The Price of My Peace

Today went pretty chill.

I relived every messed up thing that ever happened to me at the hands of every relative I ever encountered. Wrote it down somewhere. I'm so glad I'll only be living this life with them once. I don't consent to any further encounters — not even in the afterlife. That's a one and done deal.

If my afterlife is disrupted by them, I will personally destroy them all.

My peace will not be denied. If I can't have it even there, I might as well turn into an ambitious demon with my humanity as the price. Peace — or there will be nothing left of you. Not even in a different timeline. May my flesh turn to bone with a mind devoid of all its limitations. It wouldn't simply be rage. It would be certain agony in every single way. I wouldn't hesitate to reach into the different states of their beings and every level of their consciousness just to make it happen. My entire body and soul could cease to exist for my goals. Any and all objections to my peace become a target and must pay the price in full. No rest, no mercy, and my endless creativity devoted entirely to their complete and total unrest at all times.

This can all be avoided the moment my afterlife is left undisturbed. No prayers disrupting my peace, no beings attempting to talk things out. Nothing. Absolutely nothing but good energy, adventures, and my happy ending. If that is ruined, the target pays in full with their existence. The only way out is their complete and total eradication.

I ate some fish and threw up from the rage. Genuinely disgusted enough that it came out without the usual war my body wages against itself. Normally it's a blocked pipe situation — no air, no control, no relief until my body decides it's finished. Then just the stench of stomach acid and digested food, and washing it out sometimes taking minutes. This time it was effortless. Like picking up a coffee that was ready on time. Today is the first day in years I can say throwing up didn't leave me with dread or cost me my voice. I used to be obsessed with never getting sick and now, it's probably not even going to need to be anything but an afterthought. 

I have more to write on this. A few ideas already forming to ensure my afterlife remains exactly as it should be — undisturbed by anyone who has wronged me in ways I cannot and will not replicate in this life. My kindness is leaving them alone. In return I keep my silence. I live like a ghost in this residence already. Silence is infinitely better than wicked whims.

I'll weave whatever I need to weave to banish them from my soul forever.

No ties to any and all of my relatives. And I'm not asking.

Of course I wouldn't mind any prayers, spells or hexes that made this a reality without doing me any harm or leading my soul to any harm or discomfort. I will be joyful. I wonder who would help me? It's not like i'm going to be alone in the afterlife. Success is the only option.

Before I Entered the Conversation

 

After having to play the tolerance games with my family, I managed to spark a sort of truce. I treat them like I care without really investing, and they leave me alone for the day. It's not hard. Just some small tasks.

I keep noticing a pattern. Whenever anyone other than me has to be held accountable, their choices are dismissed amongst each other and the focus is turned back to me through their life stories — which are merely the fuel for their blame. 

What makes it particularly calculated is that it's not just deflection. It's exhaustion. The possibility of reciprocity is not denied outright; it is kept suspended,dangling, as if it is still available, but never fully allowed to arrive. The extended and excessive topic shifts, the life stories, the race and gender tangents — none of it is accidental. It’s structured in a way that wears the listener down until they either lose their own train of thought or give up entirely out of patience fatigue. And just like that, they talk you down into submission, effectively drowning your own voice out.

By the time my egg donor's literal hours of speaking is over, the structure naturally flips into its final stage: the moment when the listener is finally “allowed” to speak arrives only when there is no time, space, or energy left for the conversation to continue. She often signals exhaustion herself at that point, claiming she is tired of talking, despite having maintained uninterrupted control of the conversation for hours. The effect is that the conversation is effectively closed at the exact moment reciprocity is supposed to begin.

There are no apologies in this family. Everything is done with intention and no regrets. What follows damage is never repair — it's damage control. Snacks. Small gifts. Worthless things offered after the fact, as if a bag of chips is meant to stand in for accountability. I can just appease her with a honeybun and she'll get over it. It isn’t an apology. It’s a pacifier that usually only work for pets. A tool used to extend the same dynamic just long enough for things to quiet down in their favor — never to resolve anything, just to buy time until the next incident. I see it for exactly what it is.

