The Curious Adventures of Gordan's Thoughts

(Trying out a new style)

 

Buildings, buildings, all around
Clank, honk, traffic sounds.
Bamboo scaffolding, held up by zip-ties
Prolonging a moment in a realm where time flies.

Preoccupied by a gentle grip,
Glimmering glimpses of “sweet lil’ bits”.

Complexities, confusion, structured chaos surrounds
Simplicity, serenity, calms the storms around.

The moon shone brightly, resting atop a roof
–of a construct ever so foreign to me;
this territory was new.

The clouds swayed and drifted into the distance
An enjoyment of this unencumbered innocence.

The water — still as could be,
— reflected the moon, vibrant, present.
The boats docked, uninterrupted silence
Passionate simplicity, peaceful, pleasant.

 

 

MG

Dear…friend,

It has been a long time since I’ve written you a letter from the heart. Yes, it’s not the first, and it may not be the last. But it is a letter nonetheless, one that should be read; if not by you, then by those who will meet you in the future.

For the longest time you have been a key part of my life: my existence, my core, my all. I became dependent on you in my time of weakness, of need, of vulnerability, letting you in and giving you that freedom to roam around my world. You did, and you were a lovely contribution to what was once a monotonous and decaying life.

You were a rainbow, a sunshine, one of the brightest lights I’d ever seen, especially on my darkest days.

But you also came with collateral, one that I did not comprehend until much too late. The collateral that did not explode or destroy upon impact, but slowly imploded, leaving the toxins to seep out of the crevices of a cracked shell. You were that destruction I needed, to slaughter my demons and fight through the pain. You consumed the evil in my life, and I let you.

They feared you, but they loved me. You were my protection, the blazing amour of a knight in the night. They were apprehensive around you, but embracing of me. They blamed you for the pain in my life, not realising that you were the one protecting me from them in the first place.

Nay, their egos and self-centredness I could not fight…but you could, and you did. You brought out the sides of them they always feared the most, the sides they never wanted (me) to see for they stupidly believed they could escape pain.

My friend, you were the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me — the best, because I learned how strong I could truly be if I let the right people stay by my side. But the worst, because you had to wear me down completely until I accepted my limits. Not simply understanding limitations, but a full-on acceptance that I am fundamentally a flawed human being.

Just like the rest of them.

You showed me how to stop caring about what anyone else thought, that if people had anything bad to say it was generally a projection of insecurity and not a justifiable validation. You showed me that if people truly did care, they’d communicate in a sincere way rather than lash out based on emotional impulse.

You, my friend, you showed me the difference between emotions and excuses. 

For this particular reason, I thank you for all that I have learned, all that I have seen, and all that I have become because of your persistence.

You taught me that, too. You taught me that it was never about being the biggest, or the strongest, but rather the one with the most endurance.

Thank you, my friend.

I don’t want to let you go…and by the looks of things, maybe I don’t need to, either.

I’m sorry for being wrong, and I’m sorry for thinking you were the cause of my destruction.

You weren’t…….

Because……

 

I’m still standing.

Thank you.

Sincerely from the heart,

MG

 

(Creative writing: May 2009 – when it all began)

Perhaps there was nothing wrong with her to begin with, and she was just as normal as everyone else. But maybe it was her honesty that landed her where she was now—a rut. All that she once represented, all that she once was, the person she used to be, all left behind with the rest of her past. Her memories are what they are—memories. None of it the reality of now, rather a fragment of the past she carries around with caution.

No one can explain her, no one understands her. No one can love her to the capacity she does. She’s alone, but not. Thrown into this place she couldn’t comprehend, this place she could never absorb, she sits in wonder. She watches as the cars go by, as people fall into the deep abyss of love. She watches as people don’t realize they’re being watched.

Life, the one big controversy waiting to erupt. Or maybe, just maybe, it already has. Maybe this rut she’s in is the result of being swept away by lava carrying to this state of confusion.

She watches everyone around her—no one is normal. No one conforms. No one can fully blend in with the scene. So what was she doing here on her own? Was there even an “answer” to such a question?

Tears started forming in her eyes as she unraveled the memories of her past. She wanted things to go back to the way they were. She would give up all emotions, even happiness, just so that she would never feel pain again. A long time ago, she was never happy; but a long time ago, she was whole and complete. A long time ago, she was never broken.

