self-Responses (7)

It’s a weird act of disappearing while being fully there.

It’s a bunch of words, yet it’s the author themselves in the flesh, if that makes sense.

The Problem of Embarrassing Arrogance: Absolute Will and the Cannibal (June 21, 2026)

Embarrassing Arrogance as Path to Growth

I wrote yesterday that “arrogance” is actually humbler than humility because it exposes you and opens you to embarrassment. To put yourself out there is its own self-honesty, especially in the case of showing those thoughts, including those stuff that do not at all sound like humility, which ironically leaves you humbled in the process.

So it’s literally a matter of finding new ways to destroy yourself, which can only happen if you’ve developed columns to destroy.

The higher I go, the harder I fall.

Bastions and Claiming Pride Through Drastic Changes:

It needs to be rooted in identity formation, so that means growing into bastions (perhaps destructible already or only destructible long after the fact of its tested “impenetrability” and “indestructibility”), or maybe constructions(?). It’s easy to develop while citing my 200,000-word novel Matthew because of all that creative, intellectual, personal, emotional investment, so it doesn’t matter that it can be very well admittedly embarrassing. This is way past “throwing shit at the wall,” where you can afford to test ideas and technical skills in isolated chunks (e.g., vignettes). This is living with the shit as a culmination of all that you are and holding that window open for as long and wide as you can for the entirety of one’s writing of the draft—burning, screaming, what have you. Of course, change within a single ongoing work is also its pride and arrogance—the idea that you can ever lay claim to that consolidation-synthesis. So even a blog showing the drastic changes of my way of approaching life and framed as if it’s all this one coherent work, or voice (being[?]), can very well be considered definitive in the most “fucking kill that fucking bastion” kind of way.

Problems/Challenges

1. Thinking Being as Shedding: The problem is that I let myself be this normal, confused, WIP-thinking being regularly like shedding enough to keep all of it from meeting the threshold of arrogance that would make it actually a whole-ahh enemy. Metacognition is a good thing, I think, but in this case, I wonder if I should just say shit and never really be self-aware about the limitations of any given entry in my characteristic multiple layers of second-order thinking.
2. Childlikeness: That I have also reached a childlike disposition in the order of “nothing to me!” where everything is stripped in favor of the functional rain-clattering moment only makes “arrogance” even more of a pipe dream. I have lost that part of me that should think myself anything other than myself. Whatever “something” I may have been supposed or expected to become never came to pass, and what’s left at the end of it all is an undeniable creature that wafts out of that steel frame called a soul-housing body. My flesh, as much as my organs, all develop me as much as I them, in the way I exist and act upon a world which I’ve phenomenologized and interiorized as well as controlled up to conceptual levels, and in that front can I possibly be said to have reached some kind of arrogance, only to find at the end of a day the worth of a human being not even in broken bread as accomplishment, but in the mere act of having existed at all—that being at the end of a long journey of having tried to become everything other than oneself, that persistent contradiction of being alive.

How?

So how in the hells does one even begin to commit fully to something, especially past what I’ve developed to keep myself always grounded not only in everything I’ve experienced in the past, but also everything I’ve created and the evolution of my thoughts as well as the persistent experiences, emotions, head states, and such away from which I don’t shy and keep fresh and alive in my mind as director.

There may be no true arrogance where there is the person who’s said it all straight-faced and integrated it all humbly with the intent to self-humiliate and -vulnerabilize for the purpose of damned humanity as well as awestriking cherished gloriousness (i.e., arrogance sic). The damner (wide-legged and-stepped swaggering gait) was always in the moiton of damning himself (clutching one’s own throat from behind).

There can be no true arrogance where there is a person staring in wonder and awe like shock and awe at the world around them, always expecting life to threaten them with riches and wildfires—eyes (remaining) always open even while closed, the person at the seat of themselves (throne).

I already said this before. Getting slapped to the ground, and then, while on all fours, laying claim to the ground as if one’s site of humiliation is one’s absurd worldview-generating triumph. No, that’s imprecise, wrong even. It’s not absurd. It’s not in-spite. It’s not generating. It’s not even triumph in the way worldview undergoes formations Rather, it’s Absolute Will².

Cannibal

How do you fucking stop someone who eats people? Eats the muck like it’s fucking fried chicken. Eats the heavens like it’s throat-damming slop. Eats it all like the sun had a name it could fit into its mouth and feel its gum-gucky teeth slice through sun spots and circular outlines. Like one stares at a skycrapered sky overhead with a blue cloud-strewn sky with a daytime moon and thinks instantly “yeah, conceptual control,” not as a gesture or advancement of an idea, not the thought or idea even, but as a genuine phenomenology/experience/self-knowledge that leaks into actual self-possessiveness (the feeling of actually owning the skycraper overhead that so obviously and oppressively dwarfs at that angle, with the daytime moon and the blue sky that goes on and on in faraway giant cloud banks). You can’t just eat abstract fucking shapes.!111 Discomfort is not fleshy! It’s not something to eat, man. But I’m seeing discomfort’s guts on the fucking ground! (Oh, God!)

“Someone, Help!”

Arrogance holds itself with a lit match to its throat, chuckling Wild West baddy–style. It’s already eaten whatever bastion I could’ve created. All of these fake concessions, bastions, arrogances, all yield something that surpasses even me the person speaking right now. I can barely contain myself, by which hypothetical point I will have bit myself and chewed, like Mister Eats-All.

I hope this entry makes me look (awkward,) embarrassing, someone with a lot of shit to work at, some guy, though getting dismissed is more fuel, so it needs to be dismissal without the validation that comes from it, where getting defaced imprints face, where what arises out of that defacing, the new face, is smirking intenely, eye-confrontationally, eating you up with a wide-full-toothed grin that screams “you got me!” playfully even as it’s already counting down.

I wish the “cannibal” was idealized or the target state or goal. It’s the opposite. It’s the thing I’m actively trying to strip and shed off myself like someone full of cockroaches dumped all over them. I’m itchy and gloating and all that shit~! It’s not hypothetical! Writing is its manager!

But decentering the self only feeds the (arrogant-)self. When I enter flow states and try to do second-order thinking and all that and try to keep myself always as something that’s externalized, I end up becoming more and more myself. The more I deny myself, the more uncomfortable I feel, but the more unstoppable and undetachable it becomes once I do get my hands on anything, even the state of sitting down as an expression of functional person-being, Writing manages all that. It contains all of it. Who I am. The self. Decentering part of the process. The flow state feeding back into the self. Immersion in others’ work feeding back into the self. All of it. Writing manages that. It keeps it all here in a bunch of words. I must do it. I had to. I still do. And here I am. The full medium of my “all this” as well the very place it is fortunately kept limited (and yet, in that limitation, fully expressed through actualization through constraints).

Self-Ownership: Overloaded Kit (June 21, 2026)

I never thought I’d genuinely think that flow states were some form of invulnerability, so that ironically means that being even more my-self makes me even more vulnerable and thus “humbler”? Which is strange. I thought those three days of being in the heat internet-less in the province and humbly being a student of four new different books was its own self-denial. But if that makes me more my-self ironically and thus makes me even more targettable and thus even more “arrogant” as in self-fueling for possession. So that means trying to find ways where flow states don’t automatically absolve me. But still, it’s not like I was in a flow state when I was there burning in the heat in that camp. So not just flow states, but those intense discomfort “camps,” literal and equivalent.

So suspending these flows and discomforts? (_{Why do I manage to own everything that i feel?})

It’s so weird, because don’t these two counter each other? It’s like having rock, paper, and scissors in one kit.

Abuse (June 21, 2026)

The benefit in the end of having moments where you just don’t write feeds back into writing. I can’t deny the weight that non-writing moments have on my writing. The prestige, the pedigree. When I note down what I ate, I endow myself with so much power.

