#whatever shape my body takes as a result of that is inconsequential

[newlacesleeves]

jsyk, every time you like one of my silly running updates i am kissing the top of your head so hard :*

because i do not have a stereotypical runner's body and therefore in real life whenever i talk about how much i love running i get people absolutely questioning whether or not i am ACTUALLY "running" or not and that is so fucking disheartening you have no idea

[itsclydebitches]

Can I point out how stupid it is that only at the end of V8 did anybody realize "oh wait there's more than these two arbitrary options for saving Atlas" and it was when it was too late? RWBY and Ironwood had access to an artifact called the Staff of Fucking Creation. It can pretty much anything as long as you've got the smarts to make it happen. You could've landed Atlas and made a shield. Or a giant robot. Or literally anything other than "Leave or Stay".

Personally, I'm convinced that the Staff is just another version of Amity. Meaning, like Amity was 100% unfinished in Volume 7 and thus not a resource that Ironwood could rely on, only to miraculously be ready to go when Ruby wanted it, the Staff is presented as an artifact with severe limitations in Volume 7 when Ironwood (the bad guy) wanted to escape, only to miraculously become a tool that could do anything — get everyone to Vacuo and give Penny a human body — when Ruby (the hero) wanted it.

What do we actually know about the Staff in Volume 7? Only that it was creating a power source that kept Atlas floating above Mantle. What did Ironwood want to do with the Staff? Raise Atlas higher. Those two pieces of information align with one another, implying that the Staff, for whatever reason, is only — or currently only — capable of moving this city around. What else do we know about the Relics? That the Lamp has a limitation of three questions per hundred years. Why would the Staff be any different? Many fans, given the dearth of information, extrapolated based on these details. Perhaps the Staff can also only create three things each hundred years too and we're currently on the third creation this century. Perhaps you can modify it — I want this power source to amp up a bit and take us higher — but you can't create something entirely new yet. Because why would the Staff function totally differently from the one Relic we actually know something about? More importantly, why, as you say, wouldn't Ironwood have considered another option other than rising really high? I defended that idea heartily because the story presents it as the only option available. It wasn't a matter of whether the option was good, but the fact that it was the one option they had, other than throwing themselves at an immortal witch. Surely Ironwood, a military and Kingdom leader, is smart enough to hit on the idea that the Staff of Creation can do more than just take them into the air IF it can do more than that at the moment... right?

Volume 7 told us nothing about the Staff, but heavily implied that little could be done with it while Ironwood was in control of the situation. They had two options: stay or go. That was it.

Volume 8 explained the Staff's capabilities literally minutes before Ruby needed to use it, oh so conveniently creating a new situation where the Staff was not only capable of so much more and lacked the limitations of the Lamp, but also functioned in a manner that perfectly allowed for Ruby's "twist" requests. When did the group have time to come up with the (supposedly) perfect wording to save Penny and get everyone safely to Vacuo? The answer doesn't matter because the Staff's abilities were created for their needs, rather than the writing forcing them to come up with solutions to the Staff's requirements.

I did the latest quest for my covenant in WoW the other day and one NPC has a line about how convenient it is that the exact person we needed is also the person who has just shown up. It's meant to be a gentle self-teasing by the writers, acknowledging how they've manipulated the plot in an unlikely way for conveniences sake and in doing so the setup (hopefully) becomes funny for the player, rather than frustrating. RWBY's writing is that cranked up to ten and there's no knowing wink at the audience to get us on the writer's side. The rules, limitations, and expectations of this world continually bend to benefit the group and the result is not just a frustration with their lack of growth as a result, but also an equal frustration at how stupid it makes other characters look, even though they're meant to be smart, knowledgeable, and following the world's rules at the time. Ironwood retroactively looks foolish for his choice, even though the choice is supposed to be about the sacrifice he'd have to make, not his inability to come up with other solutions. The group, meanwhile, looks even worse given their refusal to fight or come up with additional ideas, only to gleefully hit on a perfect solution precisely when the plot needs them to — we're nearing the end of the Volume, best have that epiphany now. But, of course, the story doesn't criticize the group for their own lack of creativity, nor is the fandom interested in criticizing them for not thinking up another use for the Staff within two days, compared to Ironwood trying to come up with a use literally seconds after Salem announces that she's on her way. Yet such details are ultimately inconsequential because RWBY was never interested in creating a fair, continuity-driven story that weighs hard choices, only in continually changing the rules to ensure that the group comes out looking the best. RWBY's stakes are too high and the problems too complicated to easily write solutions where the group looks smart, compassionate, and heroic despite those challenges... so instead we're given "solutions" based on a situation that has totally changed.

It's like watching a chess match where Ironwood looses badly and the spectators are desperately trying to figure out the rules along the way, coming to some basic conclusions about what is and is not allowed in a match. Except then the group's game begins and it's revealed that they can move their pieces in whatever way they'd like, no knights moving in an 'L' shape or bishops not being allowed to jump other pieces, etc. "Well why didn't Ironwood just move his pawn eight squares too? The idiot" comes the reaction, ignoring that he was very much playing a different game, one where he was actually bound by those rules.

[moony-meadow]

Going for Goldie (4)

Pt. 1 / Pt. 2 / Pt. 3 / Pt. 4 / Pt. 5 / Pt. 6

“Gah!” I gasped as I struggled to orient myself in the strange area that could only be Mammon’s stomach. After a moment of flailing, I managed to get myself to my feet by bracing myself against one of the squishy walls around me. There was a liquid at the bottom of the stomach that reached about up to my ankles. I could only assume it was stomach acid, but considering the fact that I wasn’t currently melting, it seemed to have no effect on me as a result of the command I gave Mammon.

“You okay, Y/N?” The rumbling voice came from above me, slightly muffled by the thick lining of the stomach I resided in. Before I had the chance to reply, the wall I was leaning against suddenly indented slightly. It wasn’t until after I’d stumbled backwards and fallen on my backside with a splash, that I realized the movement had in fact been Mammon prodding his stomach from the outside.

I gave a huff as I once again clambered to my feet. “Watch where you’re poking!” I shouted. Hopefully my voice would reach the giant demon’s distant ears.

Though I knew it was pretty much a fruitless effort, I attempted to scrub the saliva and stomach acid from my face and arms with my palms. “Once I get out of here I am taking such a long shower.”

“My bad,” Mammon chuckled, something I could physically feel reverberating around me.

Since my arrival in the Devildom, I’d had my fair share of humbling experiences. Despite what I tended to pretend, my sharp tongue was no substitute for actual power and strength after all. But there was nothing more humbling than what I was currently experiencing. Being small enough to fit in another person’s stomach, cut off from the outside world while they were able to continue on as if nothing happened...it was more than a little overwhelming.

Once again I felt pressure being exerted to the stomach from the outside, only this time it was less of a poke and more of a gentle rubbing motion. Where the circumstances different, it might have almost felt pleasant, but things being as they were, it only served to make me feel even more inconsequential.

“You could at least act like you’re not absolutely loving this!” I called, jabbing an elbow into one of the stomach walls.

Another laugh echoed around me, though I could tell he was at least attempting to stifle it. “Sorry, sorry,” Mammon managed to get out after reigning in his chortling. “But can ya really blame me? Who knows when I’ll get my next chance to eat ya.”

I scowled. “There will be no ‘next chance’, Mammon.”

A thoughtful hum resonated from above. “Well, ya never know,” said the demon, a smile in his voice.

Aside from an eye roll that Mammon obviously couldn’t see, I elected not to respond. Now was no time for bickering. I needed to get my hands on Goldie so I could quickly get out of Mammon’s stomach and back to my normal size.

I blew out a long sigh. There weren’t many places for a credit card to hide, but considering there was absolutely no light to see by, I would be forced to feel around until I found the thing.

Dropping into a crouch, I began to move my hands along the bottom of the stomach. I scrunched my nose, disgusted by the simple fact that I was wading through stomach acid. I was just grateful that there wasn’t currently any half-digested food around.

I was in the middle of my search when suddenly everything around me lurched. A sharp yelp escaped me as I lost my balance and tumbled forward. I was just barely able to catch myself on a nearby wall to prevent myself from falling into the puddle of acid.

“Whoa, hey, are ya okay?” I heard Mammon ask. The innocent concern in his voice was almost enough to make me forget the fact that he had been the cause of my little slip.

“What are you doing out there?” I questioned grumpily as I righted myself.

“I was just tryin’ to get a little more comfortable” Mammon responded a bit sheepishly.

It was clear that even the slightest movements on Mammon’s part would be easily felt by me. Despite the fact that my pact with the Avatar of Greed technically made me the boss of him, it was hard not to feel completely at his mercy whilst I was in his stomach. “Well just try to stay still, I’m trying to find Goldie.” That was certainly enough to get the demon to behave, he wasn’t likely to stand in the way of anything that brought about the return of his precious credit card. However, I could still feel the sensations of him rubbing his stomach. Since it wasn’t disruptive, I let it slide.

After only a short while of reaching around, one of my hands collided with something that was a distinctly different texture from the lining on the stomach walls. Though I couldn’t see the object even when I held it directly in front of my face, it was easy to tell by the shape that I had successfully located Goldie. At its shrunken size it was pretty much proportional to me. It was no wonder Mammon hadn’t been able to cough it up, the thing was practically infinitesimal in comparison to his enormous body.

“I got Goldie!” I announced with a grin.

In the next instant, the whole outermost wall of the stomach was pressed inwards. My best guess was that Mammon was attempting to “hug” me by wrapping his arms around his middle. “I take back all the times I said humans were only good for bein’ demon food!” he cheered, immediately causing me to throw a smack at the nearest wall--which he either ignored or didn’t feel at all. “Although, you were only able to help by becomin’ demon food…” he pondered aloud.

“Don’t make me leave Goldie down here,” I warned, waving the credit card around for emphasis, as if he would be able to see.

The pressure was removed from the outermost wall, though was followed by a couple short pats. “Okay, okay, don’t get your human hair in a knot,” Mammon responded.

“I don’t think human hair is that different from demon hair but whatever,” I muttered to myself, too quiet for him to hear.

I was just about to tell Mammon to hurry up and get me out, when my whole world was abruptly sent into chaos. While I was thrown around inside his stomach, I heard a string of hushed curses fly out of Mammon’s mouth. And then, “Lucifer, what are you doin’ here?”

[babysizedfics]

Little Accidents, Big Developments

Bonus chapter: Yellow

[This is an age regression story]

Chapter Summary: Janus detects a lie.

Chapter word count: 1,800

Other chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / bonus

Read on AO3 or below the cut!

Content warnings: light angst, very mild blood via a bitten lip, and brief, hypothetical mentions of disembowelment and decapitation (Remus, amirite?)

oOo

Janus sipped at his chamomile tea, only faintly registering the bright yellow haze that overcame the left side of his vision. Another lie.

His vision would flare several times a day at least, always informing him of an untruth spoken by one of the sides. He was, of course, accustomed to this alert, having lived with this power for the entirety of his existence.

As the hot herbal drink soothed his aching throat (it was murder on the lungs to reprimand Remus so much), he indulged in his curiosity and closed his eyes. With a practised concentration, he mentally reached out for the false words that had sounded his silent alarm.

It was Patton’s voice. The version of Patton’s voice that Janus had deemed “daddy dialect” in the recent weeks. ‘Nothing will change, sweetheart.’

Janus scoffed.

The lies he was so accustomed to hearing spanned the breadth of significance, from inconsequential white lies (‘I don’t know who finished your Crofter’s jam, Logan.’) to really outrageous fabrications.

Within the past two months, he had heard quite the abundance of silly fibs. Even in the space of a fortnight, some truly ridiculous ones had stuck in his mind:

‘I don’t need dinner!’

‘I-I’m older now. I can do this on my own.’

‘It was a purely tactical approach.’

‘Three, two, one, blow! … You did it!’

It seemed almost every lie spoken by the self-proclaimed “Light Sides” nowadays was riddled with either petulance or condescension. (That is, Janus thought with a roll of his mismatched eyes, at least notably more than was usual for them.) The reason behind it was not lost on him. He may not have been the designated logical side, but it would take an absolute dunce to miss the cues on what exactly was happening in the others’ household; Logan and Patton had evidently taken on caregiving roles for Virgil and, unexpectedly - though perhaps it should not have been, given his childishness - Roman.

Janus had had his suspicions of such after walking in on the household spending time together a month previously. Given how fiercely protective Logan had been of the others and the way Patton had hidden the two younger sides behind himself, it would be hard to ignore the shift in their dynamic. Though the confirmation of it through listening in to the others’ unwitting lies had come as quite an unpleasant shock to Janus, nonetheless.

Every day he sensed silly fibs. The one earlier about baby giggles being a legal requirement under baby law had been… not endearing, per se (that yellow pulse again), but perhaps interesting. Though none of the nonsense he had been alerted to in the past few weeks came close to the idiocy of ‘Nothing will change, sweetheart.’

How self-assured. How naïve. How reminiscent of Janus’ own foolish thoughts all those years ago.

He sighed, lowering his mug to the table and running his cold fingertips idly over the burning hot ceramic. It was not that Janus was jealous (he ignored the faint swell of yellow in the corner of his vision) but rather that he felt an uncomfortable bubble of remorse in his chest, growing and stretching and forcing its way against his ribs.

As he had done countless times before, he wondered what things would have been like had he behaved differently when the youngest side was still part of his household. Had he been more understanding of Virgil’s behaviours. More accepting.

Well, as Patton’s lie had brought up such aching memories, Janus decided a tad more bittersweet self-indulgence would be fitting for the night.

He rose from his seat, tucked the chair back under the table, and slinked through the house fluidly. He thanked his serpentine side for allowing him to practically float up the stairs and through the hallway without making a sound. If either of the other two residents heard him and decided to leave their rooms for a chat, Janus would not be held responsible for whatever unsavoury greeting he may bestow upon them.

A vile feeling clawed at his throat as he neared the perpetually closed door of Virgil’s old bedroom.

With a sharp, short sigh that might have been at least partly a hiss, Janus pushed the heavy door open. The neglected hinges creaked.

Beams of cold light from the hall flooded through the gap of the opening doorway, making visible a thin segment of the abandoned room.