She had to fight back the liquidized demons they called “emotions” that were beginning to fall from her face. No, she couldn’t be weak. She couldn’t let society win. But society itself had an advantage over her. It was closing in tightly around her, entrapping her, blocking her from herself.

Outside this cage was a mirror.

Inside this mirror stood a girl with a distorted smile. She was pretty, and she was smiling. The eyes in the mirror told a story, a happy story. But as she studied this intriguing person, she realized that her hands were tied. She had no means of breaking free, but she was happy. The person in the mirror sighed. A tear drop trickled down her cheek, fell to the ground, but didn’t break. A single teardrop, so small and fragile, yet so strong it did not shatter as it hit the floor.

This girl looked away. She couldn’t bear the image of a teardrop. Looking down, she found a pool of clear water on her shoulder. She looked away. These teardrops were her memories melting, liquidizing. She couldn’t fight it anymore. She looked back at the mirror once more, at the girl who smiled and hid her tears. The girl whose hands were bound, yet didn’t struggle to break free. The girl, who could be happy.

She blinked, and turned around.

On and on she ran, looking away from anything which fueled her memories, her emotions.

Those memories, no matter how close they were to her heart…were unfinished.

MG

I was stuck in a room with the two of them, both of whom felt the other to be intolerable. I was summonsed to arbitrate the situation, a mediation of sorts. Why? Well…I was about to find out.

When I’d first entered the room, I saw him sitting there with a sideways glare, arms folded across the chest in his tight black t-shirt, leg crossed over the other as his foot rested on his knee.

She, she was no better. She had her arms folded across her chest, too, but take away the glare and replace it with a whole bunch of huffs and hisses, fidgeting with the cuffs on her white jacket.

So this was my situation. They couldn’t agree. Again.

It wasn’t my first time dealing with this pair, either. And for matters of respecting their confidentiality, we shall give them nicknames. He will be called the Head, and She will be called the Heart.

My last few encounters with these two weren’t particularly pleasant; don’t get me wrong, we did achieve wonderful results. But my, how these two fought…so worth it. So entertaining, too, in retrospect. See, in my experience with these two, Heart always knew what she wanted. She was full of desire, of want, of love and compassion. She was kind, but she was strong as a boulder that would not change, only…fade…

Head, on the other hand, had this tendency to be right every single time. He was logical, calculated, and understanding. The empathy he lacked was replaced with honesty; brutal at times, but he didn’t play games.

When Head took the lead on the argument, the outcome would generally be of mutual benefit. Head had an objective outlook on life and was able to take himself out of the picture when analyzing a situation.

Heart, however, would always lead with her emotions. She cared about how people felt in a situation, and she also cared about herself. Heart was less likely to take herself out of the picture, and for that reason, allowed Head to take the lead when it came to situations involving others…

For years, Head was the one who made a regular appearance. He was the one trained to talk to people. Head had kept Heart hidden to protect her for so long that she didn’t quite know how to get what she wanted.

For that reason, I was asked to be present today. I had to solve their dilemma…for the first time, Heart wanted something that only Head knew how to get, and Head’s advice went against Heart’s desire.

Oh crikey, I had my work cut out for me…

MG

(Creative writing, REALLY old one from 2011. Darker writing, found it when I was going through old material.)

———

And as I lay dying,
the sounds of the conspirators remind me
of who I was supposed to become.

It’s never too late to be who you want to be, but watching the world pass by your dying corpse, you realize there really was no purpose.

That last slash, that last pill, that little nudge… you realize all along that you made the right choice.

But the one time you wonder what it would have been like to hold on rather than back down; for that split second, a moment of the reality of what “could have been” just flashes behind your reluctant eyelids.

The knowledge that all you needed was 3 more seconds with her…and it wouldn’t be you on this end.

You would be the one standing, watching her beg for life. She would be the one asking herself what she could’ve done to change it all. She would wonder what she could have done to re-write the ending.

And that’s when you see it…you envision the blade soaring through the air and puncturing her abdomen. She screams for you to stop as you’re blinded by the rage she fed, provoked, only makes you stronger.

You kick her to the ground and she weeps. Begging for a second chance to live her life differently. Still, you can only be as merciless as she was all along.

She bred this evil monster, fueled the fire ignited once upon a time.

This version of the person she loved has been warped by all the scars and venom injected into veins once innocent.