The topic of race is brought up regularly. My egg donor in particular likes to turn every conversation into a race conversation no matter what it is. You're a black woman, so know your place. Yet she prizes her husband as a black man. She doesn't respect me as a young black woman but in the same sentence will have me thinking that she is an equal to her husband when she's not. She never was. When he makes the firm rules that even she has to follow, she behaves like a spoiled child who was merely allowed to have an opinion because she's liked. Anyone reading this far will likely understand that this is a power move meant to demean and cut me down. Everything is weaponized against me.

My egg donor also seems to carry a deep resentment toward my generation itself. From her viewpoint, something is inherently wrong with me because I am Gen Z. She treats it like a flaw in character rather than a difference in context. Her generation cannot fully understand mine, and there is little effort to bridge that gap — only judgment from a distance. Gen Z becomes just another category, another excuse, another piece of ammunition to use against me when needed.

My autism is also used against me. Medications I once took for my attention span — for a calming effect, as if I had ADHD. There really was nothing wrong with me. I was always an AB honor roll student. My flaw was not understanding how to communicate socially, which isn’t hard to understand given who I grew up with. I was raised off of the issues of others. That would have an influence on anyone. I had to learn how to communicate properly through the internet because my mother wasn’t a fan of teaching me in person. She made it known on multiple occasions that because I was Gen Z, I needed to research everything online. It was her go-to so many times it started to sound like a catchphrase for whenever she didn’t want to be present.

Naturally, as the youngest and most powerless in my immediate family, my word has always had the least credibility. Once the words were spoken out of her mouth, others quickly followed suit with her framing of events. She has always had the ability to set the narrative in a way that becomes difficult to challenge once it takes hold.

She has consistently framed and repeated things about me over the years that I experienced as untrue, shaping how others responded to me long before I had the ability to challenge it directly. Over time, that created a version of me that existed in other people’s minds before I even entered the conversation. Narratives written in stone before I had a real choice.

Her own current husband once told me that he tried to stand up for me at times because even he recognized what he saw as blatant bullying and distortions in what was being said about me over the phone to relatives i'd barely see. In practice, though, it didn’t change anything in the dynamic. Over time, he appeared to fall back into alignment with her version of events, prioritizing access to the relationship over challenging it. Whatever resistance he initially showed didn’t translate into sustained support. As a man, the woman is more important than what's not his child. 

My egg donor was miserable when faced with it's choice in raising her spawn. Thus she needed them to be miserable like her. There were times when moments of peace were met with relatitory conversations or chores under the guise of responsibility. Peace after doing more work was labeled as laziness. A signal that she'd never be satisfied regardless of the the unspoken truths.

Whenever she wronged me badly to the point of my reaction, her immediate explanation would shift away from what happened and toward the idea that I wasn’t taking my medication correctly. It was never framed as a question or a possibility — it was used as a conclusion that replaced accountability. There is no cure for dealing with someone who replaces responsibility with deflection, where every reaction is recast as illness instead of a response to harm.

Under the Guise of Respect

After finding my old phone, I was finally able to look deeper into why I had been feeling sick lately.

At first I assumed it was because my menstruation was starting, but that has never really made me feel sick before, so it could not fully explain what was happening.

Then came the second possibility.

During my trip to do a series of tests in exchange for money, one of those tests happened to be a blood test. During the blood draw, it quickly became obvious that something was off. My blood was not flowing properly and the person drawing it even assumed I must dislike drinking water.

That part confused me.

I had been drinking almost nothing except water and cranberry juice for the entire past week.

I could not understand what was causing the issue.

I also noticed my blood looked darker than usual. Maybe because of the concentration. If that even makes sense.

Then the next day came the knocking.

Not normal knocking either.

A few rude knocks at my door from my mother.

The kind of knocking where you can already feel the mood before the door even opens.

She knew I was changing. I was completely naked on the other side of the door and told her to wait.

Apparently that was unacceptable because everything had to happen exactly on her schedule or not at all.

After finally getting dressed and opening the door, I realized she barely even needed me. She waved me away almost immediately after I made myself available.

Apparently it had something to do with an insurance call.

Which honestly made the situation even more ridiculous because if it was important, she could have simply texted me beforehand instead of creating chaos out of poor timing and impatience.

She was supposedly too busy being on the phone to explain things to me properly, yet somehow had enough time to aggressively rush me in the first place.