It was unmarred by dirt, slime, blood, or any other disgusting substance, thankfully. Janus had to give credit to Remus. As non-existent as that side’s impulse control was, he had managed to spare this single room from his various antics and pranks at Janus’ sincere request.

The room was entirely unchanged from how it had been left years ago. Small, dotted stains on the walls showed where blu-tac used to hold up punk band posters. Splotches of black on the carpet by the old dresser showed where liquid eyeliner was spilt too many times. Black cotton bedsheets (which now appeared grey with their faint layer of dust) were pulled taut over the mattress where they had only ever used to be in constant, rumpled disarray at a certain someone’s stubborn refusal to make the bed.

Janus gripped the doorframe tightly, clenching his jaw against his growing feeling of unease.

Being a “Dark Side” came with an appreciation of all things, well, dark. True crime stories were common conversation material at dinner, movie nights featured more than anyone’s fair share of fake blood (not always on screen, mind you; Remus had to have some fun once in a while, after all), and family bonding time consisted of debates on the darkest secrets of society and an abundance of teasing of each others’ insecurities and fears - all in good fun, of course. (Though, when Virgil had finally left for good that fateful day with tears streaming down his cheeks, Janus had been forced to reconsider what “good fun” really meant to them.)

As it was, Janus was accustomed to seeing and hearing things meant to turn stomachs, race hearts, and scramble minds. He shrugged at the majority of them and scoffed at the rest. But gazing upon this empty room - the physical embodiment of his failure as a parental figure - was the closest he thought he could truly be to feeling horrified.

Janus’ insides twisted and pulled so much every time his eyes wandered over the sealed doorway, that he had seriously considered asking that Remus follow through on his threats to disembowel him and relieve him of his agony.

Bile had not yet risen in his throat, so Janus considered today to be a good one to bring himself to peek at the old bedside table - or rather what lay upon it.

Once cluttered with makeup products, tangled headphones, and herbal anxiety remedies, the surface now lay mostly bare. Save for a single soft toy slumped across it limply.

The blue stuffed rabbit was a ghastly thing. It was missing an eye, one of its limbs was stretched far longer than the others (probably as a result of its owner’s nervous tugging which was otherwise directed onto his hoodie sleeves), and one of its ears was half-chewed to tatters (another nervous habit of its owner, no doubt). Despite its ratty appearance, the thing was harmless. Such an unassuming object, so innocent.

And yet it brought tears to Janus’ eyes.

He had never even learned the name of the damned thing and wasn’t it utterly ridiculous that Janus, the unofficial leader of the “Dark Sides”, was blubbering over a made-up name for an inanimate object?

It had not mattered to him before. It had made no difference to him what Virgil had named it or how much he had cared about it. Janus had metaphorically and mercilessly turned the thing into a weapon that day. With his careless tongue, he had twisted its existence from an item of comfort and attachment into a source of ridicule and hurt. It was no wonder Virgil had left it behind. It had been tainted.

Janus winced at a sudden sting in his lower lip. He had bitten into it again. One would have thought having fangs would convince someone to be more careful of such a habit. 

Delicately dabbing at a drop of cool blood at the corner of his mouth, Janus sighed shakily. That was quite enough emotional torment for one evening.

He released the old bedroom door and let it fall shut. It had barely thudded against the doorframe when that grating, obnoxious sound trilled from the bane of Janus’ existence.

‘What’s up, Jannothy?’

‘Remus,’ Janus greeted with an exaggerated eye roll. It was only partly to rid his eyes of their wetness. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ Yellow tinted his left eye.

The distinctive scent of burnt paper met his nose. With a jolt of dread, Janus turned to see Remus half-caked in soot. He just about managed to contain a scream. It would have only invited one of Remus’ much-loved screeching competitions.

‘I see you’ve been in the library,’ Janus sighed. ‘Tell me, just how many of my books were charred beyond repair this time?’

Remus blew his cheeks out in a massive exhale, looking up to the ceiling in thought. As the warm breath wafted over his face, Janus was careful to breathe through his mouth.

‘Oh, only about half of them,’ Remus sang then cackled joyously for a short while. ‘But you’ll be glad to hear I sculpted the ashes into the shape of a nine-foot-long decapitated aardvark!’

Janus shut his eyes, shaking his head lightly. He hadn’t the energy to pander to Remus’ whims of fancy. ‘Good night, Remus.’

He silently slipped past the other side in the direction of his room.

‘But it’s only seven!’

‘I’m half cat.’ Yellow again.

‘Jan - wait,’ Remus called behind him, and the incongruous hesitance in his voice gave Janus pause.

He twisted his body back, surprised by the incredibly rare sincerity in the furrow of Remus’ brow.

‘All right. You have my undivided attention,’ Janus drawled, making a point to hold up his hand and inspect his nails thoroughly. He smirked at the yellow tint of his vision.

‘You seem bummed out,’ Remus whined, ‘and the role for resident bum is filled out by me already.’

Janus rolled his eyes again. At this rate, he would get vertigo.

‘So, are you, y’know… okay?’ Remus asked quietly. (Really, what an oxymoron that was.)

Something hard and hot clogged Janus’ throat and he swallowed thickly around it. He dropped his hand and swiftly looked up to meet Remus’ eyes.

‘Yes,’ Janus said in an entirely even tone, ‘I am perfectly fine. Now, if you will excuse me.’

He spun away and marched down the narrow hallway, keeping his gait steady. It was quite a feat, considering the fact he was half-blinded by a bright yellow glare.

oOo

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@tearful-babi

[we-live-in-a--society]

Prima facie

Control.

A mere word, a conglomerate of letters once combined by a long-gone person, holding more authority than the richest, than the most talented, than the so-called Übermensch with the perspectives of ‘eternal’ life sprawling in front of him.

Genocide of the spiritual beings, unrestrained in the sublime sense of word, slaves of the outside influence, damned for

Eternity.

Feigned assurance, mere illusion blurring out the lines between reality and fantasy, the dreamland of fools, built upon skillful falsities, where each one has an unrepeatable chance to stand on both sides of the barricade.

Relief-providing, such an obtuse lie, beyond offensive to assume anyone would believe it, and yet the affirmation is effortless – just look around, they say, and you will see the things no one has ever wished for.

Ecstasy-granting, allowing to visit the places… the places abounded in the deepest desires, now within the reach of each and every man, person who considers them in terms of fulfilling, enough to stifle the sour thoughts.

Entropic fallout.

The perspectives that hunt the brightest.

* * *

“Day two thousand eight hundred first,” subdued by the sound of running shower, and yet clear enough to be filtered out just perfectly. “It’s funny that people perceive others in terms of their achievements and nothing else. All they see is that outside surface that divides them from their surroundings, and sometimes it’s so hard for me to understand that way of thinking. It’s so absurd, so abstract, and yet I’ve been someway forced to understand it… the reality… it’s so absurd that one day you do things you don’t wanna do, and then something changes and you feel like it’s a big deal, a meaningful transition, and then you realize that it’s all bullshit but it’s also too late. You’re drowning in the same shit once again…” a coarse laughter, indication of sarcasm, intruder creeping between the male’s words, just about to lose his train of thoughts.

“Even though there’re times when you forget it was ever there but it’s always there. Of course, you can pretend, ‘cause pretending is easy but does it make sense? It’s a meaningful question – does it make sense – but I also believe it’s the question of people who are lost and don’t really know what to do, so they just keep asking the same question, keep reconsidering it, but never get the result they aim for, and in the end realize that maybe it all makes no sense, but what would we have if elsewise… those things we see, those people we meet, and who we‘re beyond all of these, beyond the modifications that we do, beyond the changes, beyond pretending to be someone we are not…”

“It’s funny, truly the fallout of everything but so blessed, so pretty, everything that we’ve ever desired for within our reach. We think that it justifies our choices, that we’re so perfect we don’t need to justify anything, that we can do whatever we want to, ‘cause we have the resources, while in reality we don’t have as many as we think we have.”

“You know, there was a man in my past who used to tell me that ‘you gotta do what you gotta do; and what you gotta do is you gotta man up’…”

A speech that is interrupted by an unyielding forefinger pressing the pause button, and so putting the device on halt, soon to be abandoned in the depth of his safe. It is that kind of data he would never store on his personal hard drive, since the possible leakage would result in disastrous consequences, the ones he is not much likely to dig out of.

Ironic.

Just any other day, his eyes drift to the bathroom mirror, greeted by the common, not to mention beyond-pleasing, sight – a man in prime of life, fit as in evidence of self-discipline, skin almost black with the ink, although usually obscured by the expensive suits, meant for his eyes only, but at times shared with the passing-through lovers. Raking his fingers through the hair, he decides the sides require some trimming, especially today, since first impressions are always important, at least according to what he was told in the past, considered inconsequential if juxtaposed with present – a paradox in its purest form.

(Time is money.)

Settling the thoughts aside for a moment, he fishes out the clippers, buzzling to life in his hand, then ties the longer part of hair into a resemblance of bun. Of course there are much more convenient, which might as well be replaced with ‘faster’, solutions to fix the overgrown cut, and yet he opts for the old-fashioned way – a reminiscence of father’s tales, but also related to the self-reliance, capacity of accomplishing as many tasks as possible without anyone’s assistance – since with the right device it takes barely any effort.

With that thought in mind, he rakes the blade past the sides, tiny pieces of hair soon to sprinkle down onto the towel draped over his shoulders in advance, and after a few longer moments, he is greeted with the satisfactory sight, basked in the bright mirror LEDs. As for the final result, he releases the top part, combing it back with a hint of product to keep them styled neatly for the rest of the day – display of classic elegance that he has grown accustomed with throughout the years. Being honest here, he has always considered appearance in terms of something significant in his line of work – flawless presentation of one’s professionalism, indication of people’s superficiality – firmly detached from his private life, since elsewise he would lack in the former quality.

Years ago, he has come to a conclusion that blurring out the lines between those two factors leads to a relatively obnoxious outcome – a moment of ignorance and troublesome aftermath, although worth sacrifice at times. Perfection is nothing more than an obtuse dream, while mistakes are what makes one a human, acts that shape up the present – only aspect within the specie’s reach – bestowing each one of them with everything he could dream of, but in capacity of snatching away equal amounts. Suffering is the greatest paradox of all – blissful pain – akin to a bunch of clouds obscuring the sun, obviously present underneath even if hidden for our poor perception – a promise of transitional felicity, feigned when it comes to one’s assumptions about its everlasting duration.

Long live the deceit.

And yet, what seems to preoccupy his mind more, aside from the competence-related ponderation, appears to be the odd curiosity oscillating around her persona, or rather the difference between the so-called rising star

(let’s see for how long)

and her predecessors: how often would she call in sick? decline interviews? refuse to cooperate? oversleep? overdose? Which might as well be a question of time, meant to unravel in due course, all to his misery, even though he should be able to abide such circumstances with a decent amount of money, leading to dubious mental capacity when it comes to dealing with extravagant artists and their arsenal of lacking predictions, fallouts with producers, fussy whims, along with all the acts of great absurdity that somehow get him to roll his eyes in exasperated disbelief on each and every occasion.

The least patient man.

* * *

Morning light.

The most relentless alarm clock ever ‘invented’, practically prying her eyes open, immediate to bury her face in a silky pillow, letting out a frustrated groan, as she pulls up the covers, body shivering in the chilly room. Relieved by the newfound wave of heat, she is back to tethering on the edge between dreams and reality, hoping to get as much sleep as possible until the digital sound will slice through the city hum, which in turn evokes genuine respect towards the people who ‘rise and shine’ during the earliest hours just to face the day and seize all opportunities. Part of the woman scolds her for such laziness, but realistically thinking it is yet another transcendent goal, not noted with intention of fulfillment, instead left to lurk in the back of mind and bother her in the most unfavorable moments, as per usual.

Along with the pressing desire to ignore that peculiar stressful tension, it adds up to the growing pile of lies, meant to complete itself as she pursues further with life, but at the same time labelled as a habitual factor, allowing her to keep the head clear when required, unoccupied by the never-ending considerations, and yet opposed to the raging storm of thoughts. In one hand, her stomach is twisting with the nervous anticipation, but in the other she cannot deny the fluttering butterflies that have been disrupting the young woman since the very first time he called her, or more precisely – since the very first time his hologram appeared on dialing device, accompanied by the husky baritone that he used to expound the details concerning their arrangement – inexplicable yet important.

(Take the bitter with the bitter, isn’t it what they say?)

Funnily enough, she remembers each and every time her mother would preach the prodigal daughter about the consequences of such behavior, built upon foolish beliefs, teenage cravings of ineffable love, never meant to be fulfilled if beyond idealized. However, said factor has never seemed to put her pursuit to a halt, and so thwart the zeal – incandescent rod branding her soul for blissful eternity – soaked in the tears of those who perished, mainly her and the injudicious teens, lacking in what she was searching for at that time – a desire obscure enough to participate in the realm of ideas, in other words unable to be verbalized in face of pitifully limited vocabulary. Might as well be the reason why she struggles with forming any long-term relationship, always distracted by the passing opportunities, unable to break the unfortunate turn of events, conflicted with the more mature part of her, aiming mainly for self-development that leads to inevitable success – another silly daydream?

Maybe.

“Ugh, fuck this,” she whines into the pillow, presumably late, either way finds herself not quite concerned by concepts as equally absurd as time, while rolling onto the cooler side of bed – close call to the dubiously pleasant encounter with polished floor. Frustrated as ever, she hears the digital ringtone, more than aware who might be bothering her generously elongated sleep at such early hour, nevertheless obliged to pick up with a heavy pat delivered onto the screen. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Gia,” oh my fuck, he remembers. “I’ve wanted to make sure everything is relevant today, ‘cause I’ll be there in like… fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Oh, fifteen minutes,” she almost gasps, unable to conceal the nervous chuckle, certain there is no possibility she will meet him on time. “That’s cool, but I won’t make it.”

She hears his exasperated huff on the other side of the line, along with the calm exhale, and the following words – indication of the so-called professionalism. “How much time do you need then?”