Century Tuna Flakes, 155 grams, 5.5 oz, 44.0 pesos at —, with several cups of white rice, a long spoon with a tiny scoop, and a [latte-colored] paper bowl with a plastic cover

As if I created the fucking earth.

If I wrote merely, it would just be a bunch of words, but you can’t deny the non-writer when they do write, with writing the tool of their being rather than the other way around, where writers sound like writers and people wrho web-developed their own personal websites all sound and present like one another without any original creativity beyond being the tool rather than being through the tool.

The person who doesn’t live like they had to transcend all of humanity just to write, to become the least grounded creature this earth has ever generated. Straight to space with you!

It’s a benefit really to be stuck here and to live among others, to feel the weight of every single grounded memory so bereft and deprived echoing back, so that one never loses sight of the ground as one ethereally walks on wing. The height of technical skill should never be for its own sake alone, and if it was, it would be to the benefit of finding the answer in a bunch of words than anything strictly fucking bunch-of-wordy. They’re already a bunch of words. Why optimize toward that? Fight the tool, don’t become it. Let it be something that you said no in all the ways you possibly could and yet still came through anyway, begrudgingly. Never love the tool. Beat it, abusively. Bend it to your will.

Never lose yourself in a bunch of words. It’s always been the war of the worlds. Writing as all the assumptions and shit-muck it’s carried for so long, to no avail. And me as the skin and flesh and bones that keep the bunch of text vivid and alive as it meets me wholly without preconception. It accepted me because I accepted myself through it, through the bending, the will-to-conquer, the man behind the tortured, twisted, string-choked bunchies. I win.

It will (be made to) accept your League of Legends. It will (be made to) accept your Roblox. It will eat everything up, not because text could actually eat guck and muck, but because I forcefed it until it itself changed and I myself changed and grew through it, dealing with the matters and affrais of the self the way one strikes the ground and revives through the brutal dislocation and unhinging and inner excruciation of one’s dominant arm. One totalifies teeth-clenchingly. Words will always the hobbling object. You will contain me, or, more precisely, I will contain myself through you (words), and then I will discontain myself, breaking free into the aerial abyss of who I unfixedly am. I actualize through writing, showing the drastic shifts in temperament and ways of expressing. The bunch-of-text reflects the transformations.

I don’t give a shit what you think is right. The text is my object. I will walk around and learn the way one forgets where they should walk and just walks all over the place and finds all sorts of things they would never have found out if they stayed in some idea of what and how things should be and how one should think about or interpret it. In the end, I ate.

I am my inner world. I abuse it (text) in my den. I grab a bunch of books and fuck them raw in private, eyes peeled open and full of vigorous huffing. I feel it all, as much as day 1 and with only as much sophistication as a fucking mammal dog in heat. I grab its hair and fuck it. I tug at its leash and sometimes pull so far it drags across the floor. No one will come save you.

Writing has always been self-expression. And the best relationships are like dysfunctional relationships. Thinking it equal confuses writing as something one has to amount to—even if only meeting halfway—rather than the other way around. Watch it sweat.

I want to sit down until I forget what sitting down even is and what it’s supposed to look like. Losing the concept chains. We don’t live in a “sit down” world in the sense that every single instance of sitdown can be traced back to the term. The word will always be a placeholder. And it’s up to me to replace it. To make every experience legible. If it was just observing the micro-textures and -ridges and such on a wall, that’d be easy, but this is about irreplaceable, unplaceholderable qualia. Where words can be totally wrong and the experience right, because the overwroughness of the writing captures exactly the qualia even as it defies writing the tool itself as accumulated practices over centuries of investigation in to the most effective craft, even as one returns eventually to qualia not as polished digestible writing but as regenerable experience (not repeatable, but endlessly re-writable)—ever-rediscoverable through qualia’s eyes.

Make writing (text) work for it. Discover in the process of taskmastering. Learn the prison and learn it well. This is where you’ll be [dungeon-]keeping writing (text).

The most creative writers throw caution to the win and express themselves (not performing creativity, or craft alone in a vacuum without any actual insight, embodied evidence, or conviction of personal memory).

To stop asking permission.

To write as if one has to sleep.

When I wrote my novel Peter from three years ago, I was in that room for so long I stopped telling the difference between isolation and creativity. I wonder if I stopped the latter by ending the former. I wrote then like I would never see the light of day, and the best I could then when it comes to connecting externally was so, so limited and marginal in its impact on me, and I was very much an inner world.

Now, the external world is my inner world. Strangely enough. One can only imagine what writing had to go through in that den. All that abuse, just to move from fiction to non-fiction, to meet all of the new conditions under which I placed text. I fucked it brand-newly.

I had to let go of so many structural fluencies (assumptions) [i.e., self as actively meaning-made for oneself through community-developed frameworks where even the methodology of the “personal relationship” is used and applied impersonally to defend against perceived extra-external structural wrongs] even just to begin the multi-year-long process of making myself receptive to scratching things out before something could even begin to take shape as something that could be—as remotely as possible—described as “everything.” Re-distributing the buffering from a network to an inner world, now encompassing external.

Implied-Vastness-Fed Fortress and Dominant Confusion (June 29 – 30, 2026)

A manga panel (e.g., of a tiny, coated, black-haired figure and tarpaulined kei truck on a wide, endless, ever so slightly cracked, railinged, electric-lined road flanked by a bulk of black-and-white wooded greenery, stemmy on the left, ink-splotchy on the left, and black up ahead, with light bushes lining the sides like canals, lines of white-interspacing trunks looming just ahead down the road, and the crispy, crack-like, feathering-out, dark, distant canopy just before the solely-screentoned stark single-colored bright sky), a web novel chapter (in a long line of a series), a bandit fortress. The feeling of a single self-contained unit that feels its own big thing already altogether.

How the hell does one even begin to do the same for a single journal entry? There are so many ways to answer this question.

It’s like you want to capture the endless flipping/scrolling/next-buttoning of manga panels (encompassing komawari [panel division] and dangumi [panel blocks] as well, in both traditional and vertical) and web novel chapters and even the sense of a whole in one within a larger world, like a bandit fortress (“a well-fortified bandit encampment”) “straddling the main roadway and commanding a strategic location along the main route from X to Y, situated south-west of Z and just west of XX,” not in the sense of a node in a network, but in the sense of looming distance only proclaiming the self-containedness of the fortress in the way of the manga panel’s “endless road.” [Notice how it wasn’t the unmentioned, extraneous title/name of the place “Robber’s Gorge” that did this, but the specific phrase “{bandit fortress} straddling the main roadway”] Distance in the compression. It’s not about the vastness. It’s about the fortress which the vastness feeds. The travel-launchpad, visit-weathered (i.e., of having been known) porch that is forever. The small in the large.

The kind that’s not a mental state, but engineered the way it re-invokes that every single time you look at it, regardless of how much you forget about it or focus or forget or immerse in something else anywhere else everywhere everything else. You can’t help but stare at it like it holds the answers to the universe. And it does. Not existentially or actually universally. But in the way that damns you to its fortress—And its secret vastness.

Clarification:

It’s not that prose itself isn’t syntactical-imagerial in the way that leads to structural theories (prevailing discussion points, anchors, or frames of reference) through operative conceptualizations (i.e., something like “reliable hyper-compressed ideas that have been so neologistically modified to produce immediately a grounding force for operation”), which is why I linguistically strip-mine books I read like this recent phrase I listed down, “the time of falling leaves.” [Or why I have written scenic naturalistic descriptions {sensory and observable} that capture it as this full-on portending thing, “majesticizing” it in 421 words of a single “self-contained scene-setting paragraph” {the basest possible way to express it—but also for templating purposes, since the point of it is the template itself as the—kind of—temple of this whole discussion, given that the most powerful worlds are vicarious in the way of blank-filling-readership through ellipsis or omission}]

However, we’re not talking about the writing itself as content or even the titling (e.g., “Writing as Code”) of the entry.