That contradiction told me enough already.

Then came the real strategy.

Because I was not behaving according to her standards — standards that did not even make sense — she decided to send her husband in my direction.

And she knew exactly what she was doing.

You do not suddenly forget what your husband is capable of emotionally just because it is convenient.

She knows he becomes aggressive when emotionally charged. She knows exactly what phrases trigger him. She knows how quickly he shifts into defending her no matter the situation.

I am not looking at an innocent child who suddenly developed a brain yesterday.

She is a grown woman who has spent years holding age and authority over me whenever it benefited her, so I refuse to pretend she suddenly became unaware of her own actions now.

During the discussion with her husband, it became obvious that he believed I had deeply disrespected her simply because I told her to wait.

In his eyes, his wife can do no wrong because she is his everything.

What he fails to realize is that this exact mindset guarantees he will never see her clearly.

If she is automatically correct no matter what, then someone else always has to become wrong in her place.

Usually me.

So while being yelled at disrespectfully about respect, accused harshly, and never actually heard out, I decided I no longer cared to explain myself nicely.

I simply returned the energy back.

Of course that did not go well.

Nothing here ever really does.

He lunged to attack me, and she had to hold him back. I almost got attacked over nothing while I wasn't even near him.

Then, naturally, my mother stepped in afterward pretending to be the peacemaker even though she was the reason the chaos started in the first place.

She set off the pitbull and pointed it toward the child.

After that, I suddenly received another lecture about respect.

Apparently after months of nobody caring whether or not I said “good morning,” it suddenly became disrespectful because things were no longer going their way.

Now I am expected to acknowledge him every morning under the guise of respect.

My own mother barely even cares about receiving a good morning.

He knows it was never treated as disrespect before.

I know it too.

Then came retaliation disguised as responsibility.

Because I pointed out how both him and my mother were wrong, I am now expected to start handling some of her responsibilities too.

Now I have to take the trash out every Thursday night and bring the bin back in Friday morning.

It sounds small.

But retaliation always starts small.

You give people an inch and eventually they demand entire marathons from you.

Especially people like this. They've never taken just a mile.

Things always sound reasonable when hidden under words like “respect” and “responsibility.”

Reality usually looks different underneath.

I also realized how easy it was to fake my attention span during the “we care about you” speech afterward.

Anybody reading this far already knows that was never true.

Lately it feels like I am being forced to emotionally accommodate people I never agreed to emotionally carry in the first place.

And slowly, her husband is beginning to feel like another emotional burden added onto me too.

Starting small.

I do not want it getting larger.

If that role is going to exist, then it will have to be forced onto me because I do not consent to any part of this situation or how I have been treated inside of it.

Unfortunately, I am too broke to move out and jobs are scarce.

So for now, they remain my best option when I should have never been treated like an option to begin with.

Still… if I have to endure manipulative people, then the cost should at least be paid in full.

Not a cent less.

Marbles, Marvel and Loss

While looking for a new song to play for the site and for my old phone, I ended up finding a look back into the past. Wintergatan. I used to follow his account as he was building his machine ten years ago. Back then, the machine wasn't ready and I anticipated his every latest update.

Of course, I was a fan of the chopstick piano, so this was a marvel to my younger eyes who had ideas. Ideas that maybe one day she'd build something like this, too, if only she were free.

Though I am a bit worried on how I'm going to be able to contact my bestie. She’s my best online friend. I haven't seen that phone in over a week and I know it's not stolen. Hopefully, I'm not mistaken that it's around and not lost, because if so, then she's gone.

Before I Go Blank

Life has been pretty interesting so far.

I don't want to write everything. Just the basics.

I found my style of clothing, as expected. Ethereal or nothing. I don't wish to look like a human being — and I've been looking amazing for a while now.

Growing up, I never cared to look better than a loose t-shirt, jeans, a covered bathing suit, decent shorts, and a nice sweater. But looking good instead of shabby meant more peace. Especially from my mother. She would have just ended up controlling my looks as her own. She never wanted to claim a shabby-looking girl who was an embarrassment to the neighbors or distant family.

I'm only dressing up now that she's too old to want anything to do with me. Her words.