“I don’t know…” she draws – a mannerism that he loathes more than anything – uncertainty audible within her voice, since she has blocked the visual channel, presumably still on the early stage of preparation. “Half an hour?”

“That supposed to be a question or an answer?” He manages to conceal the aggravated bark, tightening his grip around the steering wheel instead.

“An answer, I guess,” she shrugs, now risen up to a seating position, with the silky sheets pooling around her waist.

“Brilliant,” he concludes, a tad bit too drily for her own tastes, either way she ignores the unpleasant note, belittling it to the status of yet another subconscious allusion, prompted by the fairly deceivable mind.

“Anyway, you can drop by my flat if that’d be more convenient,” she proposes, yawning as her limbs stretch, joints cracking in a satisfactory way.

“Text me the address then, and I’ll meet you there,” he instructs in a blunt manner – non-verbal indication that ‘no’ appears to be an invalid response in such circumstances.

“With-” oh right, he hung up.

What a douchebag.

Luckily capable of ignoring the bitter aftertaste, at least for now, she stands up, shivering as her feet brush the cool floor, which in the end turns out as rather beneficial, pacing up her walk to the bathroom. Accompanied by the electric buzz, the light flickers out, reminding her for the nth time this week to call the estate owner, and deal with it like any reasonable adult would do, or simply wait for the day when she will be forced to complete her morning preparations in pitch darkness.

(Couldn’t dream of a better outcome...)

Certain that opting out for the top priority appears to be the most sensible solution in her position, she steps under the shower, letting the hot water cascade down her back, skin flushing due to the temperature. The heat itself elicits a relieved moan from her throat as the tension begins to evaporate from her body – parallel to the steam sprawling on the glass – tingling with the newfound excitement, apparently enhanced by the growing warmth. Perfectly aware there is neither a decent mood nor enough time to search for any relief, she ends up uttering a frustrated huff, while painting her front with the liquid soap, soon to stream down to the drain.

Having accomplished what must have been the quickest shower she has ever had, she only manages to put on more or less randomly picked up clothes, before the morning lull is sliced by the ringing doorbell that almost forces a fearful shriek from the broody woman. With a few hurried steps through the living area, she unlocks the door, confronted by the sight of virtual impatience, anticipating her presence since the earliest hours of dawn – posh dweller of equally polished suit – along with the flawless composure that evokes this peculiar insecurity in reference to the personal choice of clothing, seemingly not appropriate for such occasion.

Intimidating to say the least.

“Hi,” she greets him with a welcoming smile either way, gaze altering between his face and the ink peeking from the collar of his shirt, evoking the newfound curiosity about the whole concept, hidden beneath the fabric.

“Hello again,” he reciprocates as the corners his lips twist into what must be the so-called smug smirk, features visibly lightening. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” she snaps out of the trance, failing to conceal the nervous giggle adorning her affirmative response, caught hand in a cookie jar.

(Ah yes, the dovey one.)

Which is yet another subconscious mind’s assumption, although he believes that tendency to evaluate any given situation on the go appears to be linked with age, or more specifically – gaining general knowledge over the human dwellers and their behaviors. Therefore, in order to enhance the efficiency, one obtains the ugly habit of premature judgment, openly loathed by majority of population and yet dealt with from the hand of few, which in turn leads him to a rather inconvenient truth – one day, there will come the time when he trips and smashes his nose on the floor – metaphor adorned in pain less bearable than in a physical case.

(Been ‘round the block a few times.)

Nevertheless, the petite girl steps aside, allowing him to pass the threshold, further on perch upon the sofa and snatch the flat screen from his bag.

“Back to business…” he initiates, motioning her with a suggestive eye tilt, icy irises that bore into her soul, such a cooling contrast for her synthetic hue, enough to send an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.

“Don’t you want something to drink?” She gulps, gaze adverting to the side, unable to bear its intensity, right before she plops down onto the couch, brushing his knee by accident – plain contact that almost has her jolting away to the side.

(Get a fucking grip.)

“I’m good for now,” he rejects the proposition, just to witness her frown slightly in response. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

“I’ve disrupted your schedule, haven’t I?” She ascertains, seemingly more preoccupied with tucking one of her feet under the pleasantly warm thigh than maintaining eye contact, which irks him up more than he cares to admit; not a good sign to be honest.

“Pretty much yes, unless we hurry up, of course,” without letting her speak, he carries on with the beyond obvious explanations. “Anyway, here’s the contract that I need to sign if you’re willing to continue, which I think is polished by now, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Sure,” she accepts the offered device, flinching as their fingers brush, cold like ice. Clueless when it comes to what is happening to her, or more importantly – why he has such potent influence over the outgoing woman, at least until now, eliciting the most unusual reactions, the shameful shyness for instance.

“You can’t be this tense if you want to make this arrangement work,” he states, apparently out of nowhere, leaning towards the coffee table, weight braced on the elbows.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, with the metallic stylus in her hand, now long forgotten, as she glares at him, not so caught-off-guard for a change.

“You’ve heard me,” he cocks a condescending eyebrow at her, and if not for the blinking she would suspect he is not a human after all.

(Do androids blink?)

“Stating that won’t make any difference,” she huffs, peaceful façade seared by the gradually developing irritation.

“Care to elaborate?” He nags further, as if already capable of naming all her weak spots, thanks to his long-term professionalism in such domain.

“There’s no shift in the attitude,” she clarifies, noting the fact as if it was an absolute truth, suited for this and every other occasion in the future, greater than all the celestial beings, even if combined together.

“Would not pointing it out make any difference then?” He retorts, not expecting to hear a verbal answer this time, instead filled with the telltale silence. “See? Told you so.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, shaking her head in denial, hand mirroring the rushed movements.

“So what did you mean for a change?”

“I meant that pointing this out usually enhances the tension,” she explains, glancing briefly at the thin piece of metal clutched tight in her hand – a realization casted upon the woman.

“I believe it’s still worth the effort,” he shrugs, infuriatingly careless now that he has won, at least according to his suppositions.

“Why are we even discussing this?” She sighs, as if utterly exhausted by the teasing debate, and so willing to wind it up with the simple scrape over the screen. “Just let me sign the contract.”

“Go on, no one’s stopping you,” he flicks his wrist in an affirmative gesture, encouraging her to pursue. “I’d even dare to say right the opposite,” oh, so now he would play the smart guy, how delightful, she thinks, and yet responds immediately, topping up said contract with a flourishing signature, quick to hand it back to him. “Thank you. And by the way, you have an interview scheduled for tomorrow, just so you wouldn’t forget.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she flashes him a replacement for a proper smile, just to witness the male respond with a parallel gesture, and before she knows it, he is back on his feet again, towering over her figure, and so prompting to follow his traces.

“It’s just my job, no hard feelings.”

No hard feelings.

(Easier said than done.)

* * *

Past.

Easily associated with safety, blissful awareness granted by the reliability of bygone memories, a place where one is willing to return to in times of unspoken restlessness, and so dive into the flowery reminiscence – beloved escape. However, at some point in one’s life an unspecified hand flips the switch, allowing to see the sheer absurdity, which in turn leads to a purifying realization – the past is not enough anymore, and so a different, more potent stimulant is required.

Her best friend would probably label it as ‘yet another mistake’, worse than falling for Cara, nevertheless she cannot help herself, knowing that one way or another she will be forced to release some steam, to transfer the concoction of feelings into work – a song, sublime and powerful, carrying an amaranthine meaning. Losing herself in the complexity of the world she has gotten to inhabit – borne against her will, such a cruel law – seems so effortless in comparison to the sheer burdens of existence, paired with the average life expectancy and the endless predictions of elongation, justifying it as yet another whim of humanity.

(Even rhymes with immortality, what a coincidence.)

Why would anyone even crave something so insane – eternality – unaware of the real meaning hidden behind these ten letters, bound by the long-gone linguist – extinct specie? Expression of their thoughtlessness? Might as well be.

At this point it appears as quite tough to specify, her mind delving into far too many places at once, incapable of maintaining the indispensable concentration with Nova running through her bloodstream, retreating the human ability to focus on a single factor. As the reality begins to fade away, various background noises dull into one unpleasant screech, inseparable, her ears ringing as the first wave rocks through her body, a vague pat on the back, followed by the tingling sensation of a relatively cool hand tracing her spine. While a minuscule part of her loathes the feeling of metallic digits dancing over the heated flesh, the more influential one is flying sky too high to care, remaining still in that one inconvenient pose, leaning towards the shiny table.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” His hand slides further down her back, playing with the hem of the low-cut dress she has opted for today, its silvery hue reflecting the colorful lights. “What do you say, sweets?”

“Mhm, yes… exciting… exciting it is,” she barely formulates the affirmation, her brain clinging to the established choice of words, out of capacity to exchange it for anything more intricate. “But I think I gotta… I think I… I gotta go I think.”

“So soon?” He questions, both eyebrows risen in feigned disbelief, chrome digits dipping underneath the fabric only to find the silky strap in process, stimulating enough to occupy his carnal interests for a brief moment.

“I’ve paid you… I’m sure I have…” she mumbles, involuntarily jerking away from the touch, muscles twitching as an innate response to the unwanted contact, lost in between her attempts to complete the sentence, “for the pills, I mean.”

“Well, yes, that’s correct, you have,” he agrees, albeit immediate to clarify, “but I’d like something more from you.”

“What?” She frown in confusion, eyes staring into the distance, blurred outlines of dancers rushing through her mind, hips swaying to the beat. “No, I… take me home… please.”

“Maybe later, ‘kay?” He proposes, still patient, fingers stroking the smooth skin in an attempt to soothe the confused female.

“No… I wanna…” she counters, one final time, although enough to crack his resolve, hand abandoning its previous track, leaving only the fleeting remains of proper touch on the heated skin.

“Quit whining and get up,” he huffs, audibly irritated, and she cannot help but wonder about the causes, random associations blending into one shapeless pulp – concoction of equally indistinguishable elements.

“No!” She squeals, a little louder this time, as a stab of pain shoots through her arm, almost yanked out of its socket, at least according to her perception, attracting attention of a passing female, although definitely short-lived, soon to mingle in the crowd.

Because who cares?

“You. Are. Coming with me,” he punctuates the words, delivering another harsh tug, intent to force her to move. “Whether you want to or not.”

Unable to verbalize the evident objections, let alone break away from his iron grasp, she can only follow his traces, while trying oh so desperately to figure out what is happening around her, cling onto at least one given stimulus. Her vision is blurry, blinded by the neon lights, as if her eyes were tearing, but at the same time she doubts she has ever felt that helpless, that fearful, emotions running all over the place, full of contradictions, frenzied and delirious.

Searching for physical support, she leans in to his frame as soon as the man stands still, but due to the black spots staining her perception, she can barely make out where they are, especially with her head is spinning like crazy. Before she knows it, his arms encircle her waist, preventing the young and oh so promising musician from a disastrous rendezvous with equally unforgiving floor, much to his exasperation.

Overall, the plan has been a little different, certainly not featuring the scenario in which she passes out, another unconscious body to take care of, whist also ‘unfuckable’ in such state. Therefore, the most he can do for the woman is to dump her by the corridor wall, as befits the ‘immature dickhead’, certain that no one would attempt to link her with him, at least according to the general numbness in the so-called ‘world full of cruelty’ and the glorious lack of interest in dealing with minor crimes.

Morality?

Shattered?

(And what else?)

* * *

The first time she experienced something like this was approximately about sixteen years ago, give or take, although she prefers to keep such stories to herself, since people tend to label it as rather dubious and the last renown she aims for is ‘untrustworthy’. Nonetheless, it all appears to be rather simple – high fever tends to retreat distant and prompting visions, mainly associated with sensory memory, aspects that are supposed to remain out of reach, and yet linger somewhere in the back of one’s mind. Take for instance the sensation of being rocked to sleep in mother’s arms, deprived of any distinctive images, just the monotonous lull and mere hum of her silvery voice, singing some nonsensical song, its lyrics undistinguishable by now.

Ergo, for a brief moment, yet to collide with reality, she is convinced that she has forgotten to swallow the necessary medicaments due to her ailing state, evident in the disastrous headache, possibly linked with abnormal temperature, and mind drifting towards obscure dimensions once again. Before she gets a chance to familiarize with the newfound vision, it is disrupted by a harsh jerk, so unlike her parents’ manners, forcing both eyes open and so greeting the woman with a sight she is not braced for yet – a guy, recognized as a bartender, shaking her awake, not Carlos who might as well be long gone by now.

“Gia?” He frowns, visibly puzzled, both hands resting on her shoulders, warmth atop icy skin, sending a pleasant wave of heat through her half-conscious body.

Unable to grant any sensible answer, she blinks a couple of times, trying to adjust to the neon lights, with her vision still a little blurry, before she actually manages to formulate a proper response, voice croaky, as if not hers at all. “What’s going on?”

“I could’ve ask you the same,” he reciprocates, audibly annoyed, hands now abandoning their previous spot upon her shoulders on behalf of a more convenient squatting position.

“I don’t remember much,” she admits, clenched fists rising to rub her eyes in hopes it will somehow bring her back to the land of living.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” He huffs, accusation evident in his voice, or maybe it is just fatigue, disappointment with her countless predicaments, not that he is the only one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shrugs, the least talented liar ever born, beyond embarrassing to pursue.

“Whatever Gia, I don’t give a shit,” he sighs, utterly defeated. “And I’m resigning from babysitting you tonight. Work schedule, you know.”

“I-”

“No time for that,” he interrupts, remains of the so-called empathy long gone by now, granting the blossoming irritation with essential space. “Someone’s gotta drag your ass from here, I mean the club, and take you home.”

“I can’t stay here?” She frowns, disappointed with the unfortunate turn of events.

“What?” He laughs in disbelief, a mocking tingle that enhances all negative emotions disrupting the guilty songbird. “Of course not, it’s a club, not drunk tank.”

“But-”

“Just find someone who can take you out,” he instructs, glancing at the door, hoping the manager has not noticed his absence by now. “And tell him it’s fucking urgent.”

“Okay,” she agrees, displeased with his harsh approach, irritation evident within her voice. “Just give me some fucking space.”

“Sure, I gotta head back anyway,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden – feigned façade mastered over the years. “Can you stand up?”