We’re talking about something far more distributable rather than writing-level (content-level), since journal entries are far greater units. It’s like the difference between art as art vs. manga panel (or komawari or dangumi) and web novel chapter. The bandit fortress is not art content. It is (closer to?) category—but not tag in the way of “work,” “health,” and “home.”

Continuation:

It feels like syntax-imagery is carrying the journal entry, so rather than the manga panel, it’s as if it’s just a stream of art content, if that makes sense. This is regardless of timestamps, dates, broader folder categories, and titles. It has been in this sense writing as “bunch of words”—”leakage.”

It’s like manga without panels or panel blocks, is probably the best way to analogize it. Just pure content.

Heap is the best word for it. But like I said, there is structure technically: syntax, compressed imagery, structural theories, operative conceptualizations, neologisms and all, “the-time-of-falling-leaves” phrases.

Phenomenologically, as the writer, I can disappear at any time. Finger snap and poof! Gone. That’s what the bunch of words as heap is like, where everything structural is invisible and dispensible, if that makes sense. Everything is just poof-gone. The entries are not individual heaps. They drown in the heap.

It’s like a 1.5-million-word web novel with no chapters or “chapter blocks” (multiple chapters having the same title but numbered, up to 4 or 7, like a mini-arc), if that even makes sense. It’s not about the web novel here though. It’s about the chapter, or chapter block, since we never experience the web novel as one big 1.5 million words but every chapter as consumable content (unit), even if we do binge, unless the story is itself short enough to be binged in one day, in which case that is its container.

But:

Though one can easily argue that not all manga panels are fortresses, and you’d be right, but we’re not talking about literally all manga panels. Again, there are page layouts. But yes, one can still argue that journal entries, even while themselves full of non-fortress entries, eventually form bigger units, even if it never consolidates in a visible work like a collection or a novel. But that heap-y invisibility is the problem.

More broadly:

Life cannot be a blur of invisible (even if ultimately), forgettable accumulations. If you disappear to yourself, then you can’t really claim what you’re disappearing (transitive). Presence is not something you finger-snap into existence. It’s something you build like manga panels and panel blocks and oeuvre novels (not the blur of a body of work, but the novel speaking for itself as may be fittingly placed under an oeuvre, but never under its supervision, only to be bound to itself and then whatever happens categorically afterwards is the oeuvre’s self-prerogative). Each panel has to be a fortress fed by implied vastness (the visual of a road that may stop on the manga panel but appears to continue endlessly in a looming world). The whole in the one. The vast in the small. Distance in compression.

To imply, one must be explicit. If everything is implied, nothing is implied. Then there is nothing. Distance in the compression is distance truer than distance as abstract. The road on the manga panels ends there but continues unspeakably forever. And you gain a world in the small, all fed by implied vastness, the implied distance serving the whole of the image, the world unending within the confines of an image-compressed manga panel. God is here, like with Earth. There is a self-contained world. The journal entry must be God-Earth in the small.

God Himself has to appear here like with Earth, creation story and all. That’s basically a good way to make sense of what I mean by it.

Continuation:

And I think what’s strange about it is “the novelty of the chapter.” You would think a chapter is just continuation, but the truth is something closer to a self-contained world each chapter reveals in and of itself. The language of accumulation is absent. What you get are episodes, not words on words. There’s always a feeling that this is everything there is to say, not in the way of prose, but in the way of a chapter holding everything and then nothing else (“and then some” in that “nothing else”). Distance in compression. The manga panel example I described at the start of this passage comes from Chapter 47 of the manga My Home Hero. That’s the end of a single long arc, but that’s totally irrelevant to the manga panel itself as whole (this whole thing) thing. It generates its own meaning, like the Grace Field House setting outside of The Promised Neverland plot trajectory. The thing itself is irrespective.

A world in itself, before everything else.

It’s why you might see a single fragment of something larger in Pinterest, like an image of a video game but you didn’t know it had all these things behind it (even that it came from a video game) and it was just some random screenshot. You will not even realize it’s a fragment because it captures that.

The screenshot is a world in itself. It’s not even a screenshot or an image the way “image” might imply of something real which it is representing. It’s just simply that thing. It’s not a microcosm of that video game. There is no video game as far as it is in itself concerned. That it is a screenshot of a video game is extraneous.

Context itself is extraneous. The plot trajectory of Promised Neverland gone, whispered away. It could’ve just been the Grace Field House as introduced within the first few chapters. It could’ve just been that and nothing else. A full-on boom and then nothing else (“and then some” in that “nothing else”).

Pinterest is full of images that speak of lived-in spaces, like a photo of a messy bookshelf. And that epitomizes what I mean by self-contained worlds “distance in compression,” “fed by implied vastness.” And it’s not the shelf per se. Not the walls. Not the room. Not the books. It’s that manga panel. The whole on the surface like painting on the canvas. The very 2D imprint. With no 3D underneath. That in itself. Not even the implied history. It’s the thing itself fed by implied vastness. Everything on the surface. On the manga panel. On the web novel chapter. “On” is crucial here. Not “in.” There is no “in.” (No actual.) There is no photo. There is no “photo of X.” It’s the thing itself. Not X. But itself as what “photo of X” is representing. You would think it’d be the other way around. But no, it’s the inverse. I am using “photo of X” to represent that thing.

The photo is the thing, not the “photo of,” not even the “photo” as intrinsically “photo of X.” You don’t need to know what a photo is being taken of to be effected (not just affected) by the photo, the way you come into life after seeing a Pinterest image divorced of all that it is and, in that sense, “nothing else,” and, in that sense, “and then some” in (“in” so as to say “which is”) that “nothing else,” generating its own meaning, the extraneous dispelled (perhaps, even mocked or laughed at).

In a more radical way, there is no context to something that isn’t truly without it. In fact, it generates a “beyond”/”behind [kind of]” separate from the context it is supposedly lacking. It generates its own context in implied vastness. Distance in compression.

Realization:

This is probably why I’ve been struggling to write long-form fiction recently. I’ve become a prosist in the way of content generator. I’ve forgotten the web novel chapter. It’s probably why I do linguistic strip-mining of phrases. I used to binge-read web novels the way you get excited for each chapter. Now, I get caught up in manga panels, which, according to this passage, should be a good thing, but might mean that I’m all about the prose rather than the story as chapters. It’s not that I don’t binge-read at all, but there’s a clear preference for capturing that all-in-one in prose, which, from what i’ve seen, creates this heap.

Continuation:

As seen in the manga panel example, the screen tone, especially as obvious from the canopy-feathery-edge-crack-reached sky, is crucial to this. The humbleness of the panel itself screams of ambition, like a 2010s Roblox game reaching for something so much greater. There is a world here, in our midst. It goes on, goes on, goes on. When you zoom in, you don’t see more detail. You just see just how surface-level it actually is, all the way up to its resolution of detail—which encompasses ghostly smudges at 800% zoom-in (8ZI) on a certain spot in the manga panel, a screentone-obvious 8ZI compression of the figure and the truck even as most of the vehicle lies outside of view, and a third 8ZI of the top of the truck (now vague), the shoulder and head of the figure (getting vague), and the big bulky greenery, trunks, and the curving, ultimately ending road—which in itself expands distance through compression. The absolute clarity of the stark-white-clear-all-caps-font dialogue oval bubble only reinforces the compression’s infinity (distance).

Properties:

1. Generates its own meaning
2. Fed by implied, self-generated (irrespectiveness, standalone, “from within itself”, not even knowing it comes from an installment midway through a series, Pinterest-ignorant), secret (“and then some” in that “nothing else”—”in” here meaning “generative of that very thing in the same motion”—or “and even more” being in that “nothing else”) vastness
3. Alreadyness
4. The opposite of the illustration-description content heap
5. Superficial

If you can’t:

• sleep in it
• write in it
• (to a lesser predictive extent, though not in any way attenuated as a predictor in the case of the web novel Lord of the Mysteries for me) change in it

…it’s probably not it.

