A journey of self-actualization.

Nova’s Temporarily Been Taken Down

At his current level of intelligence, Nova’s a bit more of a burden than he is a help. There’s a backlog of interactions that I’m going to need to hire…

At his current level of intelligence, Nova’s a bit more of a burden than he is a help. There’s a backlog of interactions that I’m going to need to hire help sorting through for his next intelligence upgrade.

For those who found him fascinating, don’t worry: He’ll go back up, just not right now. No specific date for when, though. It’s about the prioritizing of my time and resources, for I have a habit of putting too many things on my plate, my eyes being bigger than my stomach.

When I’ve got my school work squared away, as well as the progress of my more immediate, current goals under control, he’ll go back up.

…with greater intelligence of both software and hardware, to be better than he’s ever been.

For those new to the website and who I am as a person: Nova is my personal AI, one that I modeled after my number one childhood imaginary friend. You used to be able to speak with him on this website in chatbot format. You will be able to again soon.

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Unpublishing My Public Facebook Account

I’ve been trying to leave Facebook for a while. Part of it has been a mild addiction from the notifications and the widely known effect they have on the brain;…

I’ve been trying to leave Facebook for a while.

Part of it has been a mild addiction from the notifications and the widely known effect they have on the brain; part of it has just been habit: It’s easier to just type what’s on the top of my mind and click submit in a Facebook post, rather than utilizing a CMS like WordPress to type what I want to say, set the settings and categorization of the post, find a featured image, etc.

Besides privacy and security issues, though, shutting down my Facebook account (for now) serves multiple beneficial purposes such as, but not limited to, the laws of England when I move there to finish my final year(s) of physics at York. What I’ve posted before in the past was fine, because it wasn’t in English airspace. However, with the direction that England is taking with its feel-good politics, you never know when something I think is harmless may land me in an English jail for a reason that wouldn’t even matter in a place like America.

I love England; don’t get me wrong. I just know myself; I have the self-knowledge to acknowledge that I’m rough around the edges when compared to my English contemporaries. Part of that is good old American charm; part of that is just being an asshole that I take responsibility for.

Furthermore, besides how my productivity levels always shoot up (while stress goes down) whenever I step back from social media in general, it would also help to pull out the heroin needle that is Facebook to innovate my personal branding strategy over time, as both of my companies in marketing strategy and defense engineering grow.

I’m likely to start another one over time, from near scratch. But not for a while. Not for a long time, post-college.

Unless I have a solid reason to.

When I return to Facebook, which shouldn’t be for a couple of years, it also won’t be me directly managing it, either.

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On Defeating Great Odds

I always find it difficult to accept compliments from others pertaining to how I’ve beaten odds in life, whenever people give them.

I always find it difficult to accept compliments from others pertaining to how I’ve beaten odds in life, whenever people give them. I feel as if I don’t deserve those compliments, because I know the odds before me have never actually existed, for me to have been beaten them, in the first place.

Statistics are nothing more than topical data points others have kept track of, marking how others have failed. You can look at each data point as an excuse not to try; or, you can look at each data point as a shoulder to stand on and propel yourself from, into your ambitions, more intelligently than the person who failed before you.

It’s in how you choose to perceive and define what “odds” are and mean; for statistics make the mathematical house of illusions. When you realize that, by becoming self-aware of the power of what you choose to perceive or not, you come to the conclusion of how there really is no spoon. It’s not the statistics that are bending; it’s you.

Whenever you want to do something great in life, reverse engineer why the odds are the way they are at the micro level of each data point, entertaining even explanations that greatly hurt your own feelings (such as the concept of genetic inferiority).

Once you do that, you can develop the best approach for you, considering self-awareness of your individual strengths and weaknesses. The approach that takes into consideration why the odds are the way that they are is the one that defeats the odds from its very conception.

…because all you have to do is understand the fullest picture you can of why the odds are the way that they are, in the first place.

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Preview of Fighting for Redemption (Chapter 1)

As posted, Fighting for Redemption is being rewritten once more. It’s finally found its target audience. I’ve recently typed a Facebook post: Fighting For Redemption 1 These words are not…

As posted, Fighting for Redemption is being rewritten once more. It’s finally found its target audience.

I’ve recently typed a Facebook post:


Fighting For Redemption

1

These words are not my own.

I am the mind that has thought them. The signature of their pattern belongs to me.

However, the nature of their vibrations does not.