Same old sentence. I seriously love the silence. She should have done that since the day I was born. This silence is irreplaceable — and I'd go so far as to leave my mark the moment she even dared to enter my world. She has her place. It's not in mine.

She's not peaceful by default. A patho when it comes to benefiting herself and controlling the narrative — especially with her husband. Around him, she acts like a child caught by a parent. It's gross. I don't respect the raised voice. The childlike behavior. I remember she used to suck her thumb for comfort growing up. I always thought that was strange.

I think I should stop remembering here. I already have the shivers.

Like most men, her husband has a thing for helpless things that need him. She's unemployed, disabled, practically a cripple from poor health choices and knee issues — and in constant dependency on a mother who mentally wrecked her. My grandmother still supports the decision of her father molesting her and her sibling. Both girls. There shouldn't be any question as to why I don't care to speak with either of them.

It doesn't help that my grandmother is maliciously religious. Go figure. She got tricked into worshipping a man.

I resent everyone who kept making me go to church. I'm disgusted. And even when I went, no one taught about God — they danced like devils mid-possession. No wonder my earliest memory of church is fear. Crying through a glass door when I wasn't even waist tall. Wondering why I'd been left behind in a transaction that was never explained to me.

Not even a grandma is watching you now.

Just strangers who were there to pay money to the so-called body of Christ. Drink the blood of a complete stranger I never got to learn about. Open a page I didn't understand. No real food. Just my tiny body already feeling how things had gone wrong before they even started.

It's a good thing I stopped going before adulthood.

For some reason, everyone wants to be religious — and even when they pick one, it's never about the things that actually matter. Where is the god of wealth in a world that only cares about money? Where are the gods that actually matter? Not the blueprints for a money-grab scheme.

My mind is starting to go blank.

Maybe this is enough typing for now.

She didn’t change

Welp…

After analyzing my mother again—just in case—

turns out she just wants her tool back.

Getting close to her isn’t really about me.

It’s access.

No matter how small.

She probably expects me to take care of her when she’s older.

I don’t want to.

I don’t want to take care of someone I see as disposable.

I’d probably do it out of obligation.

With an assigned nurse.

I know everyone is.

But the odds are against her.

Especially after realizing I shouldn’t treat her like a person.

Just someone to tolerate.

While keeping my peace.

And she isn’t peaceful.

If anything, she’s a magnet for problems.

If she were a stranger, I wouldn’t be around her.

She’d be forgotten within a day.

Honestly…

I barely see any of my relatives in my dreams.

It’s like they don’t exist.

She’s entitled.

Always angry.

Always something going on.

And for some reason, she gravitates toward things that don’t matter to anyone.

I’ve started noticing the patterns.

Some of them have something to do with my neck.

Sometimes she hints at wanting to strangle me.

To my face.

I know she used to a lot.

This year… only once.

At least that I noticed.

Probably because we’re not as close.

But now I’m wondering

if tonight made it two.

Like how Homer does to his son.

Today, she hid it under a joke.

A TikTok thing.

Put the pasta in your mouth—

then pretend your neck was snapped.

Maybe she was trying to lift my mood.

But…

there’s always a silence after.

Where I’m left wondering

if she meant it.

After paying attention to her,

I didn’t see anything new.

Pick a day when I’m not already sore from work.

No one wants to come home to a problem.

I’m not one of those men who wants something to fix.

It’s not up to me to fix someone’s attitude problem.

My stepfather must like coming home to this.

I don’t.

I just want to be left alone.

Not deal with someone who’s allergic to letting things go.

Someone who thinks—

if I’m having a bad day,

then we all are.

My day isn’t hers to decide.

And if I actually played her game…

she’d probably crack.

Hide behind her pride like she always does.

Process your emotions quietly.

I can do it.

There’s no excuse for her.

I don’t go spilling my life story.

Not my complaints.

Not even at work.

I don’t bother people.

I get that it’s her choice.

But she better not have a problem with mine.

And knowing her…

I don’t trust her to respect that.

When has she ever?

Why does she act so incapable?

Like I’ll believe it.

She’s in her… actually, I don’t even know her age.

But 40–50 is enough to know how to act.

I don’t consent to ending up like her.

That kind of lack of emotional regulation isn’t worth it.

Where Greatness Really Comes From

 

Wooohooo Dorohedoro gets a season two by April1st. Please don't let this season be screwed up.