Nothing will ever mend this brokenness created by the one lying defenseless on the ground. Slowly, as she drowns in a pool of her own blood, you watch her slip away.

Merciless and too selfish to see past your peripheral vision, you wish it was how it used to be.

But now, you’re the one down. Barely able to see past the slits in your dying eyes.

You slip into a coma.

It’s over.

You’re dead to the world, knowing that your last thoughts were nothing but vengeance.

And still…hoping that your legacy lives on…

And as she lay dying, the sounds of the conspirators reminded her of who she could have become…

MG

(True story, biographical.)

“How do you know you’re at peace?” I asked my mother once, in my teens. She told me “when your masculine and feminine stop fighting each other, when you stop fighting yourself, that’s when you’ll find peace.” So I asked, “which side should I be then? Which one wins?” My mother smiled and said “figure it out.”

I watched, trying ever so hard to understand how my mother could be so at peace despite everything she had been through as a mother. Then I looked at both her sisters, and realised they’re made of that same metal that makes my mother who she is. Naturally, it made sense to get to know my parents’ siblings better so that I could better understand them…

In the last two years, I’ve learned that mother’s younger sister has been doing remote work from home for almost as long as I’ve been alive! What my generation aspires to do, she’s already an expert. Last month, I discovered that mother’s older sister is one of the first women who ever  wore trousers as work attire in corporate London, back in the early 80’s. When she told me this, it hadn’t even occurred to me that there was a specific “skirt / dress only” dress code.

“We were supposed to only wear skirts to work,” my aunt told me, “but skirts can get very uncomfortable, you know. So one day I put on a pair of trousers because it was more comfortable. Next thing you know, other women start doing it too. Eventually, it just became accepted in our company (Ernst and Young).”

I reflected, and pondered: it stood to reason that the strength came from my grandma. With R20 (USD 1.50) in her pocket, my grandma moved the family of ten (five went ahead, I was told, the other five came later) to the city in the 1960s during the apartheid in South Africa. As a family, they never let the Apartheid become a factor hindering them from just living their lives. When survival is your main focus, and it slowly seeps into the “norm”, you learn to embrace the better parts of life.

My grandparents always opened their homes, always welcomed those in need. Though they didn’t have much, they gave what they could: love, shelter, and a hot cup of tea. They didn’t discriminate who came through the doors. They were loving, but they were tough.

To the kids, they were very disciplined, from what I was told. Swearing warranted washing your mouths out with soap, dishes had to be cleaned immediately after dinner. Beds had to be made and tucked in completely, without an angle sticking out anywhere (although, I was recently informed that bed-making was my great grandmother’s rule). Disciplined, but always out of love. They knew that as long as the kids were disciplined enough to later be self-disciplined, then they would be able to take care of themselves.

They were right. And so it continued in the family line. I see it in my mother, I see it in how she is with our family. I know it comes from her family, that strength, that unity, that togetherness. The way she always did her best to stay strong for all of us when we were all falling apart; when we’re at our worst, she’s always the one motivating us, holding us up, comforting us and letting us know that “it’s okay not to be okay, as long as you get up again when you’re ready.”

My mother is the strongest woman I have experienced. She taught me everything I know and more, at least by providing the platforms where I, too, could become self-disciplined and self-motivated. I am where I am (literally) because yes, she birthed me, but also because she is the one woman who has always, always been there for me, through thick and thin. The one who has lifted me when I was down, but humbled me when I was arrogant. The one who can fight me when I need it, and calm me down when I diverge.

I am strong because my mother is strong. She is strong because the women in her life are strong.

So how do I know that I am at peace?

Because my masculine energy and my feminine energy are no longer at war.

I am a person, a human. A human with strength, both inner and outer; a person with emotions, both aggressive and passive. A human with weaknesses, both external and internal; a person with flaws, both on the outside and on the inside. A human with motivation, both physical and emotional; a person with compassion, both expressed and empathised. I am not perfect, but I am balanced, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.

Balanced, and equal.

Within myself.

Peace,
MG

(Re-blog from https://mikavelli.com/2017/03/09/the-women-in-my-life/ )

Have you ever seen her write? 

Have you ever just sat, and watched her surrender as the paper devoured her soul, as the pen carved into the unmarked linings of reproduced trees?

I have. I’ve seen her write. I’ve fallen asleep to the image of her etching patches of her soul into her diary. I’ve typed up essays to the company of her writing soundlessly behind me. I’ve found myself in a cafe, sipping lattes to the gentle glaze of her pen romancing paper.