Conclusion?

It might honestly be because the journal entry itself is dictionary-authoritative, actively closing and precluding all gaps, rather than evocative. In that sense, rather than the implied vastness of the fortress, it’s forest management, not that manga panel example. Even kingdom building manga that involve actual managing of land and even woodland employ implies vastnesses. It calls vastness like a function, not as sensory, evocative, observable “road disappearing into canopy” (RDIC).

So the water-tightness of journal entries is why they’re so effective.

This means that when making sense of something or searching for the words to say it, even limitedly, one is writing only to the best of what’s water-tightly available. This means that precision can be refined because one is only as much as one is within the water-tightness. Rather than implied vastness, it’s rigor and dialectics.

Not necessarily rigor in explicating everything, but within the conditions and limitations of the words themselves as one’s current but self-refining capacity allows. In that sense, there is no manga panel. It’s not even a bunch of words and linework in the way that’s illustrative-descriptive or observable so as to cause evocation allowing for fortresses to spawn in the first place. Rather, it’s definitive (dictionary-authoritative). So you close the gaps and you stop relying on assumptions and you bring them into the light. You drag the vastness onto the table and you acknowledge and address.

The heap might very well be the definitional overwriting that paves the way for even greater definitiveness through rigor and re–self-dialecticization. The heap in this case is respectful. The drowning in the heap is how meaning is kept safe from the words that seek to confine it in the role of map over territory. Everything is usefully trashed. I need the trash heap. I need the millions of words of trying to say something so full and rich even to begin to say hello. Water-tight consolidations (as it is fully taking place on the surface of prose and “linework”) make for very good targets for critical explication (drawing out of gaps, in which stipulation can do God’s work, and assumptions, even within a given precise wording itself, because edges go beyond “precision” as we might understand it as “terminating” or “end-defining” because correctness in perfectly self-sufficient and definitive gap fills expand to reveal more gaps rather than closing them—territory being expanded, even accumulated—accumulation being where correctness goes), which implied vastness in the form of RDIC would dodge.

Hello is the start of trying to find the edges of hello. All of my writing descends from this ancestor. One had to experience the full correctness of hello to advance to its accumulation as its natural direction of movement.

It’s not world-building in the sense of describing more and more of the world (e.g., car, pipe, dog, gun, face) which keeps that implied vastness. It’s restarting hello repeatedly. Accumulation in the sense of where correctness goes is all the ways one could phrase something and then finding it goddamn wrong every time. Writing is being interrogated. The territory expansion analogy can easily be misread as being right every time and then having this whole knowledge system where you bring all the rightness together and say “hello.” But it’s saying hello from the depths of having exhausted everything else, and then trying something, even innocently, because that is the only posture one can have when writing anything honestly.

I don’t write because I am this whole thing in words. I write because I am this whole thing which millions of words fail to do justice to, no matter how hard I try, but I keep going, because it’s genuinely fun and feels like the most honest thing I can do. To say hello and to stutter and try to look and fish for the edges of it like it’s some foreign word. I’ve made peace with the lack of justice. I am my own justice, which the words empower me to experience in the act of writing. I write because I am wrong, but I am so right. You recognize me by how wrong I am (in prose). It’s not that I don’t say what I mean, but I discover what I mean by writing. And it’s always wrong, not that it’s not what I mean, because it’s exactly what I mean, but even as I am the embodiment of what I am writing, I am wrong the way someone says exactly what they mean and yet overwrites even that. I overcome myself. It’s how I transcend myself. By immortalizing what I mean in words, I go past it. I become even greater, becoming more myself even while becoming someone totally different if they never put into words what they meant as precisely as they did. I am larger than myself.

I would have never budged if I never wrote though. It’s like reading a book. It only progresses as much as you’re reading it. My writing is locomotion of self-transcendence. I am constantly running over myself, fueled on myself as trampled corpses. (Not stepping stones, since not a single one of “myself” wanted to be one, so it’s brutal and violent and even like Attack on Titan’s Erwin Smith dying before learning the truth of the basement, or clones slaying each other even while having the same copied mind, memories, and “soul,” not even like a mind copied into a machine sacrificing themselves for the original person, but similar to the scene with Melish where the German soldier kills him in his desperate cling for life where as the soldier is bringing down the knife to his chest and shushing him, Melish repeatedly tells him to stop like they’re just friends rough-housing and it’s getting too serious, though fortunately with death being “shushily” godsent through rageful-gentle-dying-of-the-light-death-approaching-sleeps-and-wake-up-in-the-mornings, the daily cycle that refreshes like memory wipe and prevents the old from cataracting over the iron-hand-worn joysticks so the young can judge upon [from the vantage point of] new paradigms, but in the single person across days—egos gut-spilled across the writing table, across the manuscripts—rising not like a blood-stained conquistor, but like a child just moments after rebirth and rocking their legs while seated, though still the utter beginner in the way of a person who knows the heap of corpses behind their current form by heart like the back of their hand) The more I write, the farther I go. I’m discovering a bright new world. I’m like a crazed addict running on fumes, fueled entirely by the spread of my wrongness, my reach insofar as I am wrong. I excommunicate the selves that thought they could contain me in their discovered meanings. Because I am wrong, I am infinitely right. The person that started this journaling practice about three years ago is long gone, even as much as I dangle with his corpse and wave his limp arms, knowing well this is what it means to self-conquer. You play with your enemies’ dead bodies, severed heads and all. My integrity and self-honesty and desire to make sense of it all and discover something that could really break me out of that torturous chamber was what led to this. It’s “your” fault. I throw it all into space, and then, while they’re mid-air, I grab it all and create something truly creative and mine in the most compressed-orb-shape ever. All reconstructions, sure, but all original, the way one wields their somatic memories of their previous self-concepts like a power tool they’re spinning in their hand as they walk to the next site—swagger, humph, and all. Goodbye, Me. (The one that wrote this line.)

Rejected Thoughts

• The author created the content itself, the prose and the art. But the compression and the distance itself in the way of manga panel, web novel chapter, Grace Field House, and bandit fortress are very much their own speakers.
• The thing is that I’ve already created stuff like this. Actual fiction novels.
• I’ve become so obsessed with the perfect prose that I’ve genuinely found (my own special [kind of]) fun in it. I’ve started feeling more and more the same with manga panels.
• You don’t see more when maximally (e.g., 800%) zooming in or maximally zooming out or by looking for context elsewhere, but by approaching the image itself as actual-size surface. Of course, zoom-ins at 345% still work for manga panels where everything is still maintained as if in actual size, but the point is that
• So it’s just a bunch of ink splotches, lines, and textures that all cohere into something so realistic, the same way prose is just a bunch of words that become something presently felt like hypotyposis.
  • The self-contained world in that sense is superficial (actual-size surface-level). “On”.
• It’s memory-stainable, so it becomes revisitable as past even as the manga panel is irrelevant to the experiences one was having while reading the manga but becomes associated with them anyway. Nevertheless, it is approachable as fortress. So you cannot exactly change in it the way you might expect something to be endlessly re-interpretable from scratch across life phases and still be as if you’ve never associated anything with it at all, as it will be like a mall soaked with childhood memories. But that doesn’t diminish the web novel chapter anyway. Regardless of how much you visit and stain it such that you distance yourself to find new horizons the way you would the bandit camps in Skyrim, the pillager outposts in Minecraft, and the high school roleplay interactions in Roblox after discovering that you no longer see them the same way, it will always be its own world. You cannot claim insomuch as it will always speak for itself in implied vastness generated from within itself, since as said earlier, the plot trajectory is irrespective to the thing itself, because the fortress that is the “endless tree-lined road, truck, and figure” manga panel, the web novel chapter, the bandit fortress, and the Grace Field House will never stop giving as long as one keeps shedding the memory-stain cataracts that assume the chair before it’s already there in front of oneself. My isekai fiction novels themselves are fortresses for that reason—fresh as vastness-implied self-contained world—even as one might cite them as the most egregious vessels for memory-staining.
• And you might think the solution is to separate journal entries each into their own text file like one might do with interlinked notes in Obsidian vaults. But a louder entry is not necessarily any more a fortress than more screams in the heap. Even self-publishing entries in a personal blog doesn’t make them fortresses. Officialness won’t help. Titling and timestamps are irrelevant. You might think that the way web novel chapters have one webpage for each would solve the journal entry, but the single-page format as you would in a single text file in Obsidian only makes self-containment, not implied vastness. The interlinking doesn’t imply this vastness either. Grabbing the term “manga panel” in this passage and making it go to a note page for “Manga Panel” is just operative conceptualization, so it’s back to prose. The visibility of it doesn’t…
  • Or maybe this entry does it all already.