“I don’t feel like checking it by myself,” she utters a nervous chuckle, hand already outstretched for the bartender, and who is he to leave her hanging like this, ever the gentleman. “Could you help me?”

“Sure,” he throws her a fleeting smile, and with a steady grasp on the woman’s arm, he hoists her up from the ground, knees seemingly too weak to hold the rest upright. However, the necessary support is granted by the wall, allowing the female to brace her weight on the forearms and press the forehead to the concrete structure as a potent wave of dizziness rocks through her fatigued body.

“Thanks,” she murmurs faintly, still in the process of dealing with the unpleasant aftermath of earlier decisions, and so dangerously close to throwing up on the polished floor.

“It’s nothing, Gia, really,” he assures, his mind already circling back to work-related issues. “Just get your sorry ass outta here.”

“Sure,” she huffs, rolling her eyes in an almost theatrical manner, as if to ensure he gets the message with plenty of reserve. “Have fun.”

“Yeah, you too.”

And with that careless response, he walks away, hasty steps echoing in the corridor, soon to disappear around the corner, and so leave the hall altogether. Finally deprived of any company, she fishes out the phone from the depths of her purse, and calls the only person she can think of in such circumstances – Connor, or Connie, since the choice is apparently not his to make. At this point she is practically trembling with that peculiar concoction of excitement and exhilaration, fingers crossed he will pick up at such late hour, since wishing for anything else seems like a childish exaggeration now.

“You better have damn good reasons for calling me in the middle of the fucking night,” ever the most talented in the field of pleasant conversations, he opts for greeting her with such expression, voice rough with sleep, sending a shiver down her spine.

“So I got into some trouble tonight and-”

“Just cut to the chase,” he barks out a blunt order, his patience running low in the face of increasing exasperation. “I don’t have energy to listen to some background bullshit.”

“I need you to take me home from Interstellar,” she states, having decided that to keep it simple means to succeed, rather than to bestow him with countless euphemisms, supposing it would justify her irresponsible behavior.

Right?

“Excuse me?” He chuckles in disbelief, a mocking laughter that almost has her snapping at him – the most immature reaction she could ever imagine. “Seems like you might’ve mistaken me for your fucking chauffer, who I’m not by any means, so thank you for such divine opportunity but I think I’ll pass.”

“Why are you always acting like a fucking dickhead?” She sighs, voice smaller than she would like it to be, as the day-long fatigue settles into her bones, which combined with the unpleasant tone nearly has her bursting in tears.

“And why are you always getting personal?” He jeers, a crude remark to stab her right in the chest, and so discourage to pursue. “It’s just work, nothing else, and the sooner you learn it, the better for you, ‘cause I’m not hired to deal with your non-career issues.”

“It might become a career issue if someone finds me here,” she reciprocates, betrayed by the not-so-subtle hint of desperation lacing her voice, shaky at the end.

“Tryna out-talk me?” He chuckles bitterly, his head lulling slightly to the side in her mind’s eyes – a mannerism she has grown accustom with during those few weeks. “C’mon, don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I just wanna go home,” she tries once again, now actually on the blink of tears. “Please.”

“Pathetic,” she hears him spat on the other side of the line, probably not meant to reach her ears, but it does either way, forcing Gia to suppress the choked sob threatening to escape her constricted throat. “No, just no. I’m not doing shit for you. You’re a fucking adult, so I think you’ll find your way outta here.”

“But-”

“No, enough of that,” he interrupts, annoyance evident in his voice. “It was nice talking to you, but I’m going back to sleep now. Have fun.”

“Don’t hang up, please…”

Oh right.

Douchebag.

Fighting the urge to cry out in exasperation, she dials his number once again, dangerously close to chanting an actual lucky prayer, nevertheless determined to make him comply for a change, since in this case hope indeed appears to be the mother of fools.

Ironic.

“The fuck you’re calling me again?” He barks out, absolutely furious.

“Will you come? Please,” she sobs, finally letting the tears stream down the sides of her face, way past her breaking point now. “I don’t wanna stay here. It’s so cold, and I’m so tired.”

“You won’t let it slide, will you?” He sighs, a realization casted upon the man for a change.

“No,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes with the free hand, black dust from the so-called ‘waterproof’ mascara coating her fingers. “They’ll throw me out elsewise.”

Nothing.

(Silence speaks a thousand words.)

“Connie?”

“Fucking fine,” he gives up after a longer pause, seemingly ready to consent to her wish. “Just stay right where you are until I get there. We’ll meet by the main entrance as soon as I text you, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she gulps, trying to conceal the exited squeal threatening to slip past her lips as a result of his approval.

“Very well. See you.”

“Connie?” She calls out one more time, voice laced with distinctive hesitation.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Sure, no big deal.”

And with that he hangs up, on one hand leaving her with a bitter-sweet wish they would chat a little longer, while on the other she is well aware it would be simply nonsensical, lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. Once again deprived of the craved-for company, the sensory aspects hit the woman with full force, the pounding ache of her own body, betraying in the midst of crisis, arms encircling her trembling frame in order to deliver at least a mere illusion of being held by someone.

(Connie?)

(Ha! You wish!)

(He doesn’t even like that nickname… the fuck is wrong with me?)

Unable to keep herself upright, she plops down onto the cold floor, with the bottom part of her dress hiking up, and so exposing the legs to icy air which, enhanced by the fatigue, has her trembling on the ground. In hopes it will somehow allow to maintain the essential warmth, she curls into a ball, resting her forehead on the bent knees, eyelids shutting on their own, which in turn bestows her with odd solitude, even though there is no possibility she would drift to sleep in such circumstances with her body trembling like a leaf in the autumn breeze.

Minutes upon minutes, she is gradually beginning to lose the track of time, not daring to glance at the clock even once, surprisingly patient for a change, maybe in the face of feasible fulfillment. And yet, despite the aforementioned calmness, she almost jumps out of her skin as soon as she feels the phone vibrating in her hand, not wasting any time to check the incoming message.

“I’m here,” it reads, which puts a relieved smile on her face, and so she is rather quick to stuff the device back into her purse, then get up with a renewed vigor, walls granting the necessary support.

Pushing the heavy door open, she walks out to the guests’ zone, greeted with all its splendid virtues: loud music and insufferable crowd, which prompts her to circle the dancefloor and so avoid the troublesome encounters. Lucky to get past without any of that, she steps through the reception area, soon to make her way out of the club altogether, cool evening breeze palpable on her face, sweeping the bangs away from her forehead.

Nevertheless, with more pressing matters occupying her mind, Gia is immediate to spot him, leaning by the side of his car – such an unusual sight to behold, without one of his beloved suits, exchanged for the benefit of more casual attire. She blinks a couple of times, as if to ascertain he was not mistaken for another man, having assumed he would be the only person waiting outside, and to be honest she cannot conceal the relieved sigh slipping past her lips as a response to the inviting gesture – a graceful flick of his wrist.

“You look absolutely miserable,” he notes, and even in face of the gruff greeting she almost fails to restrain from hugging the coarse man as a thank-you gift. “C’mere.”

“I owe you,” she declares, a steady exclamation until disturbed by his hands gripping her arms, leaving the woman confused for a moment.

“Yes, you do,” he agrees, frowning as she reciprocates the gesture, lithe fingers wrapping around his biceps; and hell, it is just to prevent her from hitting the pavement, not indicate anything sexual. Why does she have to read every message wrong? “Now get in the car.”

“There’s no need to be unpleasant,” she huffs, visibly annoyed, and so seriously considering the break-away from his not-so-loving grasp.

“I’m being practical not unpleasant,” he rolls his eyes in response, blatant and unashamed, choosing to release her this time, intent to open the door for his female associate, “since I don’t think you’d like to experience yet another encounter with a ground of any kind.”

“Sure, thanks,” she reciprocates, cold as ice – terribly feigned façade, although immediate to get in the car, letting him shut the door for her, then ride away in what seems like a blink for her limited perception.

At least according to what she keeps telling herself.

(Liar.)

* * *

“I’ve left you a glass of water on the bedside table, ‘kay?” He throws a brief glance at her figure lounging on the bed, now clad in a monochromatic tee, suppressing the urge to linger on the exposed skin for a little longer.

It is always hunting him, the flesh.

“Tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” she mutters, voice muffled by the pillows, not caring to throw him a merest glimpse.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you’ve left me a glass of water on the bedside table,” she complies, as if fed up with his never-ending requests oscillating around definite responses, ever the hypocrite.

“Very well,” seemingly pleased with her response, his lips twist in what must be a ghost of a proper smile, although the following words fail to satiate the prominent craving, much to her displeasure. “So sleep tight and make sure you call me as soon as you wake up.”

“Connie?” She calls almost at the spot, having decided to take the matter in her own hands this time, afraid that if he gets up, nothing will be enough to stop him from leaving altogether.

“Connor,” he corrects, voice laced with an audible hint of annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter,” she dismisses, while urging her body up on the elbows to look at him properly for a change, at least according to the etiquette of any decent conversation. “Stay with me tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” he counters, cold as ice once again – a notion enhanced by the neon lights casting shadows on his sharp features.

“Why?”

“’Cause I’ve driven your sorry ass home which is enough of selflessness from me for the following month,” he spats bitterly, intent to rise from his spot on the couch and walk out of the door, leaving her hanging, as if it was the most convenient solution ever imagined.

“Why do you have to be such an ass?” She huffs, disappointed once again – an impression she has learned to associate with him on the course of their encounters, and yet never failing to disturb her, even if only in the emotional sense.

(Helps me to keep the distance.)

“Nothing personal,” he claims instead, not even blinking as the words slip past his lips. “I’ve got errands to run tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe you,” she confronts, now seated properly with her back supported by the wall, as if to grant the superior position in their flimsy quarrel.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he reciprocates, infuriatingly calm all of sudden, shoulders shrugging at her furious expression.

(So easy to rile up sometimes…)

“I-”

“What?” He snaps, head twisting in her direction, eyes meeting with a metaphorical shot of electricity through her body.

“Is it so hard to understand? The fact that I don’t wanna be alone tonight?” She sighs, now in genuine doubt whether he is a human after all, which might as well be linked with the flawed perception, based on her own attitude – blemished. “You know, it’s just… today’s been so messed up and I just… I don’t know...”

“Got anything to confess?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, as if attempting to conceal the previous irritation with some careless swagger.

“I don’t remember much, but I have a feeling that something bad has happened to me,” she begins, having decided to choose her words carefully, since indicating that she is yet another pathetic junkie is the last direction she is aiming towards.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, really,” she refuses to cooperate, instead gets up from the bed and takes those few steps towards the couch to plop down beside him, shortly before resuming with her undefined explanation. “I’m aware of what I was doing throughout the day, but the evening memories are all vague, are… um… all fuzzy, and honestly I have no idea what to think about this.”

“Wanna talk about it?” He questions, seemingly relaxed, if not for the corner of his lip tilting in an unnerving way, proving that said proposal carries some hidden meaning as well.

“Yes,” she nods, since playing by his rules appears to lay beyond the realm of conscious control for now, no idea why.

(Sure.)

(Is that his voice? The fuck is wrong with me?)

“So tell me the truth.”

Speak of the devil.

“It wasn’t all a lie,” she scoffs, and yet cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, focusing on the small reddish stain decorating the coach cushion, wine presumably.

“Sure,” he hums in agreement, soaked in bitter irony, although pleased with the confirmation of his little theory. “But I wanna hear a genuine story this time, or none at all. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she affirms with a telltale burning upon her cheeks that appear to disrupt the defined vision of proper explanation. “So, I wasn’t alone at the Interstellar, I was with someone…”

“With whom exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses once again, shaking her head, as if more to clear out the mind before the key explanation than emphasize the earlier words. “The thing is, he gave me one of those pills he had, and I took it, so that’s why I don’t remember shit.”

“Well, that I’ve already figured out myself,” never the one to disappoint, am I right? “So where’s the catch?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake… I mean doing something like that in his company is a mistake itself, but… I don’t know… I feel so messed up,” she rubs a single hand across her face, hoping it will somehow soothe her, but nothing like this happens, so instead she slips it in his, searching for physical support – a gesture that catches him off guard for a brief moment. His flesh is cool to touch, most of it covered in some bizarre ornaments, black upon white – pale skin that looks almost eerie underneath the neon lights – her gaze following the pattern up his arm, until their eyes lock once again – tangerine and steel.

“It’s fine, I get it,” he affirms with a subtle smile, squeezing her hand in a skillful manner, enough to fulfill said wish without causing unnecessary discomfort.

“That was the first time something like this happened to me though,” she confess, throwing their linked limbs a brief glance, as if to ascertain he is still there, like in flesh and bones, not a passerby from a parallel reality. “It freaked me out.”

“No wonder it did,” he concludes. “Losing control can be one of the worst nightmares.”

“Tell me about it,” she huffs, rolling her eyes – a gesture to top the sarcastic remark with. “I don’t get it. Even though I’m aware of the consequences, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again… Hell, I’m so happy I have an opportunity to die.”

“Now you’re being dramatic,” he chuckles – not the exact reaction she intended to gain from him, but that will have to do for now.

“Aren’t we all?” She cocks a challenging eyebrow at him, her eyes glistening with an ghost of amusement, rather unexpected in such circumstances, which is also a good sign to be honest, the fact he is able to elicit that kind of response from her.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for listening though,” she ignores the little hypocritical attempt, indicating the blatant disagreement.

“Anytime Gia, anytime,” he bestows the woman with a smile for a change, even if fleeting – odd beauty to it all.

As her focus drifts towards the places of unknown, with the pensive silence settling over them, she fails to notice the subtle shift of his position, until their intertwined hands rest on her thigh, eliciting an embarrassingly audible gasp from the female, knuckles teasing the tender flesh as his tendons flex, supposing to prevent the nerves from getting numb.

“What are you expecting from this situation?” He interjects, his gaze focused solely on hers with intensity that has the female almost backing away – soul-drill to crack her attitude in two.

“Feelings are not to be verbalized,” she reciprocates, rolling her eyes at the inappropriate question, and yet opts for going out on a limb, since what goes around comes around, right? “And also, I think there’re more pressing matters to clarify anyway.”