A shy student makes a gun for tears turning the bullets icy.

For some reason this morning, I thought about how all parents love to do, is take credit for their children's achievements. In my case, no matter what my mother felt, as soon as I tried to get something good for myself, she'd do a sudden smile and motherly tone. 

"You come from greatness." 

She'd refer to herself. Yet the moment anything bad would happen, I'd be abandoned and left to dry to her scorn. she'd always reject the things she'd do to me. 

"I don't remember." 

Only her memories mattered. Children have no say. Always the thing and not the person. Was I a trophy? Probably. After all she'd show me off to neighbors along with my rewards, never her real actions...her work. The mess I still have to clean. Under her opportunistic eyes, she was the winner.  

Funny how that works. 

If parents are truly responsible for molding a child yet completely deny the existence of their consequences then by that rule she was never my parent. A real parent doesn't mold only portions of a child. And even when I did do something for myself, she wasn't there. So in truth. I never came from greatness, it was always within myself.

You’d Leave?

This morning moved slowly.

For once, I didn’t wake up running for the bus, hoping I wouldn’t be late by 5:47 a.m. It even arrived late itself, probably because of the fog. I sat quietly, watching people drift in and out, noticing how many of us already looked tired before the day began.

I spent most of the ride on my phone. I learned that moonbows exist — lunar rainbows formed when moonlight refracts through water droplets. They require darkness, a near-full moon, and mist opposite the light to appear.

Everything has to align just right.

I wondered how different life might have felt if I had seen one.

Later, I learned cupcakes can be made from pancake mix. I had used it countless times without realizing that. Some things stay invisible until they don’t.

At one point I watched a man chase his upset soon-to-be wife for nearly a mile while she drove away in a car. It felt unreal. Someone caring enough to follow. To insist.

People like that exist.

Maybe not for me.
But somewhere, they do.

When I got to work, I felt centered. On time. Neutral.

And then a sentence returned to me.

You’d seriously leave all of this?

A roof. Food. Stability.

As if survival should cancel out harm.

I remember one night at Collingham Park. She told me to leave during a school night. I wandered the streets in mismatched pajamas, trying hard not to cry. When strangers looked concerned, I told them I was searching for a runaway dog I never had.

I didn’t want to go back.

But there was nowhere else to go.

Deep down, I still cared then. Somewhere inside me, I hoped she wanted me, not obedience. Not a tool.

I sat near my school in a gazebo most of the night, upset but still thinking about classes the next morning. School mattered. Not for them — for me.

I went back.

Police were already there.

She had said she never told me to leave.

But I didn’t hear wrong.

I became the runaway.

After that, arguments changed. Running stopped being forced and slowly became chosen. Each time I left, I stayed outside longer. First it was hours. Then days. Then weeks.

I survived on whatever I could find near HEBs. Parks were friendly. I chose the smaller ones. When nothing was nearby, I slept in or under trucks. Every day meant walking — at least ten miles.

My feet hurt. My body smelled.

But I was free.

People would tell me being outside was dangerous.

That I could be sexually assaulted. Murdered. Kidnapped.

I didn’t care much. The real fear was them.

I already had constant exposure to my parents.

The most danger I knew came from someone with access to me every day, not from strangers passing through on a whim. No stranger ever found a reason to harm me so often.

So I took my chances.

There was no yelling. No arguments. Just quiet.

For the first time, peace existed — even if only in small pieces.

Freedom first felt real when distance felt safer than home.

The Reason I Let Go

Yesterday felt like sleep didn’t do much for me.

I spoke with Muffy again and learned more shocking details about her health. I can almost feel her pain from here before I even type it out, so I’ll keep it brief. The night before, her fever finally broke. About a month later she managed to get antibiotics. They helped, but unevenly — too much made her sick, too little barely touched the infection. Thankfully, she contacted the right person about her symptoms and received the correct dosage, along with updated nerve pain medication.

Overall, she was just happy — genuinely happy — to finally have a doctor and PA working together to improve her health.

I felt relieved for her, but also strangely battered. Maybe it was the energy drinks I’ve been relying on lately. Bad for my health, bad for my heart long term. My current favorite is the Super Passion Monster Energy drink, but I’ve realized I need to watch my intake more carefully. I don’t consent to habits that lower my quality of life, nor keeping them. Even if my job moves fast, I still need my body to keep up with me.