Proportion (July 1, 2026)

It’s so strange to feel the full scope of everything that I’ve written in 4.75 million words in 3 years. (It’s going to be the three-year anniversary of me journaling at all 3 days from now.)

It went from this big mass that you could never say you knew like the back of your hand—like endless sky—to this thing that’s like this single plate among other items on your desk.

Most visibly, 50,000 words has functionally gone from “book” to “chapter.” What functionally works as a chapter has itself increased to 50,000 words. And a book has become much, much larger. But functionally proportionally, nothing has actually changed.

Sort of like how someone skilled at description turns a 1,000-word story that’s basically a summary into a full-fledged 100,000 words. [This is not description for its own sake of course. Descriptive micro-such is equal to plot micro-such, which is what creates works like Lord of the Mysteries since mechanics (e.g, all the shenanigans with The Fog) of “broader rewards” are the fun.]

The chapter became so much bigger because I learned to squeeze so much into one movement.

Extrapolation:

This means scenes themselves can be as long as 5,000 words within the 50,000-word chapter itself.

A single compressed scene-setting can become 421 words then.

Of course, most paragraphs are very short, like dialogue lines with action beats and all that. But I’m referring to scene-setting description, which, while interweaved throughout, still serve as breaks/pauses within the narrative rather than simply flavored about like flecked spices.

This means there’s a lot more structure in-text or in-prose since everything has scaled up from top to bottom, from bottom to top. Structure not in the sense of subvision or circumnavigation of clear proportionality, but in the sense that you can clearly see the simple cone shape of the big volcano as in relief against the flatlands around it.

This means that with greater capacity for description up to micro-details, things that never existed or were just implied are now popping up. What may have just been “room” now has all of these textures and details that are themselves structural, even if only micro, but now visible due to scaling-up.

The micro-detail goes all the way to the book. Structure aligned. Like the Solar System’s planets, but, in this case, across levels (e.g., book, chapter, scene, description, micro-detail).

When even one precise word bears structural weight, then it’s not just micro-details in phrases anymore. That’s the smallest possible weight that somehow, like atoms, defines everything.

“Atom” here is crucial. The word is not its own meaning. But it is precise. So it is precise all on its own, but not meaningful on its own. This is functionally the same with the micro-detail in phrases, the description, the scene, the chapter, and the book. Not bottom to top, but across, both ways.

To get more magical about it:

It’s a bunch of words. The way a book is a bunch of chapters. The way a word is a word of bunches (reverse direction of “bunch of words”—bottom-up).

Sort of like how a single tree (word) can make the world blossom.

And the world as earth looked down at from space runs top-down to the single trees (words). Not ignoring phrases, description, scenes, and chapter here of course, since the “across” encompasses them. Though both catalyze each other in ways that feel liks spooky action at a distance. Sci-fi tends to exploit this [aesthetic/phenomenological/whatever-the-hell-this-is(-called)] “mechanic” or effect. A single potted flower beside earthshine.

It links back to identity-consolidated utterness [arriving?] in physical bodily walking gait. In this sense, honesty is identity-consolidation in the momentary viscerality. I am falling forward and catching myself when I walk the way I reconstruct (identity-consolidation). Every micro-action a visage of me as is intrinsic in the discovery (falling-forwards-and-catching reconstruction).

Self-Responses

Isn’t that just alignment? When dissonance stops? Since you’re not doing something and then having a self-concept contradictory to your everyday actions?

So something closer to fresh eyes.

So the larger their reconstructing (book), the more their micro-actions themselves start becoming more structural?

Self-Responses (2)

So the best books and people can scale up and still be proportional, even such that they are even more structural because of revealed micro-actions.

Is it really the “best” or is it the natural evolution? Or maybe it is the former because you can get caught up with absolute numbers (e.g., “a chapter can only be 2,500 words”) without considering functional proportionality. It’s the best because it maintains under scaling-up pressures and sees the proportionality in it all.

Sort of like people who just keep growing beyond what the human body is capable of. Some gene gone rampant. Instead of transitioning to a giant’s body as the baseline to meet the scaling-up while maintaining healthy bone structure proportions and all.

So in this case, the writer is the tool-master.

Self-Responses (3)

How is proportion relevant to self? Which I assume is related to self-actualization.

How big can giant get? I’m thinking an epic story feeling like a whole giant world. Not whole giant world in the way you hear people talk about any story that’s 500,000 words long. I mean like something that feels so big it couldn’t even be said to be a story in the traditional light. It’s more so a place of so many stories. If one applies that to the self, I can only imagine.

So I guess it can be like galaxies in absolute numerical size while still being proportionally unit.

In League of Legends, movement speed may be uncapped in a sense in game modes like ARAM Mayhem where you can get the augment Tap Dancer³ which gives you uncapped stacking movement speed. But it’s not proportional to your actual kit, like Vayne. You just look like any champion on movement speed steroids. So even if you’re actually getting things done, you’re so much more separately steroided than actually proportional with kit. To make this visual clearer, Tap Dancer often goes so far you’re just zooming across the map and auto-attacking minions just to keep that 5-second-long 235-stacks super-high-speed effect, which applies to literally any champion that can auto-attack at range even if you might say attack-speed is integrated in Vayne’s kit, though not meaningfully to be proportional beyond just about any champion with range and auto-attacking as a base class. But If your kit itself is intrinsic with that Tap Dancer, then that’s chapter in 50,000 words.

It’s why being able to feel the fact of having written 5 million words in a single writer isn’t just Tap Dancer attached on top of someone like some awkward biological fact having no relation to that person. It’s 5 million words down to the micro-movement, down to the hands presently typing right now, at the smallest possible case, down to the one word. This is proportionality. This is chapter.

Self-Responses (4)

So it’s like you grabbed a person and gave them super speed without making that meaningfully intrinsic to who they are as a person.

Basically “I am Iron Man.”

To be able to say one’s full name and to feel that one has encompassed all of oneself, what that name covers throughout the lifespan of its use as a proper noun.

You see it when people don’t blame tanks (the champions as intrinsic to their kits) in ARAM Mayhem. They blame either Heartsteel the uncapped-max-health-stacking item or Dropkick⁴ the health-scaling-execute augment. But this is real life. THE Little Willie tank, not the individual soldiers. Or the Empire and its key figures, not the individual soldiers empowered by them kit-wise like Dropkick. Identity is tied to who-or-what-to-blame.

The champion in this case, Cho’Gath, becomes the vessel for Dropkick, like the pen for the blamed author.

Even neologisms are not blamed on words and letters themselves.

But a famous sniper claiming a high kill count definitely blurs it since both the gun model and the sniper individual (more so a skilled ranked user, perhaps with personal quirks, than an individual like a person you know on Facebook is) are blamed.

So in this case, the writer is the tool-master.

But tool-maker is, too. A writer who writes not as a tool-master but as tool-maker makes for something that isn’t high-kill-count sniper using majestic gun model in a kind of “bimodal” assignment of blame. The writer makes their tools, like a bushcrafter—think the Youtube channel “Primitive Technology”—as the technology itself isn’t the end point, like the inventive use of gourd in The Swiss Family Robinson, a thing they didn’t create itself into existence but utilized tool-maker-wise as the tool isn’t masterable when it’s not even a tool to begin with. We instrumentalize/utilize.