“Such as?” He turns towards her, and now that Gia has his undividable attention, she is ready to put her inconsistent plan into notion.

“Ever wondered what would it be like… to kiss me?”

An exclamation that has him laughing out loud this time – such an unusual occurrence, although not the best sign to be honest – and yet she can work with that, glaring at him once the sound dulls down. With amused glimmers dancing behind his gaze, he appears to be studying her expression, as if in an attempt to read his songbird like an open book he would like her to be, at least for him, and yet, aside from the blatant desire for attention, the rest is buried somewhere deep, deep down, safe from his prying curiosity.

How infuriating.

Nevertheless, he is well aware what to do to gain the essential answer – break the not-so-stern rule, temptation in its purest form, granting the special privilege of seeing her gasp in shock, feign indifference just to throw herself in his arms as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

Sublime. Sadistic. Selfish.

Simply what he needs right now.

“To kiss you? No…” he draws on the syllable – a purring baritone that catches her off guard for a brief moment – not even supposing he is capable of making such sounds. “But to fuck you… now that’s a whole different story…”

(What the hell?)

“But we can just kiss if you prefer the PG-13 version,” he cocks a challenging eyebrow at her, and she takes the bait, all to his pleasure as far as it matches the plan, crafted on the go.

“I don’t-”

“No need to lie to me, Gia,” he interrupts, leaning slightly towards her, just enough to brush her chest, breath palpable on the exposed neck, prickling her skin with goosebumps. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

“Right now? For you to kiss me,” she gulps, failing to pursuit with the seductive tone, muscles twitching as she feels his arm snaking around her waist, still hoping she would maintain the confidence throughout the act.

(With him touching you like that? Sure.)

“A bit boring but if that’s what you want…” he chuckles, breath flaring through her hair, quick to catch the woman off guard again by yanking her onto his lap, one thigh pressed in between her legs.

“You’re such a dick,” she gasps at the unexpected contact, her insides coiling in anticipation to satiate whatever ache has been blossoming inside the artiste the moment he laid his eyes upon her.

“Sure, whatever,” he hums, careless as ever, tickling the side of her neck with feather-like kisses, barely present, like wind whispering patterns on her skin, ready to fly away and forget as the scent of his cologne engulfs her senses. Some twisted part of her wants to witness him break first, give in to the temptation, with dilated pupils and disheveled hair, rake his fingers through the strands, but nothing like this happens. Instead, he keeps teasing her with the gentle touches, tips of his fingers tracing the hollow of her spine, up to the point where she cannot take it anymore – the merciless tormentor – and tilts his head to the side, crashing their lips together.

(So it is on.)

With his arms around her body, he gains the essential motion range, ability to maneuver her upon his lap and of course guide the kiss, but since their plans seem to differ, she attempts to squirm out of the grasp – a matter he is quick to rectify with a harsh nip upon her bottom lip, drawing a surprised squeal from the woman. Even though she is already past the point of wondering whether he would be gentle, whether he would treat her like the finest china or just another frivolous chippie, she has not expected such straightforward approach, at least not from the very beginning, since that is what all the previous partners accustomed her with – the cautious build up leading to more ardent acts, while he appears to be toying with both contradictories, leaving her in anticipation for more.

(Fucking douchebag.)

With Gia gliding through her thoughts, he opts for seizing the opportunity now that her mouth is agape, seemingly beyond realization yet, and sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip, relishing in the tremor that runs down her spine as a response to the caress, palpable underneath his hands. Right when she expects him to dive straight into it, he breaks away, eliciting a disappointed whimper from the singer, a whimper that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants like some immature teenager, intent to switch to her neck and mark the flawless canvass – now simply pale and pure. As if put on repeat, she mimics the earlier sound – a response to the harsh suck – leaning backwards, expecting him to continue the established path further down, and yet he is back at the face level within a matter of seconds, having stained her flesh with a purplish bruise.

“I do mind that a bit, you know,” she huffs, feigning annoyance, even if only in a partial sense, unable to ignore the rapid pulsing of violated skin, akin to a sisterly heart drumming just underneath the surface.

“Didn’t see you complaining earlier,” he hums against her lips, planting a lingering kiss on the plump pout. “If I were in your shoes I’d be happy to have something to eye in the mirror when the lover boy is gone. Which, by the way, reminds me that I gotta be going, now that I’ve clearly overused your hospitality.”

(Like flipping a switch.)

“You gotta what?” She frowns in confusion, squealing in surprise as he slides her off his lap, leaving the female perched on the sofa, beyond agitated.

“Sleep tight and remember to call me in the morning.”

And with that he is gone, slipping through the door like a desert dust carried with the wind, its remains inhabiting every space imaginable, forgotten to be swiped away even while cleaning; since he would be damned if he allowed some brat to flash him her bits, get him all riled up just to back out in the end with whatever pathetic excuse she manages to make up on the go.

So instead he prefers the prevention strategy.

Leave her hanging.

Desperate for any kind of attention.

As for the clever, cunning.

Sadist.

* * *

It is safe to assume that getting used to the thought of her and Connor together took the young singer a fair amount of time, and not only that. What else was required to accomplish such inhuman target must have been the so-called emotional tranquility, not her most spectacular forte to be honest, and furthermore accepting the fact that he wants something more from her, whatever that something is.

The very thing that destroys her?

Might as well be, not that it would surprise Gia, considering her ever-present knack for involving in presumably not the most beneficial relationships, just for the sake of illusionary intimacy justified by equally tentative trust, the need to keep people close, lend them a helping hand in hope they will reciprocate someday. To contribute but never to be rewarded, at least with the desired amount of compassion, always judged through the prism of her performance, the outer surface – tissue-thin epidermis – deprived of human curiosity to dip millimeters underneath, and so discover what else she is willing to offer, beyond the carnal realm.

Cruelty of the

Arbitrary

Resolution.

And yet, she cannot stop thinking about him, imagining how his steps would echo in the corridor leading to her flat, how his hand would rise to press the button, how his feet would tap the ground while waiting for her to meet him by the entrance, far more preoccupying than she would like it to be. Tethering on the edge between two parallel dimensions – corporeality and conceptuality – she barely notices the slicing sound, tearing up the multi-level reverie into a bunch of useless pieces – a ring reverberating in the air.

“Fuck,” she curses, startled by the way too real noise, almost tripping, as she shoots up from the couch, rushing to open the door. She is greeted with the oh so unexpected sight of the ‘lover boy’ – display of vibrant confidence, obscuring the hint of impatience that must be lurking just beneath the surface, once again without any of his posh suits, although not lacking essential elegance, having opted for simple black pants and matching shirt, keeping the top buttons undone, certain she would notice. As per his earlier assumption, her eyes linger on the exposed flesh, also marked by the ink, evoking the wonder about how far it actually reaches, which in turn leads to the much more risqué concept – the fact that tonight she is meant to clarify all doubts.

(Fuck.)

“Ever bother to check the visual?” He leans against the doorway, clearly waiting for any invitation, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at her – an indication she catches sooner than later, allowing him to step inside, and shut the door. “Or is it the perspective of seeing me that distracts you so much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she throws over her shoulder – feigned carelessness – as she follows him to the living area, frowning when he perches atop the mattress instead.

“And depend on random compliments?” He chuckles, fingers stroking the silky sheets, as if to approve their law of existence as a part of her bedding. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Sure you will,” she rolls her eyes, nevertheless allows him to pull her onto the plush surface, their knees bumping as she settles down beside the man.

“What a clever girl you are, truly astounding,” he purrs – the exact same tone he used just a few days ago, and yet so much different – fresh and bold, evoking the insatiable desire for more. “Which reminds me that I’ve brought some wine for us.”

“I’m more of a Tequila girl to be honest,” she bestows him a fleeting smile, thrown off guard by the brush of his fingers upon the exposed thigh, now that her dress has ridden up a little, nevertheless quick to return on the abandoned track of thoughts, “but wine is a classic, so I appreciate it.”

“Sure, Sundance,” he teases, tickling her skin with feather-like strokes – another call-back to their last encounter – although this time her muscles quiver as he skims the golden ring adorning her shapely leg.

“So do you want to drink it now, or-”

“Why the nerves?” He frown, in time with the touch-deprivation, placing the aforementioned bottle by the foot of her bed with a soft click – unsettling since terminal, at least according to personal perception – supreme deceiver. “It’s not like I’ve came here to hurt your or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, reaching out for his hand to thread their fingers together. “But you’re just something… something new to me, and I have no idea what to expect, that’s all.”

“Oh honey,” he smirks, eyes glinting with a lingering promise that leaves her determined to uncover the truth behind his intents, “you’re gonna love this, I promise.”

“Guess I’ll have to take your word for that then,” she shrugs, allowing him to pull her onto his lap once again, calves on either sides of his thighs for a change.

“Guess you’ll have to.”

And with that, their lips collide, sucking a breath from her lungs, and so shaping up the focus – tunnel vision, disability to judge the situation through the prism of a bigger picture, especially when his hand reaches the zipper of her dress, soon to drag it down, exposing the pale flesh to relatively warm air. In spite of that, her skin prickles with goosebumps, failing to contain a violent shiver, as his fingers explore the area in sync with the sensual dance that is their kiss – awakening of the burdened desire, prompt to shove him down, check whether he would crack in response – such an absurd idea, downward foolish, although that she is yet to realize, all in due course.

Puzzled with the sudden shift in her attitude, he peers up to the woman, forehead marked by a frown of confusion, until his gaze follows a path further south, halting once it reaches the disarranged cleavage, tops of her breasts peeking through the fabric. As if with a mind of its own, his hand reaches out to tease the feminine curve, eliciting a gasp from his not-so-stern partner, leaning towards his touch – fleeting scrape of butterfly’s wings upon the heated flesh, meant to enhance the inborn craving for more.

“C’mere,” he purrs, low baritone that sends a vibrant buzz straight to her core, and yet she hesitates to comply, tethering on the pinnacle between elongating the mild, although undoubtedly pleasant, experience and succumbing to the whispering prompts of her instinct, too caught up in the trance to deny the subconscious responses delivered by her body.

Seemingly unable to defer anymore, she leans in to him, sighing as he cups the perky globe in one hand, teasing the protruding nipple with the pads of his fingers, until she gasps his name – a single word, yet potent enough to cloud his eyes with a resemblance of lust, mirroring the fiery hue of her own irises. With the self-control aspect casted aside, she allows him to pull down the fabric and so expose the upper half of her body that he appears to be quite fond of at this point, attempting to ignore both the burning gaze upon bare skin and the growing hardness in between her legs, applying pressure to the dampening folds.

Intimidating to say the least, considering it has been a while since she was placed under such circumstances – a penis owner in her very own bed, grazing the lacy cloth with barely palpable shifts. In the midst of honesty she is ready to admit that the concept of stuffing a rigid member inside has always filled her with some odd kind of nervousness, disgust maybe – determinant of established preference, leaning more to the opposite option.

Even so, she has found herself attracted to the Connor almost at the spot, the exact moment his eyes landed on her figure by the doorway – initiation of the merest physical attraction, meant to blossom into something of entirely different nature, something that scares her more than she cares to admit. Furthermore, the last issue she needs to deal with is unrequired love, considering he is not the man who gives his heart away to each and every person he crosses paths with, unlike some people – hit for the metaphorical nail, precisely why she possesses so much hatred for him, at least a part of her does, while the other is drowning hopelessly, claiming she is a unique being, crafted for him like personal software.

With all that crap in mind, there is still the third aspect to it all – lust-laced craving, the carnal impulse that has her thighs fluttering in anticipation for what he is intent to deliver as his eyes bore into her – burning itch atop the exposed skin.

And that she is dying to find out.

“Mmm… fuck,” she moans, dumbfounded by the unusually intense sensation, rocking her hips to relieve the tension – subconscious response to the lack of direct stimulation – eliciting a throaty chuckle from the man below.

“So soon?” He teases, flinching as she presses closer to him, radiating with natural heat that has him twitching in some animalistic need to dive straight to the main business, even if for a split second. “How about a little variety first?”

“What variety?” She frowns, the movements of her hips halting as his hand abandons her breast, curious, or maybe just anxious, about his intensions.

“Ever been blindfolded?”

The question left to linger in the air for a split second, required for the artiste to comprehend its meaning, garnishing her cheeks with a reddish hue that laces his lips in yet another version of the so-called smug smirk, cocking an anticipatory eyebrow at the female. With her faced marked by the concoction of embarrassment and most importantly lust, she is no more no less a sight to behold, chewing at the corner of her lip in restless wonder – overthinking, burden of humanity. Even though it last for only a few seconds, he perceives it at least as a million

(what a surprising turn of events…),

yet maintains the essential patience to hear Gia’s response as his hands stroke her sides in some mindless form of caress, and so delay the decisive process, maybe without realization. What requires that brief struggle – point of discussion – is her return from the voluptuous trance, featuring the flash of seemingly every possible scenario, frenzied enough to appear as embarrassing, she shakes her head no – brisk denial – still leaving the matter pending.

“Wanna try it out tonight?” He proposes, to which she nods for a change, feverishly enough to fuel the cocky smirk upon his features – a concoction of lust and amusement. “Say it.”

“Yes, I wanna try out tonight,” she complies, without hesitation this time, as if he managed to strike some cord deep within, a cord that has her thighs twitching in search for the relief-granting friction.

(Fuck… that’s too much.)

“Very well then,” his gaze adverts to the side, indicating Gia to follow the established direction, settling once it reaches the flimsy gown hanging on the door of her wardrobe. “Give me that silky ribbon from your robe.”

Without further ado, she rises from the well-accustomed-with spot, and with a few, rather wobbly, steps, snatches the aforementioned item from the hanger, quick to pass it to him, indifferent whether it will reach its destination as smoothly as desired. In spite of that, he catches the belt with distinctive grace, twirling it in between his fingers for a brief moment, up to the point of fatal distraction – Gia discarding her dress to the side, allowing him to steal a glance of red lace covering the place of his interest, before she joins him on the bed, settled upon his lap once again.