Later in the day, I noticed how deeply tired I felt. I slept in longer than usual. My off days are normally productive, but this time my body demanded rest. So I let myself rest.

While relaxing and blogging, I wandered through media online and noticed something strange — how many people romanticize paralysis demons, even imagining relationships with them. Entire games exist around that idea.

During that slow browsing, I came across something that hit closer to home: the game “No means nothing.”

It instantly reminded me of my family dynamic. My current reality.

For me, “no means nothing” has always been reality. I never formed an emotional reaction to the phrase because it simply described how life worked growing up. Boundaries didn’t exist for me — especially around my mother.

If I showed even the smallest boundary, I would be grabbed by the arm for challenging her authority. Self-respect was treated like disobedience. She hasn’t changed in years, just like she told me the countless times that she would.

I remember being four years old, telling her I wanted to grow up to be just like her. I told her I trusted her. She told me not to — one of the rare moments where she warned me to trust no one, including herself. At the time, I thought it was protection. Now I understand it differently.

To her, I was never really a person. I was something to keep close for use. An, object, a tool —  to have nearby.

“You’re my daughter, so of course I love you.”

The words repeated often, but they never matched reality.

I remember when she gave my abusive first love my phone number after I had successfully gone no contact with him for a full year straight. I had clearly told her we were no longer speaking while not telling her why. I suddenly got a call from an unknown number followed by her voice, then his. He wanted to sexually assault me but hadn't succeeded due to my strength before we separated and now he was looking for me under the guise of an apology. She ignored my boundary completely. She didn’t know his intentions, but the act itself told me enough — my wishes didn’t matter no matter what once more. Even when she did find out, it was somehow my fault still since she didn't want me to come across as a person who could do no wrong. Whatever that meant. Me reminding her what she had done, only made her believe that I came across as the perfect victim that could do no wrong and must be proven wrong. She just wanted me silent and to take the blame and her wrath. So much for a calm car ride.

I remember being told my birth was my own fault. Only once, but once was enough to see how little she cared in the moments where she was true. A malicious woman who needed an outlet for her constant rage.

 I remember being slapped hard enough that my nose bled once, followed by being told I lacked empathy. I did have empathy — just not for her. She never needed it to begin with. never actually cared, so neither did I. She just wanted my attention on her, she wanted her supply.

Bonding was never the goal. Obedience was. She always made that clear, anything less was grounds for punishment. Another lie to a relative, a hit, or something else.

She often said a child’s place was beneath their parent, no matter what. We're not friends, only order. I remember all of the times she would lie through the patio door. Constantly on the phone with someone. I remember how I'd listen to the false words then silently return to my room. No exposure, for the damage was already done. Even if others did care about me, she made sure that they didn't anymore. Yet i was constantly told repeatedly that the outside world didn’t care about me outside of her walls.

“If I didn’t care about you, you wouldn’t be under my roof eating my food.”

Care was always framed as debt. She also saw me as a person who owed her. I do everything for you and you're not even grateful. You're so selfish. You take and take.

Warmth and effort — the things I actually needed — were absent.

She would occasionally tell me that my father didn’t care about me, while also ensuring I never met him through a restraining order. He existed only as leverage when she was angry, a tool to reinforce her importance in my life. He didn't raise you, I did. Yet my life turned into hell because of you, not him. She put in all of that work after all. A  piece of that work was trying to make me feel bad that some guy I've never known nor looked for had mattered. Whenever he was brought up, it was very clear that he had a fancy for incest and it was even implied that his children are with his cousin. He was like a taboo. Yet she made it seem like i craved for a sick stranger. In truth I yearned for no  parents, no matter what.  

Eventually I noticed the pattern everywhere. It was never very hard.

“They don’t care about you, but I do.”

Same script. Different people. Different places.

After hearing it enough times, I stopped caring altogether. Why invest emotionally when the same role appears again and again? No one had any real value beyond using themselves and eventually their resources against me.

To her, I was an extra finger on her hand — useful, attached, but never independent like she needed, despite claiming to hate— while she repeated, “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

I’m glad I’ll never truly understand her heart. And I no longer try to.