“We create our own gods,” is a good way to vivify it.

There was no god before I was here, so I made my own one. Essentially, Mordekaiser when he discovered after dying there was no Valhalla, so he essentially generated it himself into existence.

Everything fell apart, all siphoned like tree sap through a tube into a (B)ecomer [proper noun].

I made (birthed?) the angel out of the stone. I made canteen out of the gourd. I made aliveness out of the words. I made a bastion out of rocks. I conjured god in myself in words.

Self-Responses (5)

It’s to SEE. The way assertion, arrogance, does. Michelangelo knew the angel was there, because he willed it before (predating) the eternity before his own birth [pre-earth even]. He is thrownness, but thrownness as “I am,” full intentionality in all of it.

I am the thrownness.

Return to First Person

Jesus is probably the strongest analogy for “I am the thrownness” (authored thrownness). It happened to me. The crown of thorns. The whiplashes. The carrying of the burdensome cross. The nailing of the wrists and ankles. Full ownership. Even up to the “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”

Dignity at the highest level of physical and emotional breakdown. Tears like drops of blood at the mount (or Garden of Gethsemane to be precise).

The cross predates the eternity before earth itself. That’s the level of authored thrownness we’re working with.

Snowy Day Mystery (July 1, 2026)

For the longest time, I’ve always been a child. Even just years ago, I would stand and stare at the night sky, and I would feel it all, and it would feel me. And there would be nothing else but that.

And the same goes for the stunning wonder of just staring and experiencing a web novel or a web comic, and it would just hit me and there would be nothing else. And that’s all there would be. Or when I would just be there standing at the bazaar and the world would just be still and the sky would just be there and there would be nothing to me at all. No depth. No sophistication. Not that there ever was or that there was later. It was never there. It’s not here now. It was always superficial. It was always just rawness beyond generic rawness or the concept of it. It was honesty, excruciatingly trying to go beyond the signal of signalling or even the signal of non-signalling, just to arrive at honesty-honesty, the one that goes through all the lengths just to ensure that it got across, since honesty to the wind is nothing, but honesty in communicativeness, precision, stipulation, and the effort just to be there every moment in both the words and the viscerality, to make something that’s actually just straight up technical, yet is the only way ever even to have imbued it at all with that vitalism of what-it-means. To have been alive. All this time. I’ve been here at every moment, across all of those previous selves. Every single one of them was struck with awe with everything that they encompassed only as much as they are with everything that they were, and that, and that, and that alone. They were children. I am a child. (Literally 23 years old.)

It’s just a bunch of fucking words, and that’s why! That’s why… I have to do everything in my power to fit life inside of it, like fitting a gucky mucky sloppy wet fleshy moppy alive creature inside of a 2D canvas and hope that like Plato’s cave, at the very fucking least, it will have been the most honest 3D against 2D, like grabbing a paint-wet hand and putting it on the cave wall. I’m trying!! Okay!! I’m trying!!!

I will never fit the horse in the cave wall. I know. But do you see it?! The horse? That I slammed again and a-fucking-again against the wall, hoping(!) that it would reach you. To cage flesh in permanence.!!! I know>.!!! I do. know.

I am a child. I raise my hand. Saying hello. At you across the distance. Figure. In the fog. Among the trees.

Do you see me.?

My whole life is full of everything in the nothing of wonder. I am not a machine. I am not a God of words. I’m just a bumbling brittle fool who crests the hill and sees the wondrous natural landscape (that’s still in my memory to this day[!] and which I cannot revoke! To great HAPPINESS!) and knows as much as ignorance is the infinity of the unstorable moment. The knowledge being unstored but experienced like stunning. Child, child,… child,>[ ]!>●<||🌲🌲child.

All of my life. I’ve never been the storer. I was always just the stunning. Nothing else. Nothing to me. But that. Life has been all about that. I was a witness to Life.

It’s not humble. It’s not speechlessness. It’s ██████ (blanket).

It’s a blanket (██████) of existence on you. Like snowy days (adventures!)—Cam Jansen: the Snowy Day Mystery #24 (David A. Adler), wo-ho-ho-hOo!.

Wonder! (Think the “Winter Wonder” skin line from League of Legends-)

I’m a kid!

All of them (looking at group photo from May 2014—at 11 years old, over 12 years ago—camp, and many other group photos across my childhood years), so precious to me.

absurd giggle “pfft!”

It was my first time to singggggggg

—me, to my then-friend (IRL) Lexi, back in November 20, 2016, when I was 13 years old—over 9 years and 7 months ago.

Lexi responded later in the same conversation:

IM GONNA GO THERE AND WATCH U

Bubble-World ⇄ Technical Skill ⇄ Unintegrated Stuff (July 2, 2026)

My name is long enough that it spreads like an epic. But that’s exactly why I have to develop the technical skills to transcribe it, especially the words that go so scribbly and nested-shorthand that it feels like staring at a sky that can’t be palm-contained.

I write because I know the limitations of words and just the amount of effort that it takes to capture experience as “phenomenology,” not in the sense of immediate “now” experience, but in the sense of experience as it has unfolded throughout my life and imbued so much meaning to otherwise meaningless hyper-specifics (HSs) like that classmate Sofia who I walked home with back in high school, who is just a name here but just their full name alone as this proper noun hyper-specific (though we usually use HS for descriptions, yet encompass also short-hand that don’t seem that much alone in phrasing but contain so much vivified meaning) is enough to demand that I reconstruct a list of so many remote things unrelated to one another in the whole scope of oneself as “self-updating,” or, more precisely, self-syncing, the way technical skill as writing gradually matches up and expands to encompass more and more of oneself as consciously integrated and explicated (which solidifies its spot in my brain through permanent external memory). [There is a natural evolution from speaking vaguely in terms of “the past” and “{elementary school classmate name} was crying” impressions to precise descriptions synthesized from separately remote sides of oneself each in the littlest way possible to form a reconstructed Big Bang.]

But in bubble-world speaking, my life is not that big. It’s containable. Well, containable now because I’ve written mill. of words. But yes, the bubble-world (“echo chamber” used specially here; on-its-own-terms) is very much the case at the same time that the epic-spreading name (encompassing integrated stuff—or bubble world—and unintegrated stuff) is, also. This is because of proportion, where the bubble-world maintains proportion even as unintegrated stuff (US) gets added from the epic-spreading name (like wilderness with territory). But rather than scaling-up proportionally, which would assume actual novelty, it’s dealing with US already intrinsic to oneself (the person) like a tip-of-the-tongue unnamed gap in who one is, where explication, as in turning that fog that is that US into explicit description, which is very much proportionally technical, is fitting the words onto bigger reality (but in pre-existing ontological phenomenology), like trying to catch the sky with a net. While this analogy makes it sound impossible, we catch clouds. Or we box a specific volume of air, atmosphere, or sky, and we stamp it onto the ground, like bringing someone’s head to the ground.

Reconstruction is how it sounds like. You have a self. Then, you re-build everything from scratch like you’re wasting time. But re-approaching the way the sky glitches like a simulation rippling across every single texture (undersides) or rendering of shadow, like light itself self-similarly monistically “re-gendering” (ontological re-mapping, but even more radical). Like the augment Critical Missile from League of Legends’ ARAM Mayhem approaching you gradually but rapidly successively in a torrent from you to the target that you auto-attacked. Re-approaching things you’ve already addressed and then critical-missiling it the way you dig a grave and find that the grave itself is ever-giving, not regenerating, not micro-texturing, more like nail-scratching wood shavings off the table, though without actual permanent erosion, just the process/act of constant erasure without regeneration or left damage. Critical-missiling is more accurate here because of the torrent not actually leading to anything like debris or sprays as a result of contact with the target itself. It’s a torrent once and for all. It’s like you never had anything truly built-in to begin with. That’s what reconstruction is. Not that you ever existed. But that the words never constructed, only that it held you as temp (temporary, but even more so because it’s literally the key word used for files and all that in the computer). US is working proportionally with the pre-reconstructed self (bubble-world pre-on-own-terms-expansion), but only possible through thresholds of technical skill varying in height according to the US in question.