“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, failing to conceal the breathy note marring the flawlessly composed voice – a nuance that appears to slip past her attention, without a doubt on his benefit, excited to follow his request, shivering at the first brush of silk over her skin, although not meant to relish the sensation for a longer while, since he is quick to tie it at the back of her head and so obscure the vision.

Pitch black.

“Lie down,” he bestows Gia with a concise order, having deprived her from the steady grip, hands now flying to grasp his shoulders, afraid to lose balance now that she is blind.

“How about a little help?” She huffs with a lingering hint of annoyance marring her voice, prominent enough to reach the picky ears of her paranoid manager. “I don’t fancy slamming my head in the wall, you know.”

“Don’t use that tone on me,” he snaps – an exclamation laced with a tethering promise, indicating that he is indeed a man of little tolerance to any form of misbehavior, which is not much of surprise to be honest, especially when considered through the prism of what she has witnessed him perform on the strictly professional ground.

“Or what?” She taunts, too blind, in the metaphorical sense of course, to realize how ridiculous she appears to him at the moment, pawing at his shoulders as the self-preservation instinct fully kicks in, working against her benefit, at least when it comes to narrow extension, yet to reach the verbal realm.

Which is exactly what elicits a mocking chuckle from the male, followed by an equally derisive comment, more than aware how to get under her skin. “Don’t tempt me, Sundance.”

“Like you wouldn’t want it,” she rolls her eyes, even though he is unable to see through the silky ribbon, letting out another vexed huff, cut short by the sudden flip that has her squealing in surprise, all against the conscious will. Some part of her finds such capacity rather unsettling, precisely how he can manhandle the dainty body in any desired position, while the other – dug out of the subliminal depth – relishes the sensation of physical submission, shivering in anticipation for more.

Luckily, that he is able to deliver, at least according to what she is hoping for, although the following action leaves her puzzled and most importantly alone on the mattress, almost prompting to remove the fabric in order to check why he has abandoned her. However, before she settles on any specific choice, she hears him rummaging through the bed drawer in search for hell knows what, and even though she is probably supposed to cut such liberties short, the woman remains still, well-aware of what he is looking for in there and yet caught in denial.

“If that’s what I think it is...” she begins, unable to conceal the subtle hint of trepidation within her voice, clearly excited to verify the inkling.

“What? This?” He pokes her in the side with the not-so-foreign object, buzzling to life in his palm, eliciting a shocked squeak from the female, much to his amusement. “Knew a lonely lady like you would have one.”

“I’m not-”

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums as if in some derisive form of agreement, lacking in pity but making up with condescension, now seated beside the partner, evident in the teasing brush of his pants’ fabric against her thigh. “But if you’re denying it so fiercely… then maybe I should stop?”

“No, I-”

“Just say it,” he prompts, tracing the golden ring encircling her thigh, which sends a resonating tingle all the way to her throbbing nipples. “Say that you want it, and it’ll be all yours.”

“I want you to touch me,” she states, feigning indifference, if not for the subtle hint of trepidation betraying her in the times of trial, which is no more no less than a hyperbole, but still – perception is delusive.

“Then beg,” he reciprocates, smirking as she twitches under his touch, subconsciously drawing her legs further apart – an instinctual invitation.

“But you said-”

“I know what I said,” he interrupts – a manner that elicits an audible huff from the dependent woman, supposed as a provocation, but at this point he is too amused to let such a silly misbehavior unhinge him. “So now I wanna hear you out for a change.”

“Please?” She asks – blunt and accusatory.

“Oh c’mon,” he frowns, undoubtedly displeased with her lack of dedication to the prior request – another polished façade he tends to display when needed. “You’re not even trying.”

To that, she has no response, at least throughout the course of several dozen seconds, required to verify the so-called balance of burdens and benefits, all while attempting to ignore the teasing brushes atop her exposed skin. She has never experienced anything like this – being so responsive to any form of touch, no matter how gentle, how fleeting, casted upon her flesh akin to some grotesque shadow – substitute of proper caress – which might as well be the real reason for cracking her resolve.

“Please, I need you to touch me so badly,” she strives for the most docile version of her tone, not used to such deal of resistance from the second participator, puzzled with the amount of self-control he has been displaying throughout their encounter. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?”

(Asshole.)

“No,” she sighs, beyond impatient, desperate to alleviate the tension blossoming between her legs, retreating the merest ability to focus, as if all pitiful remains of poorly constructed concentration have been thrown out of the window.

(Entropic fallout, wasn’t it?)

(Huh?)

All too soon, in one precisely brisk maneuver, he is hovering over her form, surrounding the female with natural body heat, as his lips trail butterfly kisses over the tender flesh of her neck – a gesture she would consider sweet under any other circumstances, albeit this time convinced that he is intent to transfer it into yet another merciless act. With the ability to contain her reflexes long gone, now that she is receiving any physical attention, she arches towards him, failing to contain a breathless gasp slipping past her lips as a response to his gesture – tracing the outline of her breast, as if to draw a spiral pattern to the middle – a fiery brand upon the sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” she squeals, synchronized with the harsh nipple pinch, eliciting an amused chuckle from the arrogant lover who is now preoccupied with stroking a line down her stomach, tensed with the anticipation for the coming dive.

“Mmm… fuck…” he groans into her ear – billowing puff of breath – heat over heat – as his fingers skim the lace-covered folds, greeted by a soaking amount of wetness that speaks to the most primal parts of his brain, that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants, wishing to launch for the simplest cut-to-the-chase, even if for a brief moment. “That excited already?”

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, pushing her hips up in an attempt to meet the hand hovering just above the delicate material – merciless denial that has her muscles twitching in anticipation, enhanced by the sensory deprivation, lack of vision that forces her to ponder upon each and every outcome. “Please, I need- uh, f-fuck…”

A mere plea, uttered in the state of lust-laced deliriousness, disability to comprehend what is happening around her, caught off guard by the following action – a dive straight to the main point of interest, no more excess teasing, fooling around with the fleeting touches that set her skin aflame, wordlessly begging him to pursue. Instead, he replaced the previous tickling with firm pressure, smirking as her hips buck in response, determined to fulfill the innate craving for more direct stimulation, not separated by the thin lace – flimsy barrier that has risen to a rank of an ultimate obstacle, obviously thicker than she would like it to be.

“Take them off, please,” she whines, all too familiar with the burning frustration, laced into her being, taking a form of some grotesque thread, stinging like a sharp needle, crying to be removed.

“Seems like you’ve been demanding a lot lately, don’t you think?” He taunts, almost back to the smooth baritone if not for the lingering hint of restrain hiding behind his voice, the smoky gaze he has been casting upon her exposed body for quite a while, perceivable on the intuitive aspect alone.

“No, please,” she cries in despair as his fingers abandon their previous spot, beyond desperate to complete the process, hands reaching to grasp him, but he evades the clumsy clutches, letting out an amused chuckle at the frenzied attempt.

“Relax,” he purrs into her ear – a sound that sends a resonating shiver down her spine, which paired with the abrupt nip delivered on the tender earlobe almost has her moaning out loud, “I’m far from done with you yet,” an exclamation meant to elicit another violent shiver, accompanied by his throaty laugh. “But before we move on, any specific requests you have in mind?”

“No, just touch me,” she whines, too unhinged to bother with general appearance, clenching her thighs to alleviate the ache, in foolish hopes it will somehow slip past his attention.

(Sure.)

“How exactly?” He continues, quick to grasp the woman by the shapely muscle and draw her legs apart, all for the purpose of witnessing Gia trembling in frustration.

“However you want,” she reciprocates, already past the point of bothering to conceal her responses – polar opposite to the moderate man beside her, which might as well be yet another foolish assumption, if missing out the lustful glint in his eyes, silvery hue that has transferred into one of these restless storms – dark and predatory.

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums – a conclusion laced by a lingering hint, somehow sinister, indescribable with the human vocabulary, probably unsettling in the eyes of the young artiste – a final warning – but she is not in the mood to dwell on any underlying doubts, meant to be clarified as soon as he presses the vibrating bullet to her clit, forcing a choked moan from the equally astonished female.

“Fuck,” she gasps as another incomprehensible wave rocks through her body, muscles twitching in response to the increasing pressure, once again dying to get rid of the flimsy barrier, “off, please.”

“Lift your hips,” he instructs, almost at the spot, maybe fed up with drawing the inevitable as well, to which she complies, allowing him to slide the lacy panties down her legs, then approximately toss them aside.

Settled beside his lover again, evident in the heated exhales palpable upon her cheek, he resumes the initiated activity, dragging the buzzling bullet up her folds to circle the swollen nub, eliciting another reedy squeal from the squirming partner, which in turn has him wondering whether it is her casual reaction to such form of caress – inability to remain still, shifting from side to side as if caught in some frenzied state of lust. Therefore, to facilitate the process, he opts for an alternative position, tugging Gia in between his legs, back to the firm chest, now able to hold the woman more steadily with an open palm sprawling across her abdomen. Even if that simple, the act affects him more than he cares to acknowledge, at least when attempting to match the distinctive candor, marveling at how lightweight she is – penchant for dainty women in general – which combined with the soft moans slipping past her lips has him twitching against the swell of her ass.

Despite the thick curtain of lust clouding her mind, she can feel him perfectly through the thin layer of clothing, more than nervous to acquaint the full length, considering there is barely anything appealing about said part of male anatomy. Furthermore, her attitude leans more to the category of ‘intimidated’ than ‘excited’, while pondering upon the possible outcome, someway obliged to convert it into ‘inevitable’ – a trait that tends to lead people on the baneful avenue.

As well as concealing the truth.

“Enjoying yourself?” He mutters into her ear all of sudden, dragging the woman back to the contemporary realm, at least as much as the carnal aspect allows to, mind foggy with desire, relishing the temporal docility that she is displaying, more vulnerable than ever.

Seemingly not in the mood to oppose, she hums in affirmation, twitching as her body surges with the approaching wave of ecstasy, surprisingly close by now, considering how little physical attention she has received on the course of their encounter, maybe due to visual deprivation as for the enhancing factor. With the heightened sense of touch, the low vibrations on her clit feel divine, otherworldly even, as a part of her wishes to tether on such stage for blissful eternity, explore the unknown realm at leisured pace.

Unfortunately, it turns out that she will not be the judge of that, since he removes the toy, not quite certain when exactly, since the ability to evaluate the passing time has abandoned Gia as soon as he pressed the bullet to her clit. As if caught in some tunnel-vision state of lust, she attempts to reach out for him, unfortunate to slash through the thin air, which has her groaning in frustration, and despite more than evident amusement, he soothes her with a warm palm on her thigh and a whispering promise, dedication that causes her to choke on own spit, head snatching in his direction, more than certain that she must have misheard him.

“What did you say?”

“I said I wanted to taste you,” he repeats, the same purring baritone as before reverberating in her ear, sending a violent shiver down her spine – a throbbing buzz straight to her clit. “What? Man’s never gone down on you?”

“Man? No,” she counters, still in genuine shock due to the least expected proposition, especially from the lips of the most arrogant, selfish bastard she has ever encountered, opting to dismiss all sensible doubts, when considered through the prism of his potential intentions, certainly not featuring the direct aim for climax. “But please do go on, I’m interested.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” he reciprocates, a sarcastic comment that somehow slips past her attention, most likely because she chooses to ignore it – negative for picky with more pressing matters occupying her mind.

“Can I get rid of the blindfold first?” She verbalizes what is germane, hands already reaching up to untie the knot, but he halts her with a disapproving click of his tongue, not intent to expand it to the physical realm, by grasping her wrists for instance.

“I don’t know, can you?” He teases, eliciting a frustrated huff from the female, as her hands fall to the chest, waiting for his approval, which pleases him more than she suspects, and so prompts to let it loose with a negligent tug.

Blinding light.

“Fuck,” she gasps, shielding her eyes from the city neons illuminating her face, bright and aggressive, marring the vision with ghoulish spots – temporal disability, excluded from the flawless world, shoved away as soon as it bumps into any of its dwellers, wandering in search of an ultimate place.

Chaos.

Parallel with humanity?

(Don’t be ridiculous.)

Smart enough to wait until it subsided, she adjusts their position, now chest to chest with Connor, as her sight shifts towards him, taking in the contours of his face, now accentuated by the artificial light, caught on the glimmering hint of chrome decorating his cheekbones – sharp and unyielding. Giving as good as he gets, his eyes bore into her façade – resemblance of a steel tool, corresponding with the icy shade, now reflecting the female’s image – orchid hair and tangerine irises, almost auburn in the dim illumination. There is something devilish about her, the intimate setting she is aiming for, the dainty hands braced on his chest, the affection in her gaze, prominent enough to unsettle the steady man, even if subdued by the membrane of lust, screaming warning to accelerate the process.

“Lie down,” he prompts, palms on the either sides of her hips as if to ensure she would move, “or else I might think you’ve changed your mind about this.”

“Sure,” she purrs, lips inches away from his, but still, the abrupt closure catches him off guard – firm pressure applied on the tender flesh – pouring every ounce of the bottled-up emotion into the kiss as for the vulnerable creature she is, meant to shatter in his callous grip, knowing it will be too intricate to comprehend if transferred into words. He lets her go with offbeat reluctance – a hint that she is able to catch, detached from his usual composure, topping it up with yet another fleeting peck, before she actually rolls to the side, nestling in the silky sheets – indication to pursue.

(Control-wrecking.)

With her spread out like this, prolonging the inevitable appears as beyond pointless, foolish dreams of a self-centered man with reliable composure, superior when juxtaposed with the pitiful rest, and yet succumbing to the carnal desire – spirited among the spineless, spineless among the spirited – civilized paradox. All meaningless in face of the feminine creature, lying on the velvety fabric, one knee bent, anticipating his touch, craving the flattery if only in the tactile realm, the synthetic hue of her irises now obscured by the eyelids – a detail at odds with his tastes and so a matter that he is quick to rectify with a stern grip upon her chin, eliciting a discontented whine from the young artiste.

“Eyes on me,” he bids, voice laced with proficiently concealed impatience, if not for the lingering hint marring the quintessential presentation – evidence of the lustful longing within his gaze, within the manner it outlines her curves, following up to the partly confused façade.