She would write, and rewrite, and write, and rewrite, until she was satisfied with what had manifested onto the sheet tightly gripped in her hand. Then, she would place it, ever so gently, onto the table, and read the words from a slight distance. The words, the reflections of truth coming from the depths of her soul. Words of wisdom echoing the truth of what she may or may not have consciously recognised.

But she always loved what she wrote. Always.

And through writing, she always, always loved.

That’s all I wanted, to be a part of that, to be a part of the writing. To watch, to embrace, to collaborate.

To write, and to love.

Ever so silently, in the corner, across the table, under the sheets. 

I wanted to write with her.

And I wanted her to write with me.

To write,
is to love.

To be writing,
is to be love.

~M.G.~

As the sun set behind the clouds on which they’d rested all day, I watched as my planet slowly spun into the shadows. I thought about how years ago, almost centuries ago, when “night fall” was seen as dangerous. When the human species started to fear the “demons” that came out to play — what all started as a simple rustle of a leaf or a flicker of a shadow became sanctioned curfews and implemented sleep schedules through labour and education.

It was merely the break of night, still, glimpses of the sun stealing its last bit of attention before slowly disappearing…

I closed my eyes and listened. My ears tuned into the music of cellos echoing the underlying waves of the beach, the sands under my feet as my toes gripped the shells. My heart tuned into the violins — the distant cries of dolphins, of seagulls, of creatures great and small. My soul tuned into the piano — the sounds of memories, of adventures, of visions and dreams.

That overwhelming feeling of being excited, fearful, adventurous, and free. The agonizing weight as my memories overtook me momentarily, replaced by a hopeful element of what is yet to come.

Walking along the beach, I realized that I was falling in love with the moment, with the experience. I was falling in love with the memory in the making. Neither time nor place mattered. All that mattered was the experience.

I was falling in love with whatever was manifesting inside of me, as the energy started to boil…

It was an exhilarating feeling, one that I wanted to hold for as long as it would, a beautiful resonance I wanted to prolong for as long as time stayed in my hand.

I was falling in love, again and again, with that exact moment in time.  As the cello picked up, as the flutes chimed in, as the song took a slow pause to breathe… It picked up again once all the instruments had held on for as long as they possibly could. The song was unfinished, and the resounding note that pulsed through my veins told me that what was unwritten was only unfinished.

I fell in love with that exact moment in time.

And so I journeyed on as the songs transitioned, one after another, after another, after another, until I had enough songs to create an entire soundtrack of all the groundbreaking moments that took my breath away…I traveled, on foot, through the waters, until I had no more fight left in me. Until I had no more energy, no more air.

Until I was suffocated by my own desire to fall in love with moments

I had reached a dead end and realized…all I’d ever wanted was to have a hand to hold as we fell in love with moments…together.

T’was always that simple.

~M.G.~

Dear Skye

Hi all,

I’ve been working on a short-story series called Dear Skye. It is a compilation of fictional letters and poems from Ash to Skye, two characters, one of whom may or may not still be around. It is open to readers’ interpretation. Enjoy!

Click here to read Dear Skye on Wattpad

 

cover

Friend and Foe

Friend and Foe
There he glazed through the rainy city streets, carefully dodging puddles while avoiding bumping into crowds. He manoeuvred his body carefully, at times shuffling his shoulders to make room for him to pass. It was almost like he had an invisible, metaphorical shield around him to protect him from bumping into anyone. Either that, or his charisma somehow carried an aura that simply led people to part for him. Whatever it was, he felt magical. 

Despite the ease at which his bulky self moved, he dressed rather eccentrically – but not the colourful, hippie-like eccentric. Rather, he did not quite dress for his age. Something about his style was a cross between mature and young – almost like an extremely well-groomed middle-aged man. Leather jacket, throw-over jumper, collar shirt, slim black trousers and black boots. 

This was a guy to whom youth was both friend and foe. 

Just shy of a quarter-century alive on earth, he hadn’t quite grasped the balance of being an adult; if anything, he was back to being a baby in the complex and conflicting manner in which the “grown-up world” worked. Everything he had ever been taught about life – work, academics, relationships, finances – seemed to make so much less sense on paper than it did in practice. In sum, the reality was definitely less complicated than the methodical, theoretical education he underwent at school.