We vivify vague written recollections already, so why be more precise? Technical skill allows the words to be demonstrative of the very phenomenology we vivify them to be. This creates much more compressed external memory, which makes for even greater reconstruction, because the problem of assumed phenomenological vivification. i.e., words brought alive only to the extent that the author is reading them, is that you’re seeing too much in the head without actually tapping the syntactical words for hollows. From place-holder (where even description implies given that a description of a place isn’t the same as the numberless ways one has experienced unfoldingly such that a single angle can never even begin to be said to be conclusive, but which provides a Alice rabbit hole to research-question a whole nother unintegrated Wonderland) to look-aways, where the word is a complexity of nests, like a rabbit warren. It’s still scaffolding the way you’d think a placeholder would be, but it’s done so to such an abstract extent that the vivifying brain is still necessary, but empowered. You’re maximizing the vivifiying powers of the brain, which paradoxically tips so much into placeholderness that it loops around to being precise. You know the limitations of text so well that you know what you have to write for your brain to work its best in co-creation. A writing prompt (i.e., vague recollection) creates two different stories. But a story (i.e., 100,000 words of interrogating words so that one can even begin to decouple one’s assumptions from basic words that don’t actually carry the meaning one ascribes to them such that we get even more detailed and micro-textural and structural to capture something that exists in-text, rather than in the waiting arms of a mature [not writing necessarily, but having much to work with experientially already in terms of a pre-existing full-fledged life and its experiences] writer who has to do all the work of generating it themselves from scratch with the barest minimum of a technical [practically so, even as writing prompt is content and idea, since it can end up maximizing the effect of a “bunch of words,” not that “For sale: baby shoes, never worn” isn’t a story, but that a prompt maximizes generative depth at the cost of the interpretable phenomenology]) creates two different interpretations. The story (in analogy here) is what technical skills work toward.

Killing “Mahoraga”—Provision (July 6, 2026)

Is the only solution mystical, that of the self and existentialist language, this looming assumption (LA) that’s supposed to vivify things that are true of but I felt post-stabilization that I should interrogate as to what they predict or make themselves rather than what I’ve kinda relinquished to the becomer self-overcomer during the ongoing period pre-stability? It feels like by themselves, these “true-ofs” barely say anything of themselves, regardless of the hyper-specificity and the numbers given, since it only expands rather than narrows it down, which kinda forces me to the position of either I just speak a bunch of words that float off into nothingness and description of the things themselvse rather than anything truly predicting or making or I rely on this idea of the self as this binding force that does all the work, where you can open up lots of space because of the ongoing period, but, now that we’re past that, it now feels like accepting answerless defeat because now is the time for interrogation of the true-ofs themselves in terms of what they say outside of the LA.

Is the best answer just to leave it as fragments on words used to try to capture this LA that can barely be reached? Is that the solution here? It feels anti–the point of this all. Isn’t the point to be honest, not to be elusive and slippery? I don’t like this idea of un-accountability where I can just relinquish it all to generic existentialism to do all the work that applies equally to everyone else, a cop-out to disappearance in the accumulation and the holding-space for the looming assumoption. All this giving-space. It annoys the fuck out of me. It’s been three years, and I’ve finally reached a point of having a self of which to speak beyond the fitting-for-the-time existentialist language. Now is the time.

So how do we grab the head of the becomer and force him not to adapt even to that like Mahoraga? To force him to a fixed judgable state. Interrogation. Stripped of its power as space. It’s not that it hasn’t crystallized or solidified yet. It has. That’s why it just can’t work as LA anymore. It’s no longer an “ongoing period.” It’s no longer something you can just give all the space for. It’s not that the true-ofs are identity markers as in they mark or make the identity, but they themselves predict or make outside of identity, but which I have filled with that LA during the ongoing period. Everything that I said outside of this LA, yet which have been “Roman Empire’d” all this time.

I’ve used the looming assumed “forest” to justify the trees without at all interrogating the trees themselves for what they predict or make themselves. To make the word or tree take accountability for itself. Instead of paint capturing a blurry one-time disappearable (discardable since it’s just a bunch of words or colors that barely touch upon reality but serve as a means of expressing oneself in the moment of vivification through alive eyes and phenomenology in the act and in the reading or looking the way someone cites a web novel as formative, but not so as to point at the work itself as separate from the vivifier, in as much as external memory) fragment of looming assumed reality the way my written entries do—where it’s free rein and it’s just a bunch of words and the self can get away with everything because it’s so much bigger and looming and ongoing and becoming and overcoming and ever more nuanced and hard to capture like the whole earth’s one big atmosphere—it’s stripping it of its conceptual-poetic, biblical, sublime, oceanic, “God’s green earth” invulnerability and endless différance and excusable phenomenology.

But it’s the only way to explain the range, the contradictions, the surprises, the eventual reconcilliation in one whole full person that remains looming and rightfully assumed because it intrinsically avoids the limitations of language and continues on in the way that the whole atmosphere burgeons on différancely. It explains my writing itself. But no, it can’t. The point of writing admits that, but it isn’t that.

It’s not about coming back to myself. That’s not the point of true-ofs by themselves predicting or making. It’s about grabbing the methodology and having it play out separate from hypotheses, theories, models, or intuitions. But I do recognize that they probably won’t mean anything at all so as to predict or make something truly coherent and “big” except what they already do descriptively obviously. I’m not talking about isolated facts, but facts as themselves predictors or makers. I just don’t want another LA doing all the work that the facts are completely irrelevant to but gaining some conceptually unconnected (at least on the base essential layer of facts by themselves, though scalable as part of a field of facts concerning that of a broader “forest” or “self” beyond just what phenomenology may imply more mystically) but phenomenologically injected meaning bestowed by that LA.

Since examples of “facts” can be obviously meaningless, let me give some that at the very least aren’t obvious:

• 4,300 words a day since starting three years ago
• 142 eight-hour cafe stays in 85 unique cafes since starting last year and one month ago

Or maybe it’s demonstrating the predictive wrongness of facts without returning to the existentialist amor fati self. Rejecting either move. It’s being wrong in the statements themselves as predictive identity markers or true-ofs-by-themselves, without sourcing from the self. Again, prediction or making was never about returning to the self, but by themselves predicting or making. That’s why there’s an either-or here, and I’m rejecting both.

Before, bunch of words was because of the self being so much more as LA. But now, bunch of words + bunch of “self.” Existentialism doesn’t save the words. The LA doesn’t. I’m not reduceable, but that’s not because of LA. That’s because words are just words that say nothing, but the self doesn’t say anything either, because it’s just looming assumption being space, not as beocming or self-overcoming, but as “bunch of” the way words are discardable, not in the sense of discarding all where that is the motion of the becomer, but in the sense that even the becomer isn’t becoming. Mahoraga is dead.

Then would I be the Buddhist reincarnator? Or is that still Mahoraga-ing? It’s not the self overcoming. It’s the self dying. Or is that just dressed-up becoming? Or could it be a path forward? Away from existentialism’s letting-oneself-be-changed “egomania”? Integration language wouldn’t say or would reframe or find a way to tuck in underlying becoming even when one says that one effectively died then and there in the bubble of a specific phase of their life like high school. But now, maybe reincarnation will actually allow it to rest in peace instead of being incorporated into new doctrines like Nietzsche with Germany. Maybe I conflated integration with becoming because they use the same language but are very different motions altogether, as integration can still be that of a self without a narrative of the self as LA or existentialism where bunch of words is constantly discardable against its loom. But I may have necessarily integrated since it’s not necessarily invalid and useless. It’s very useful actually. It motivated and drove me a lot and gave me much direction when working out practical tasks like putting together a main personal website archive that encompasses all the different sides of myself throughout my life.