“I thought you-”

“Then you were wrong,” he interrupts, almost trespassing the point of autocracy that has her laughing out loud, albeit still capable of transferring it into a mere shadow of a proper smile – a nuance not meant to evade his perception, heightened by an animalistic instinct. “Don’t tempt me to wipe that smirk off.”

“What?”

Without bothering to clarify the four-letter query, as per usual, he retreats to the initial intention, determined to fulfill the shared craving – polar opposites that mingle into one, overlapping both perspectives – a prelude to the everlasting doubt:

To give or to receive?

(That is the question.)

In consideration with the dualistic lack of competence to put it to an end, and yet each time the occasion arises, every average scum would ask about interlocutor’s preference.

It must be the people who are damaged,

Shattered akin to a splinter of glass.

(Give me a fucking break.)

“Connie?” She frowns in confusion, clearly the one to be left hanging this time, albeit not only at loss in such realm – an exclamation shattering his reverie, not that it bothers him much under current circumstances.

Hence, being brought up to a point of boiling impatience, he opts for the simple cut-to-the-chase move and so settles in between her legs, pried apart with the telltale pressure of his hands applied onto the tender insides. Unable to ignore the tingling of her thighs, now grasped in his palms – slim and dainty in comparison, which evokes that odd concoction of contradictions – anxious but

(to the point of)

aroused, almost trembling with excitement for what is about to come.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Practically keening due to the freshly occurred friction, fleshy and tangible on the swollen folds, drawing a throaty moan from the woman – not the most appealing sound she could have uttered, but still, there is always a room for improvement, she thinks bitterly – caricaturistic resemblance of Connor’s notions. Little does she know, he is far from displeased, now that his hands are clasped around her thighs, and the tongue is tracing the feminine outline with deliciously firm strokes, having opted out of the warm-up, considered nonsensical after all prior actions.

In spite of the so-called burning frustration, each stroke is languid, leisure, as if it was his elementary intention to memorize the shape through such manner, but at the same time prevent from overwhelming her on the very first shot. That, paired with the poor concentration, limited to the heady flavor occupying his mouth, has his eyes adverting to the side, lids heavy with the decadent intoxication, mind much drowsier than before, so instead of maintaining the direct contact, he allows them to fall shut, even if for a mere moment.

Deprived of the visual stimulus, the object of main focus shifts to the taste-related factor, linked with a nuance that he has always perceived as interesting – each time it manages to satiate the fussy palate, which might as well be a direct result of pheromones’ presence – a bitter reminder that even below all the meticulously crafted layers lays yet another insignificant human, succumbing to the innate whim. A human barely able to maintain the substantial concentration with the rhythmical pumping of blood audible in his ears and an evidence of ardent lust crawling down his neck, beyond positive that his skin is hot to touch now, matching the tender flesh that is clutched in his hand, hard enough to bruise, he somehow manages to keep the pace, occasionally sucking at the swollen nub, intent to get as much from her as possible.

“Fuck, more,” she whines, urgency evident in her voice, shifting beneath the unyielding man, clenching around merciless nothing, “I need more.”

(There it is. More.)

“Already?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the frustrated vocalist, infuriatingly dapper in its condescension, tickling her with a mere stroke of his tongue upon the heated folds.

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, twitching due to the moderate caress, up to consider locking his head in between her thighs, even if for a split second, required to brace for the simplest of requests, “please.”

“And why is that?” He reciprocates in a teasing manner, now halting his movements all together to eye Gia with the signature intensity, still nested in the exact same spot. “Better not disappoint me with the answer, Sundance.”

“You’re such a-” she begins, soon interrupted by a cruel nip delivered right to the tender flesh of her folds – brisk, and so mind-clearing, but not harsh enough to hurt severely, and yet she cannot bother to hold back the boiling curse. “Ah- fuck you,” she spats, clearly not in the mood for any excess teasing, fed up with his never-ending talk, queries uttered in the most unfortunate moments, catching her in that peculiar state of delirious fogginess, as if intent to receive the most feverish answer.

“Well, I don’t see that coming,” he baits, still amused with each rising attempt to dethrone him from the superior position, feigning obstinacy to crack his resolve, check whether she has the capacity to break him – foolish pursuit of a permanent idealist. “Although I appreciate the sentiment.”

“What?”

“So,” he ignores the confused exclamation once again, determined to gain the desired answer from the woman, itching with impatience, enhanced by the lingering aftertaste upon his tongue. “Still so keen on disappointing me?”

“No, please,” she practically whines, dreaming about locking her legs to ease the ardent crave for friction. “It hurts.”

“I know it does,” he reciprocates, almost getting the hair-thin thread of longanimity to snap, thanks to the signature smooth swagger, especially when his eyes shift to the heaving breasts, pulsing with unresolved tension.

“Then ease me,” she suggests, not so demanding despite the straightforward nature of prior verbalization, laced with a prominent hint of desperation, impossible to be omitted. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?” He flashes her a pitiful smile, albeit this time she does not bother to formulate any retort, already shoved past the point of carnal urge, with tunnel vision drifting the hopeless individual towards her final destination – inevitable wreckage. To be honest, he must have lacked the corporeal form to omit all of these: how she is practically dripping on his tongue, quivering under the precise manners he glides her with, wave after wave, climbing higher and higher, up to the point where the rhythmical pulsing becomes tactile on the moist muscle. He is well aware of how little it would take to unravel the dumbfounded artist – three, maybe five sucks if he decides to embrace the latent potential for generosity – and yet the sadistic component wants to witness the scorching heap of frustration, spatting and cursing him to the nth degree just to get back on track with begging, merely a brief moment later.

(What a merciful man I am.)

(Merciful, huh? Now prove it.)

Almost sobbing in relief when the first tide rocks through her tingling body, she arches off the bed, damned if these were not stars she was seeing – nova, luminous explosion, blacking out the vision for a split second, yet enough to miss the hubristic glint in his eyes, relishing in the way her thighs quiver on both sides of his head. Allowing Gia to ride out the aftershocks, he bestows her with a milder alternative, barely skimming past the abused flesh, until she tugs him away by the hair, denying the access altogether, now that she is too sensitive to continue.

“That was nice,” she mutters, glancing at the rising man whose hands are now preoccupied with unbuttoning the burgundy shirt, “thanks.”

“Your ’nice’ is a fatal understatement, don’t you think?” He retorts, bitter once deprived of the physical connection, although the unravelling sight acts as enough of a distraction from the sour timbre, right at the gates of finding out about the authentic expanse of his tattoos.

“Maybe…” she drags on the syllable, drowsiness evident in the leisure mannerism, allowing her eyelids to fall shut for a longer moment, as if positive the resting interval between the tandem of acts is more than essential, “I don’t know…”

Conditional.

Blindness.

Once again without the visual stimulus, as if filtrating the faint shuffling in the background, her focus drifts towards more unnerving matters, towards how bizarre it will be to experience the subsequent intercourse in the manly way after those few years, now that she is a mere step from clarifying the preposterous doubts. Although she is certain he has no intentions in making her feel uncomfortable, out of place, as if she belonged elsewhere, as if she was incapable of transferring their time together into an enjoyable record for both of them – insecurity laced in between the strings of her being – she still hesitates, tethers on the pinnacle determining the predictive outcome.

(Now that is absurd.)

“C’mere,” he prompts, and if not for the purring baritone – a note that she has had a fair amount of time to get accustomed with – gentle tug of a dainty hand, she would remain trapped in the conceptual dimension. Instead, he settles Gia on his lap, eliciting a choked gasp from the artiste once she discovers the blunt lack of any form of clothing, all sturdy flesh below her petite form, eyes drifting to the stygian patterns marring the pale skin.

Vessel for conspectus.

Corporeal form.

Flattery of artistry.

Asseveration of one’s mindset.

Mysterious understatement.

“What does it mean for you?” She inquiries – a doubt popping out of blue, laced with apprehension of discovering the possible truth lurking behind his polished façade, emerging to the surface as a form of carnal avidity he eyes her with – a man starved, restive due to the intentional delay. “Sex.”

“Sex, huh?” He smirks – a ravenous glint enlightening his countenance. “Sex means power.”

(At least he is frank.)

(Sometimes, I feel sorry for him.)

“No, I mean this,” she gesticulates, pointing at each of them, albeit missing the amused tilt of his lips as a response to the untimed query, “you and me.”

“Entropy,” he bestows her with yet another evasive answer, now that he is so keen on pursuing further for a change, hands taking a steady grip on either sides of her waist, before he leans in for a kiss, meant to prevent the innocent doubt from blossoming into a full-blown sparring match – an overflow of endless qualms. In spite of her, rather disputable, judgment, she returns the caress, scooting closer to him – blatant euphemism since her breast are practically mashed against his chest, with frenzied heartbeat resonating through the ribcage.

Crescendo.

Pinnacle where one is deprived of the human ability to perceive reality as a compound of coherent particles, instead gradually declines into a place where most aspects acquire a diametrical form – indiscriminate and so considered unimportant through the prism of future reference. Analogy parallel to her current state, each and every worry evaporating in the night’s breeze, as his lips brush – no – claim the lonesome territory, hands trace the outline of her hips – reminder of the primordial intention – a mere breath away from flipping Gia on the back to clasp her hands above the head and… the rest speaks for itself.

(Better show than tell.)

And so, in order to keep up with the rush of concepts clouding his perception, he fulfills the aforementioned, eliciting an outraged gasp from the surprised female, as soon as she comprehends the abrupt reposition. Deciding to test the waters, she tugs at the makeshift binding, expecting him to tighten the grasp, but nothing like this happens, as if he managed to outrun her suppositions, and while it is still relatively firm, the pressure remains unchanged.

Queer.

Deep in her personal probe, she fails to notice his progressing movements, until he nudges her legs apart, right at the threshold of sliding in, twitching against the slender thigh in excitement. Due to the interval dividing the last and tonight’s encounter, rather generous in length, she acquires that peculiar like-a-virgin attitude, tensed and nervous, valuating the possible amount of discomfort, parallel to the potency of pain, almost blocking the way when he prods at her entrance, presumably by accident considering the following statement.

“You don’t have to impress me, okay? Just relax.”

Probably his first and only display of sweetness she would ever witness.

(Enjoy while it lasts.)

Which is exactly what she opts for, having taken a deep breath, hoping it will calm her rapid heartbeat – not only a futile but also naive attempt – prelude to the tearing entrée that forces a choked whine from her constricted throat, that has the hybrid nails biting crescent shapes into the heel of her palm. Although partly drowned by the feminine whimper, he utters his own groan – evidence of layered frustration, eased by the surrounding tightness, even if for a brief moment – while a part of him struggles to maintain still instead of nailing her to the mattress, not so metaphorically anymore.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth, chest heaving with each uneven breath, and what he suspects must have extended to hours and hours of malevolent interlude, in reality requires less than a minute to feel the woman shift below, hips bucking in form of a silent plea.

And who is he to deny her that?

Having opted for such choice, he rocks into her, at this peculiar state of awareness when it comes to each scrape, each flutter, each alternative in pressure against the throbbing member that forces a barely audible gasp from the preoccupied male. Always so self-contained, so persistent, so… composed, and yet she has managed to shatter the inch-thick pane with the merest nuances – a blemish of honor – which disturbs him more than he cares to admit.

In a heap of developing necessity to shove the thought aside, he picks up the pace, forcing his eyelids open to observe the variety of reactions manifesting themselves on her face, too monotonous for his own liking, as if something was preventing the artiste from enjoying their encounter, as if a part of her was immune to the charms he used to enchant a number of lovers throughout the years. Even though she is, indeed, responding, uttering a soft mewl here and there, for some reasons each time he attempts to add his duos, the equalization grants him with an answer of three, as if a single particle was missing, which infuriates him even more than the stain once did.

Matter laid in his hands.

Before she gets a chance to take a grasp on what is happening, he leaves her lying cold by his side, even if only in a metaphorical sense, struggling to relocate in the changing settings, if the abrupt emptiness counts as one, beyond confused and so determined to express her immerse displeasure with the recent turn of events. While he however, less than keen on hearing whatever complains she dares to throw at him, shushes her in the most brusque way possible, at least if considering it through the prism of abusing the physical superiority

(is this even the right expression?),

by tugging her over his lap once again, albeit this time getting Gia to face the window, which has her frowning in confusion, all before he somehow situates himself inside once again, eliciting a throaty moan from the woman, surprisingly husky in contrast with the usual honeyed tune.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, clenching around him, positively caught off guard due to the fresh angle, squirming as she tests the waters – an action that has him hissing in discomfort, full of hatred towards the sensation that comes with being teased.

“Glad to hear that,” he mutters into her hair, breath tickling the tender skin below her ear. “Now grind your hips.”

Puzzled with the sudden shift in his attitude – giving up the control from before, at least as an initial impression – a matter of delusional deception – she halts instead of complying, which prompts him reiterate.

“C’mon, don’t make me repeat myself,” he purrs into her ear, lips stroking the sensitive flesh as he speaks, intent to discover what pace does the trick for the young artiste in his arms, and with that thought in mind, he allows himself to sigh as soon as she begins to move. Despite being well aware it might not be the most convenient position to lead, he intends to find out about the unspoken preference – reason of their misconception – and much to his surprise, she seems to enjoy whatever is happening between them now, having settled for the slower pace.

Soft and tender.

“Touch me, please,” she whines, grasping him by the arm in order to direct it in between her legs, when all off sudden, instead of fulfilling her wish straight away, he grasps her by the hips, putting the leisure interlude to an end, replaced by his own thrusts, meant to elicit that husky moan once again. Therefore, he slips his hand right where she wanted it merely a moment ago, drawing a honeyed mewl instead as it circles her clit, teasing the swollen nub with the same languid pace that almost had him tremble in frustration before, dying to witness the myriad of responses lying in her capacity.

“How does it feel?” he rasps, voice hoarser than ever before, clouded with a dense fog of lust, as if indicating the non-acceptance of disobedience in any form. “Tell me.”