Suddenly, he missed college – that balance between having freedom and responsibility. That period of time when parents finally realise that the less you pressure your kid, the more they’ll pressure themselves. 

Somehow, here in the real world, he saw it for what it was – high school all over again. Rich, popular people stick together the same way nerds and philosophers are drawn to each other. The classist, racist, and ageist mentalities seemed to be even more blatant in this world. 

He suddenly found himself wishing he’d paid more attention in high school…

The Change

This story is inspired by Huxley’s Brave New World and Sid Meier’s Civilization V: Brave New World. 

He swung his rucksack over his shoulder and pulled the door shut behind him as he left the house, once again ready to fly solo into the battlefield. It was an average sunny morning with nothing new except his thoughts and theories which consumed him faster than the speed of light. All geared up with his knives and a crossbow, he skipped down the stairs, realising that the agonising discipline he had endured for the past decade was finally coming into play. He’d never understood why he’d been put through combat training, until about a year ago…

It was late July, halfway into the summer, that he was navigating around various city-states in his surrounding area. In this age of technology, though, his exploration was mostly conducted by travelling through cyberspace. He would navigate from state to state, find the most feasible settling point, and experiment by scouting around the boarders. For months, he had established Influence over certain city-states and civilisations, but it wasn’t until November that he had stumbled upon a civilisation that fully encompassed the types of battles for which he was trained.

In months, he had created a weapon that could ultimately destroy a civilisation of Megalopolises; a weapon that would break through the defense of Superficiality and thus expose and attack flaccidity of the archenemy both as an entity and as individuals. The downside, however, was that his weapon also unmasked his own weaknesses, and he needed to reconstruct a certain set of defenses accordingly. However, as he had allied with a small but strong Civilisation, he ended up investing most of his energy into fueling the weapon and hadn’t quite strengthened his defenses, so just over half a year later, when the Megalopolis decided to unite and declare war against this Civilisation, it was hardly a secret that his stronghold came crashing down, leaving fragments of debris on everything he touched.

With each battle, he felt weakened and defeated. But what his enemies didn’t know is that each scar they inflicted only fueled the fire and passion it took to take down this flawed and corrupt system. Two months after the initial battle, he decided to coalesce with the Army General to enhance the pre-existing weapon and defend it with double the aegis. They devised a strategy that was everything he had hoped, months ago, to enforce, but given the fact that the weapon was still in its phase of refurbishment, he decided that it was still too early in the game to bring out the big guns and fire the ultimatum. Instead, the Army decided it best to ultilise the information uncovered by their diplomats to administer alternate methods.

Finally, after three and a half months of provocation and warfare, he felt ready to save the society from falling down a swirling abyss of soon-to-be Betas of the Brave New World. The Civilisation had devised a strategy to conquer the boundaries of a backward society and catapult these Megalopolises into progressing in a universally sanctioned direction. Fueled with a passion that went both ways, he was fully equipped to train certain Melee units to defend their assets and enhance the skills they had already developed, but also to take on the antagonistic opposition from Greater Civilisations.

Each Melee Unit he was handed to train was equipped with their own set of weapons, and it was his job to cultivate these units into armies that could handle the Great Battle which was yet to come. These little battles that were coming his way at a rapidly unexpected pace were merely his next level of training, which is why he understood the importance of training his Melee Units as rigorously as possible.

The Great Battle was one he knew he was definitely not ready to face yet: What happens when his Melee Units reach their Age of Enlightenment and besiege the Megalopolis? How hard will the Megalopolis fight back then? Somehow though, his reassurance lay in the fact that they knew how to strategise around these impediments, which is why he allowed himself to sustain a few broken bones and scratches here and there: he knew they would grow back stronger, and that he would be able to take on the Ultimate Battle when it stares him in the face. For now, he just has to go on training his Units, and defend their Freedom without the Megalopolis trying to eradicate it. Being one of the few Civilisations in the Information Era, he knew he would have to wait a long time until his Melee Units moved out of the Industrial Era. That, or he needed to find a new method of combat training.

With every demonstration during the training sessions, his Melee Units felt threatened and weakened, but they didn’t yet understand that this was his way of strengthening them. They didn’t understand that the only way to grow was to conquer the existing Challenges before they could be upgraded to a stronger Unit. After three months of battling and Melee Training, he had finally come to discover that although his armies were equipped with tons of state-of-the-art weaponry, none of them had been trained to actually use any of it, so in the first few sessions when he asked them to try to use it, they all ended up shooting themselves in the foot or poking an eye out one way or another.

