Whose Blueprint?

Yesterday felt dense—like too many things happening inside me at once, layered over a day that looked ordinary from the outside.

After that emotional spiral I pushed myself into through introspection, my mind wouldn’t slow down. Thought after thought stacked on top of each other until I could barely tell which one mattered most.

Today feels lazy in a strange way. I want to do nothing while I think… yet do everything when I’m not. Honestly, I wish I could just procrastinate. Bury myself in endless work. Movement without reflection. Motion without meaning. Work that doesn’t feel like work. At least then I can get things done. Stay active. Stay presentable. Even if, internally, I want to check out from myself for a while.

My safety net still works. Feel nothing where there should be pain, or be present and risk the unnecessary drama.

Somewhere in all that noise, another thought surfaced—how are people even finding my blog? I’ve gotten so many views in just three days. Then it clicked. NexPul sounds almost identical to Nexpow, Nexpulse, and a dozen other variations.

I chose the name intentionally.
Nexo—connection, a link, a central point.
Pulse—heartbeat, rhythm, proof of life.

I wanted something that reflected connection as something alive. Something constant. Something in every heartbeat. Something that lives in me.

But now I think I want to change it.

I joked with myself for a second—PulNex. Simple. Who am I pulling in next for the next connection?
No… not quite.

Nexvira feels closer. Nexus. Vital. Aura. A living connection.

I don’t even feel like I have much to write. Actually, I doubt I feel much of anything at all.

Aloe vera drinks taste amazing, by the way. Good job Korea.

Still, life keeps moving. I’m surprised I woke up and still have friends. I don’t even have any in person—haven’t for years. Bummer.

Talking to a few online friends helped more than I expected. One reminded me to keep going with the website. To not fold under the pressure of becoming someone else. The site is already mine. It doesn’t need to revolve around validation or strangers’ approval. I love her. She’s my oldest bestie. The OG. My first real gaming buddy.

The habit of obeying—of being the willing people-pleaser pet because there was never another option—is still there. But I can feel the shift starting again. I want to build my self-worth properly. Quietly. Without noise.

And yet… the clearest realization from the day was also the quietest: my relatives forgot I existed. I can put on a music video, stay silent, and disappear completely. The closest semblance of me existing in peace.

Under all of this, there’s something heavier sitting in my mind. Even while I struggle to trust anything—including the person I feel closest to currently—I can still hear the echoes of what I grew up around. The message that I’m just a product. Something meant to be owned. Controlled. A collared possession.

A family built on possession, greed, jealousy, power.
They truly believe I belong to them.

More mess for me to clean.

I know I could love myself more if I actually belonged to myself. Not to them. I can throw my entire body away just to escape their work, just for that change alone. What I want, what i need is me—not their design. And right now, I’m not allowed.

I don’t want anyone loving the product of them.
It could lead to a fate worse than death.

So how do I explain this to people who genuinely seem to care about me?
That their care still feels wrong—because it isn’t reaching me. Not the real version. Not really.

While scrolling TikTok, I noticed a certain janitor adds weights to his mop. It’s actually genius. Cleaning and strength training at the same time. I might start doing that every day.

After watching a few of Face IQ’s appearance assessments, I caught myself disliking my side profile. I’m not overweight—my stomach barely passes my hips—but I want tighter skin, less rolling in certain parts. More definition. A stomach flat as a board. No surgery. Not yet. Just strengthened abs. Lean. Toned. Controlled. Healthier.

I don’t ever want to look as unhealthy as my relatives. Bad habits. Bad patterns. The same design repeating. I already feel uncomfortable enough seeing their product in the mirror. It’s bad enough feeling like I don’t fully have my own face. It’s hers, just passed down.

But I can build a better body.
And maybe change the face later.
Honestly… I’d change my genetics if I could.

I learned recently that attractiveness can be “measured” by a website now. So much for beauty being in the eye of the beholder, right? If it’s measurable, where’s the line? Who decides it?

Part of me wants to listen—to optimize, adjust, refine—after seeing how superficial people have been over the years. Looks do matter first, no matter how many people pretend they don’t. Their opinions shaped society as facts long before they can still be considered opinions.

I want to believe I look good. That I don’t need to change anything unnaturally. But it feels like a betrayal of reality. This very word that stains at the core of my mind. It keeps me grounded, even when I hate it. It could paint me for all i care and I'd let it.

Do I hold out for others and stay in this body as long as I can endure…
or do I start shaving away the design woven into my DNA to the point of no return?

But then another question lingers.

Is this change really worth it if my soul doesn’t happen to match the new person I choose?
The moment my soul no longer matches my chosen appearance and keeps its old face… will I have to destroy that too? After all, where would i find surgery when I'm dead.

And if I change enough…

what does my afterlife look like?

Is it freedom?

Or just another version of hell waiting to unfold just for me.