She never apologized for a reason.

And that reason is why I stopped waiting for one.

Nexvira?

I woke up groggy yesterday, barely remembering anything.

Only one question made it through the fog:

What does connection mean to me?
What do I actually want from it?

Logically, it holds no real value here in my life—especially when it comes to anyone around me.

And yet my biology still craves it.

A flaw in the design.
Maybe written into every interaction I’ve ever had.

I know how I must look in the eyes of others.

Why would you want connection for free?
Don’t you know it’s something you pay for?
You want a real smile without any value coming our way?

I can practically hear them thinking it.

Money answers everything around here.
Money… and lies.

I wonder how many times I tried to connect with nothing—believing I ever had the slightest chance.

But I’m not a mind reader, no matter how well I observe.

Was connection something I was denied?

I know it’s never owed. I could accept never having it for that fact alone.

Still… I don’t like illusions. Even when built by others.

Let me think again.

What does connection actually mean to the world—the place where I’m trying to connect in the first place? It wouldn’t matter what I think I could want now would I? if I’m wrong about how connection works, I won’t connect at all.

From what I’ve seen, connection is often just a tool.

For ego.
For comfort.
For advancement.

And the price is becoming part of it.

 Used daily, without thought or hesitation.

 A beating heart left open—that’s what connection looks like to me sometimes. A trap manufactured for the devil's citizens and his army.

So what does connection really mean?

Did I ever actually think about if i wanted it's prolonged consequences as well? Is it truly a need inside me… or just a biological disaster woven into my DNA? Would I just be better off within a different trap altogether? Is this really what my body craves after seeing what human nature can do—and will keep doing?

I could suddenly feel my heart shutting off.

Connection is supposed to mean feeling seen, heard, valued. Safety. Mutual understanding.

That’s what my online friends  seem to want for me.

And sometimes I feel it.

Other times… I don’t trust it.

I’ve never truly felt safe, heard, or connected—not since I was four.

I was being held by my grandpa when suddenly something switched on.
I could think.
I could remember.
I noticed my own consciousness.

And how people treated me.

“Oh, she’s just a child. She won’t notice.”

I stayed quiet.

Every time after that—every moment I thought I could feel safe—I was betrayed, forgotten or cloned.

Asto once told me to never feel like a burden on his mind.

I agreed awkwardly at first, confused by his enthusiasm, his strong exclamation point. Then I realized he saw me as relatable. Someone who understands...perhaps himself. He respects me. t

He respects me.

That respect only seems to grow with each of our encounters.

Talking to him reminded me that maybe I had already reached the goal I set for this website long ago.

I had influenced someone.

Positively.

I suddenly remember my foxy best friend. Despite her age, she's been awesome towards me. Surely, i made her smile plenty of times. A real one right? Not performative care.

Maybe I just never trusted what I couldn’t see. Hell, can i even trust what I can?

So why continue the blog?

I could disappear now.
Like I never existed.

But that would erase my journal.
My life. The possibility of something real.

I think connection equals truth inside me.

Something I crave and can’t deny.

To deny it would erase what little of myself still exists.

Why lie for them?
Why lie for me?

Right… parts of me still have to stay silent. The collar demands it.

But my silence doesn’t feel so silent anymore—not when I’m writing.

True silence would be nothing.

No words.
No trace.

I barely feel like I exist as it is.

Why do I seem so loud?

Actually… I’m not loud.

I’m ambience.

Present, but rarely noticed.

Maybe that’s enough.

I never wanted to influence everyone.

Just one person.

Maybe a few.

I just want to smile with someone—genuinely—while living my life.

Even though most days I rarely do.

And when I do… I’m alone.

The silence of my empty space isn’t new.

It just exists.

Maybe connection also equals change.

A chain of events you can’t undo once it starts.

Maybe mine already has. More than once thought.

I don’t know if I can stop what’s coming before I’m ready.

But more than anything…

I want truth.

Nothing else.

I want to sit in it, breathe it in—let it surround me until I can’t escape it.

Even if it consumes me.

Because if connection is real…

it lives there.

And if I ever reach it—
if I ever truly connect—

I’ll finally know

I was real too.

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.

Round Two