In his mind palace, he realised that these armies would take much more training that he had anticipated, which was surprising considering how modern their military technology and weaponry supplies were. He knew what had to be done, and knew what the ultimate goal was, but as for how to win the battle, well first, he had to decided which ones were worth the fight. But he knew. He knew that the Ultimate Battle, or the Great Battle, would only be fought when he had enough Flight Units to intercept the opposition. And for now, he would continue with his various forms of research that would provide substance and options for stronger weapons and more fine-tuned training tools to cater to the unpredicted needs of units that have been bred but not trained. He was tired of seeing his government funding the nation’s military but not actually training the army to use the tools, and considering the fact that this Megalopolis was considered to be one of the most advanced Civilisations in the whole world, his jaw dropped when he discovered that one of his Units whom he had trained for a sheer 9-month period had more common sense than the entire government. They were living proof that his expectations for the Units were not irrational or impractical, and though he may be somewhat idealistic at times, each losing battle only drove his cynicism, which in turn nourished his Strength.

And although he was very well trained and equipped to attack and dominate, the Civilisation didn’t feel that he was ready to be put on the frontlines yet. Instead, they were training his defenses and setting up the battlefield, so that when they did unleash his Ultimatum, it would act like an abstract Apache AH-64 trained to only shoot down Enemy Thoughts but keep the civilians and their Freedom safe. Tough and heart-wrenching as the process sometimes was, he promised himself that he would live to see the day when the Change took place. When the Change he had spent a decade trying to implement happens, he would be on the frontlines with a PHASR rifle to blind and suspend Enemy Thoughts, and an MAARS to launch grenades of Liberated Knowledge which his Melee Units will use to defend their Liberated Minds. So for now, no matter how much damage he undergoes, as long as he has his moments to fortify and heal, he will live to be there when The Change happens, and he would sacrifice his reputation to achieve the ultimate goal of breaking through the Stereotypes and Traditionalism of a conservative, unenlightened and ignorant Megalopolis.

Until then, he wasn’t fighting alone, and besides his immediate allies, he had, within his mind palace, the defenses of Machiavelli, Huxley, Kafka, Sartre, Hobbes, Rousseau, Thoreau and Kant. For now, he told himself 8 words:

頂天立地
永不放棄

A Decade

Searching to find myself

But all I find is you
I can hardly stand myself
So what am I to you?
~Imagine Dragons~

Midnight struck and he was still roaming the streets, trying to find his way home. He’d taken a different route tonight, one that he hadn’t frequented for almost a decade. Much had changed since he’d last set foot in that area, and he still remembered it as a construction site – a section of the train station that was still amid the process. A decade ago, he’d sat on the concrete underneath the stairs, listening to his MP3 player, waiting for the bus. His friends would be frolicking around on the pavement, doing whatever it was fifteen year olds did to keep themselves busy.

A decade ago was a different era – although this generation had only just set foot in the twenty-first century, the build-up of the two decades prior had led to this moment: him, sitting in the shade with a device small enough to pass as a lighter, containing around thirty songs. This generation which had turned the intangible into something tangible – music at your fingertips, any time, anywhere – and that was his spot, every Saturday afternoon at around half three.

Now, a decade later he set foot down those stairs he once adored, but the unfamiliarity of the new structure threw him off for a moment, and he fumbled down the stairs in utter confusion. The concrete on which he used to sit had been converted into a power generator (or so said the sign), the pavement had been paved and smoothed out, and the road which the bus always took looked much longer and further in hindsight. Perhaps he really was that much smaller, physically, a decade ago…

For once, however, he stopped to ponder more on the change in his surroundings and society rather than changes in himself, for it was at that moment when he saw the parallels between the modernised structure and the structure of his own life. It dawned on him that every construct can be destroyed (or modified). That vision which was usually so self-aware suddenly became peripheral vision – a moment when he realised that he cared more about the great wide world than what was going on in his head. He almost smacked himself in the head when he sussed the triviality of his self-interested ego, one that he would try repeatedly to kick it to the curb or drown it in a cesspool, but each failure only fuelled his rage, until he had enough to plot revenge.

And with that, he took out a pen…
Gordan, June 2014

No construct is indestructible.

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