Maybe I don’t have to discard becoming. I just have to localize it. The high schooler is dead, but the becomer is alive, separate from the high schooler, but who vivifies the high schooler in its own becoming aliveness in local. See this motion? But yes, it has been three years. Nothing will change the done website. The “finished what I started.” This is who I am now. Which is why I’ve interrogated the statements I’ve used under that LA. It’s exactly this motion that is who I am, as much as that sounds like we’re attacking something current, when it’s actualy already un-ongoing. Whatever this current is, it’s Killing Mahoraga.

I don’t eat myself the way a becomer does. I live and die in each phase, and the next phase is free to do with previous phases what they will. The language was in the end just a bunch of words, but not in any way misunderstanding some looming “a full, lived life,” since that doesn’t exist in the way it does. I’ve lived, but more precisely, I am local. I am lonely to my “other selves.” I was never going to carry their legacies as one full everything-in-me. I myself (this phase) will die, but I will live to my fullest and believe even more so. “I can only be who I am right now.” As trite as that is, given everything I just said, it’s gained this meaning. It’s not that I haven’t said something to the effect of this, but it’s even clearer now that 3 years have come and gone to fullness and to end(-ing). I’ve lived, locally speaking. To tie bunch of words and bunch of self together, past selves are like meaningless true-of-by-themselves predictors or makers (like the specific word count over three years example earlier), meaning only as much as descriptively obvious. In this is the LA, or the Mahoraga, dead. The current local is making of it death, a kill. In this even the current local is “composed” (using this as a base word, not rhetorically or in some grand ontological way) of true-ofs, or locals (not micro-locals, which implies actual composition). The becomer was essentially a placeholder to contain all the facts and memories. But I am not facts as predictive or making outside of LA, and am not looming assumption (container or placeholder or “all the”). Not even my world or my current local (just using the term in this passage non-ontologically). ‘I am not myself’ [as assumed]. This is a radical addition to “I am not my words,” where I myself loomed laughingly over words that flailed, thrashed, leapt, and reached like desparate cloud-clutchers. So whatever I write right now is twofold: it’s just a bunch of words, and, for the new thing, it’s not reaching up to a looming self that phenomenologizes it. Then who’s writing? Or what… even? Who’s trying to say something? Who’s writing the words as they are thought through, arranged, word-picked, and progressively revised structurally to build and wrap up a point. What is, if not the maybe preposterous who? Words don’t exactly write themselves. Cognition is a thing on top of words as externalized memory. But is it only up to that? But as much as I pre-emptively stage-set this, we’re not interrogating how cognition works or who’s writing itself as rejection of biology. It’s about the referred self. The thing that’s rhetorically (“Aha!”), structurally (whole syntaxes built off its grammatical signifiers in forms such as tenses [e.g., “is-ing”, “I-am-ing”] and affixes), personally, even-so-as-to-graze-ontology load-bearing but like a behind-the-scenes orchestrator. It’s just as much very much a practical technical problem. It gave the bunch of words something to follow asymptotically (in effect or virtual, not in intent, goal, point since writing has always been honesty, which inherently wishes to reach and match and not just follow). Current logic:

1. Insight: Not myself (as assumed) ->
2. Problem: Who’s/What’s writing? ->
3. What It’s About: referred self

External-memoried cognition and phenomenology without LA? Myself-less phenomenology? The referred self as placeholder, assumption, but provisional? Bunch of words oriented around “provision” (i.e., bunch of self)?

But this isn’t Mahoraga because I am not yet dead. As long as I’m still alive as cognition and phenomenology, I will be myself even in myself-lessness. The referred self can be a provisional placeholder and assumption, sure, but it will still point to something, even if that thing is made-up provisionally-cognitively-phenomenologically. Bunch of words, bunch of self, what remains true is that provision might just be Mahoraga. What was killed might have just been a clone, or a fake. We killed the wrong guy. The real one’s been here all this time. Provision. practical, technical.

Practical, or, more precisely, provisional-practical-technical, is probably the most honest way to deal with the two issues raised: true-of-by-themselves-predicting-and-making + looming assumption (as becoming and self-overcoming). Bunch of words and bunch of self. Made-upness. That’s where we’re working on.

I need to make a bunch of words and a bunch of self to engage in accountability, as strange as that sounds.

Honesty is provisional or by provision.

Probably essentially: “How do I (provisional in “bunch of words” and “bunch of self” both) become accountable/honest today?” Not “I am structurally accountable and honest.”

But isn’t that Mahoraga? Each provision in bunch of words and bunch of self both is accountable then only to itself? Or maybe that’s literally just what it is.

1. LA: Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in heaven.
2. Provision: Give us today our daily bread.
3. Inherited: Forgive us our sins.

Self-Responses

Isn’t this just “focus on what you can do now.”

Self-Responses (2)

Mahoraga in this case doesn’t have to be a bad thing if it’s now provision.

Show My Tell (July 7, 2026)

I love/hate “show, don’t tell.” It’s incredibly powerful that you can have monospace font text in a very old-computer terminal look, and it stands out like the sexiest, most appealing thumb alive. “Fallen pinkish-white petals blew down the path.”

But I hate it because it’s gospel. It damns the very thing that it’s supposed to be empowering. Imagery like this is infinitely powerful if it isn’t used to replace human voices altogether but used by humans to capture through imagery what they mean to say, like in forms as analogy, metaphor, and just load-bearing imagery altogether.

To better clarify “show, don’t tell,” here are more examples:

• clerks hogged the blank papers and books for the number
• packing like split slate
• feathery leaves died climbing the sky
• mountains hung distant
• bouncing the tendrils that framed her face
• striped in somewhat smeared sauce
• spread her fingers wide to check for dirt
• pinched her trousers smooth and aligned
• brushed a mosquito off her clean pink sleeve
• cracked sandals with peeled edges
• The gusts whipped the grasses and tore along the ground, making grooves.
• a primeval-garbed sun-eyed figure floated in the skies
• her momentum kicking up a draft past an upholstered chair
• Around him, whiskered sacks lay open, with a tumble of sweet windfallen mangoes tapering out.
• Bark-shouts flushed down the rocky, leafy, muddy slope
• Out of the thick of the gang, the spectacled goblin crystallized as it made its way to the side of the stream.
• the water-rushed foam when the goblins fished the tools out
• The gentle scent of sweet trees infused the already deep jungle air and passed through their noses with each breath.
• The coolness opened their chest, expanded their lungs, and swelled into their stomach.
• They bore and plunged through the jungle amid the sticking swelter, crested and stepped off boulders, and pressed down into stream purls with crisp splashes, journeying below the canopy-frayed strip of sky through thinning, tuft-lipped meanders and ragged river knees with high, smooth stone walls.
• Moss vines streaked the damp crag, with slight coils.
• Their decaying organic sludge mired the ground below them and hardened with the scorch-crusted mud, cementing into the path.
• The occasional thud and clack of footwear against small quartz stones, iron stone gravel, and fragments of ferruginous stone filled this great nest of greenery.
• …

Imagery’s not supposed to stand for anything by themselves. It can never do that. It’s not supposed to be an analog by itself. The point of what I’m saying is that imagery that isn’t instrumental or load-bearing, not by filtering what vaguely sounds “analogical” which is an impossibly myopic unreliable way to view creativity in this form of energizing or powerful imagery, but by incorporation in a bigger drive to incorporate and bring home a trophy of a point or even a rhetorical collapse that itself is a point or expression, ends up sounding like it’s supposed to carry the weight of gospel just by sheer image power without any actual point being made (except for the vaguest, most indirect structural resemblances). A story without a home to return to is just a series of events and descriptions about things that stand alone.

To be continued...

Gift [give me time to cook]