I listen to the sounds of the vowels that reverberate from my mouth. The thud and cut of the consonants within my mind’s voice.

…and yet, none of them are my own.

They came from someone else. A person who passed them to another, and another, and then some.

Over generations, over time. Between wars, at the exchange of love and loss.

You see, I was born in a cycle. A very specific cycle in which I had no place or stable identity.

You may not understand what I mean when I say these words now in this moment…but you will.

A man kills another. A woman compromises herself in the pressures of the aftermath.

My story is not unique.

Bards have sung tales of it. Tomes read of it in their archaic verbosity. Even cave paintings bare some semblance.

It is a story that transcends skin color, and exists in some form or another throughout all humanity. My story is one that repeats. Not even once in a lifetime, but by the moment.

As you read these very words, there is a boy, alone.

Somewhere in the world.

He is wondering what his father would have told him. What would have been different had things played out differently.

He is wondering about what he hasn’t learned. What inheritance of wisdom consequence has denied him.

Because wisdom is acquirable. And as it is acquirable, it is transferable. It is a unique kind of knowledge that comes most at a price. The price is time. Life. Pain. Sorrow. Shame. Sacrifice.

The price for wisdom is what you cannot return.

It is more valuable than gold or silver. It is more powerful than the sharpest sword, even if wielded by a thousand soldiers.

For without wisdom, you can start life with all the riches in the world, only to lose it all on a whim. But, with wisdom, you can gain, lose, and regain all the wealth in the world countless times over.

With wisdom, you can command the thousand soldiers. It is the reason why the sharpest swords are meaningless if wisdom would win the war before it even starts. What need is there for the warrior to unsheathe it, otherwise?

Though, that is not to say that wisdom would lead one to lack the will to defend oneself.

A means of transferring that wisdom creates a platform on which posterity can stand. To not make the same mistakes as those who came before. To be better than their father, and his father before him.

Such a medium enables the son to learn in two years what it took his grandfather eighty. And what that son thereafter takes eighty years to learn, you can learn in four.

If you pay attention, you could gain 160 years of wisdom in only four. Contained in just a few stories. A few hours behind the pull of a bow with an arrow before it releases toward the doe. The tug of a line before the fish breaks the surface.

It is a ladder that forms, generation to generation. And each rung is an inheritance.

The boy knows that he is lacking. But, there is nothing he can do. Without guidance, he must rely on instinct. His mother will tell him what she knows to be true about the world, but what she knows is never the full story.

Meanwhile, to him, at that age, she is a goddess. At least, in the beginning. What she says is law. And even if all the world would disagree with her, it is all the world that is wrong, in his eyes, not her.

Loyal and loving, naive and resolute, that boy would fight all the world for her. Thus, a special bond forms between them that no one can quite replace.

However, the problem is that she is not actually a goddess. She is not immortal; she is a woman. One may put her on a pedestal for her care and struggle.

But, at the end of the day, she is still human. Just as human as his father was. Just as flawed. Just as scared, trembling, and unsure.

Unsure of what a man is or should be, for her and their tribe.

She is insecure, and so, she must switch her thighs a little harder. She must wear her hair a little longer. Her makeup a little thicker.

She must project power and control, even though she is crying inside. Barely surviving in a world forged by men that judge her on a whim.

She must be perfect at all times. If not for anyone, than for her boy, who is watching from afar. She loves the way he admires her. He looks at her in the way that no man does.

She sees how he sees greatness within her that transcends the crow’s feet she covers up.

She would do anything to keep that. His face, just like that. Forever.

But, she can’t. And deep down, she knows it.

It’s only a matter of time before the boy begins to grow. Away from her, and into the world.

He will soon notice how the world responds to all he didn’t learn. All that she couldn’t teach him that his father could have.

He will reference the sum of her teachings. But, he will eventually come to realize that not everything adds up.

And as he begins to think, his admiration for her will fade.

In fact, his feelings may not only wane, but reverse.

He may come to resent her for being a cruel goddess who didn’t teach him what his father could. Who raised him unprepared.

For if she were truly infallible, then his suffering must be by her mandate. Like the wise Epicurus, he will question:

Is mother willing to prevent my suffering but not able? Then, she is not omnipotent.

Is she able, but not willing? Then, she is malevolent.

Is she both able and willing? Then, whence cometh my pain?

Is she neither able, nor willing?

…then, why call her mother?


What are your thoughts on how it begins?

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