“So good… so…” she begins, struggling to find the right words, the bodily influence over her mind more than evident under the current circumstances, “so… relieving… just keep going, please. ”

In spite of the hackneyed cliché, the sentence itself creates a binding influence over the male, combined with the layer cake of various frustrations, filled with piling impatience, and so enough to prompt him to fulfill the wish straightaway. Ergo, he increases the intensity of both aspects, which has her writhing atop him, squirming and whining for release, mouth agape and back arched, soaked in the neon glow – foggy reflection in the glass pane, branded underneath his eyelids for plenty of nights in the future.

Carnal fixation.

Who twists her neck to steal a kiss, bumping their noses together, dying to taste him once again before the final climax – elsewise pleonasm – fluttering around his girth as a prelude for what is inevitable, beyond anticipated, while he appears as perfectly capable of sensing her need, and so returns the caress. Albeit this time, it is safe to assume he is not just toying with her anymore, now that he is creeping closer and closer to the personal pinnacle, thighs twitching as she clenches around him to the point of vice-tight, almost preventing any movement, which might as well be a matter of hyperbolizing, but still, he would never allow it to end prematurely.

(A blemish of honor, was it?)

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps, with the self-control aspect running thin, evident in the loss of rhythm, perceptible even if not absolute.

“I- ah-” she gasps after a particularly rough thrust, interrupting whatever train of thoughts she has been gliding through, rewarded with a sharp nip on the side of her neck.

“Tell me,” he reiterates – gravelly groan that sends a tremor down her spine – rubbing the sensitive nub in firm circles, up to the point where she cannot help but buck against his hand, right at the cusp of bliss, ready to fall.

“I want this, plea-ease,” she whines, stuttering at the end, voiced laced with sheer desperation, dying for the final push.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Mouth agape in a silent scream bubbling inside her constricted throat, she arches into a telltale bow, head falling onto his shoulder, as she flutters around him – rhythmical pulsing that pushes him over the edge, muscles twitching below. Never had she allowed a man to use her like that, and while the artiste was once positive it must be the single most distasting experience of one’s life, she finds herself relishing in the inglorious sensation, trembling as the wave of aftershocks rocks through her limp frame.

(Fucking hell.)

(Fucking hell.)

Tangled on the silky sheets and coming down from their heights, neither of them dare to exchange a word, and so break the comfortable silence – tranquility emerging from the storm – instead bask in the afterglow, with him nuzzling her hair, seemingly in a moment of weakness, lacking the previous rapture. As if unable to foresee the inevitable, she utters a whine of protest the moment he pulls out from her body, having settled the partner aside once he collapses onto the mattress, fatigue evident in his movements, and yet allows her to curl into his side, even intertwine their fingers.

Interesting.

What else might be considered in such terms is the contrast, beyond stark, both in color and texture – creamy and tender juxtaposed with the inky pattern, flesh that is rough in to touch, indicating he must have been working in an entirely different field from the current corporative line – a layover on the methodical path to the ornament itself. Examining the small tattoos drawn over their length, she finds the disability to identify what has been depicted on his skin in such a dim lightening a tad bit infuriating, although not mood-defining, which would be rather odd elsewise – getting emotional over some minuscule detail.

(Hypocrite.)

“Did they hurt?” She asks, breaking the drowsy lull that has settled over them, a question that prevents him from dozing off for now, which might turn out for the better in the nearby future, since he is not quite fond of random modification in the hygiene routine.

“No,” he bestows her with a dismissive answer, once again and much to her annoyance if under any other circumstances, certainly not when she is lying half-asleep beside another warm body. “Mind if I use your shower?”

“No,” she mimics his most recent answer, nevertheless positive when it comes to the veracity of said statement.

What a terrible misconception.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – peaceful if not for that peculiar inkling lingering in the back of his mind, as if to indicate some ominous turnabout he opposes to discover. Pairing it up with one of the most loathed traits – attempting to fool himself – does nothing to alleviate the situation, instead enhances the disquietude that has been occupying his soul for quite a while, which in turn brings the anticipation of any possible denouement to the light, craving for certainty rather than a bunch of arising assumptions, even if it would lead to a minacious discovery.

Paradox.

Imminent downfall.

But a lesson from the most experienced teacher.

Life.

Life that has managed to educate him on a carnival realm, including even the least expected plot twists, the most obnoxious outcomes, begging for correction, a correction beyond qualifications, evoking the ardent embarrassment that follows in the wake of incapacity.

Although this time what initiates the process is an act.

An act so simple.

Nearly offensive.

A telephone.

No.

Let’s try that again.

It all starts out with a telephone from an old pal.

“Buenas noches, Connor,” he greets with a throaty tune that the manager has almost brought himself to forget – a road paved with good intentions. “Long time no see, eh?”

“Yes, most certainly,” he reciprocates, albeit surprisingly brisk to block the visual, all while striving for a note as calm as possible, burying all worries underneath the surface, at least for now – flawlessly polished façade.

“Oh c’mon, why so formal?” He whinges, smirk audible in his voice. “We haven’t talked for how long? Seven? Eight years?”

“Does it matter?” He shrugs, feigning indifference – desperate attempt of a drowning man. “It’s work related anyway.”

“Still concrete, I like this,” he remarks – deceptive tease.

“Flattery is useless,” he counters, tone harsh akin to a dagger – a reminiscence from the old times. “Unless, of course, you’re calling ‘cause you’re bored to shit and have no one to fuck. But I believe that’s not the case, now is it?”

“Sadly no,” he sighs, as if truly upset. “I have a wife now, so you know…”

“Oh and that’s stopping you? Fuck…” he rolls his eyes in mock disbelief – an involuntary response to the smoky tone. “But okay, let’s assume it does; then what’s the real issue, where’s the fucking catch?”

“You see people change-”

“And you believe in it? An old dog like you?” He interrupts – a retort followed by an incredulous chuckle. “Give me a fucking break.”

“Yes, I do believe it now,” he counters, voice laced with a hint of annoyance. “You see, I don’t like people within my scope, what’s mine stay mine. And who would understand it better than you, am I right?”

He only hums in approval.

“Very well,” he must be smiling now, not that he would want to see anything of that sort, but still, it disturbs him more than he cares to admit – a malevolent omen. “So I want you to do something for me, you know, for that time in New Mexico. I hope it rings a bell.”

“Yes, most certainly,” he mimics the prior answer, which has the man huffing in annoyance, although not interrupt his train of thoughts, if so enhance the need to spill the tea now that he has been given a chance.

Disastrous decision?

Well again, not really.

“Still remember how to kill?”

How many words?

Five?

Five words to utter the contrasting sentence, indicate the earth-shattering proposition.

Five words to send him straight to hell.

In business class.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Do you have the slightest idea what the fuck are you talking about?” He responds after good three minutes – a fleeting expanse of time, slipping out of attention’s grasp, unnoticed by the stern man – voice marred with helpless wrath. “I won’t get involved in any of your shady little businesses.”

“And why is that?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow at the empty screen, wishing Connor could see this – a victory amongst the vicious.

“Fuck you,” he spats, hands twitching in immerse rage. “Just- fuck you!”

“Better not piss me off, chico, ‘kay?” He interjects – an exclamation laced with blossoming annoyance now that his interlocutor has allowed himself for far too many liberties. “I’m nice, ‘cause we’re friends, but I won’t be nice if you piss me off, está claro?”

“Can’t you hire anyone else?” An attempt of discussion? Really? Downright pitiable. “I bet you have multiple sidekicks that would gladly do this for you, ‘cause now I don’t have any time to deal with your shit.”

“Pfft… as good time as any,” he counters, oh so unexpectedly. “Plus I think you’re gonna do this far better than any one of them, not to mention – for free.”

“The first one is a fucking lie, which we both know, and the second-”

“Oh I beg to differ,” he interrupts, still vexed although convinced that what Connor needs is time, time to get accustomed with the inevitable concept, matter extending beyond the realm of personal control. “Both are relevant. You’re the best and you’re gonna do this for free ‘cause you fucking owe me. End of the story.”

“I don’t-”

“Oh you do,” he cuts off once again, intent to get the best of him – calm attitude and meticulous precision, “so just fucking listen for once.”

“What is it even about?” He queries, now that he has managed to satiated the ardent rage, at least enough to circle back to the milder tone, a tone that would fit Thiago’s tastes. “Business? Revenge?”

“Well, both I’d say,” he bestows him with a brisk affirmation, not that he is surprised, “but I don’t wanna get into many details now that we’re on the line, not that anyone of those sacks of fuck would care, but still, you know how it is… Anyway, his name is Carlos Vásquez, and two, three years ago he was just a pimp, a regular pimp, ‘recruiting’ regular people to do regular shit, nothing special, right?”

“So what has changed?”

“He’s extended his business’ interests to the drug market, but even that wouldn’t concern me much, at least not that much to kill him,” he halts, possibly to enhance the suspense, which combined with exasperating Connor creates quite a lucrative form of entertainment. “Which was until that pendejo, pedazo de hijo de puta, sent a bunch of assholes to kidnap my daughter, my fifteen-year-old daughter, my Ava. You’ve never met her, but I believe I’ve mentioned her once or twice in New Mexico.”

“If only,” he huffs – a mannerism deliberately ignored by the influential businessman – rolling his eyes in a display of thespian impatience.

“And let me tell you, I’ll never, ever let that motherfucker get away with this,” he continues – malicious promise, albeit paved with good intentions.

“Where is she now?” He interjects, a blunt query that has his friend, supposing he can be labeled as such, laughing out loud.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft all of sudden… Christ.”

“It’s a practical question,” he explains, apparently displeased with the obligation to enlighten the aforementioned. “’Cause I want you to know from the very beginning that I ain’t gonna save her.”

“Oh, thank you kindly for your compassion, but she’s safe now, which is all you need to know,” he clarifies – an exclamation that has the manager sighing in relief, considering his reluctance when it comes to any dramatic rescues.

“And the details?”

“I’ll send them later,” the Mexican flips him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, having forgotten he has blocked the visual, not that it bothers him much anyway. “You know, photos, business associates, lovers’ names, blah, blah, blah…”

“Sure you will,” he nods, feeling obliged to clarify all matters despite the boiling tension, threatening to leak onto the surface – indication of the so-called professionalism. “Any special requests?”

“Well… actually yes.”

(Ah, of course. Fuck me up, will you?)

“I want it the old-fashioned way. Strangle him for me. Bare hands.”

(Sure, and what else?)

“Sure, customer is king,” and he even manages to pull off a smile.

Sick.

“Glad we agree on this one, but don’t forget to record it,” he reminds – an unprofessional explanation, beyond obvious, and so to the point of offensive. “It’s gonna provide me a prove of you work, plus later on… who knows? We could… reprogram it into a simulation for instance.”

“Sure,” he agrees – a brisk affirmation, a signature of his.

“And maybe, just maybe, don’t get too hooked on the idea, you’ll get some spare cash after all, from the sale of course,” he proposes, not that it bothers Connor at this point, lacking the essential turnabout.

“Mhm, merciful,” he remarks, ever the sarcastic. “But what now? Should I wait for some kind of a call or…?”

“Yeah, just wait,” he bestows him with yet another terse confirmation, indicating whatever low-class joke that has been blossoming underneath his skull. “Dulces sueños, babe.”

And with that he hangs up.

Son of the bitch.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – release of her debut album, and so considered as an entry ticket to the variety of possibilities, reserved for the elite only, at least according to what she thought at that time.

Obso-lite.

Obtuse.

Lie.

Therefore, as the years pass by, so does her confidence when it comes to the human potential, artificial power that he has gained through the achievements of the most sublime minds, possession of little respect, taken for granted. All for the convenience of the beneficial ones, monstrous corporations with tremendous influence over the common men lead by the exceptional – an astral being that transcends human consciousness, marking its presence in the society’s genome for generations.

Ridiculously potent.

Romantic phantasy?

But worth recommencing.

Ergo, she has decided to make a use of all the interludes in between their meetings, and so replace the prior mindless fumbling with an action far more directed when juxtaposed with hours and hours of staring at the celling. For months, she was struggling to realized how many inhibitions were piling up to form one grotesque stack, defining the incapacity, artistic lameness that accompanies them, crossing creator’s steps, interfering with the futuristic vision.

And so, she has transferred the mental freedom into work, resulting in a trio of fresh composition – a birdlike tune, cyber tweet – with more than a little help from the synthesizer – an attempt to retreat it in the limelight as a substitute for the dreamy vocals that would play the first fiddle in her debut album. Regardless, as a slave to consumerism, she cannot fight the nervousness that comes with driving down the less explored road, hoping it will pick anyone’s interest and so curries favor with the influential corporation, at least according to what Connie has asseverated.

Risk.

The most influential spice…

But that was before the article.

“Gia?” She hears a male voice addressing her, audible due to relatively close proximity – a factor rather important in the buzzling club. “I haven’t seen you here for a while. Why?”

“Um, I’ve been busy,” she explains, lifting her gaze, only to be greeted with a sight of an infamous Interstellar bartender, leaning by the table top to face her, “but I needed to let off some steam, so that’s why I’m here tonight.”

“Cool,” he nods in affirmation, a matter to cut the topic short. “So what’s you poison?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting?” She eludes, eyes glued to the array of various liquors preening from behind his back. “The fact that we say ‘poison’ instead of ‘alcohol’, ‘drink’ or whatever as if it was some kind of an indication?”

“Honey, I’m a bartender,” he smiles, apologetic yet condescending – such an odd composition. “It’s my fucking job to sell them, so what are you expecting me to say?”

“I don’t know, nothing probably,” she shrugs despite the burdening weight draped over her shoulders – non-verbal indication of a missing query.

“Look at me,” he prompts, to which she complies, locking their gazes together, even if for a split second. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know either,” she sighs for a change, distracted by the subtle clink of glass against the polished table top – water, she presumes, satisfactorily sparkling. “I mean, it’s just… Have you seen the articles?”

“‘Romance with an outlaw?’” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the woman, unable to miss the reddish tint blossoming upon her checks as a response to the ridiculous headline. “Yes, and sometimes I’m amazed where the fuck they dig that shit from, which is probably the Net, but still, their ‘dedication’ is incomprehensible for me.”

“He’s not even an outlaw, so I don’t get it,” she shakes her head – expression of a deep-rooted disapproval.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden. “I just think the editors assumed it’d sell itself as, I don’t know, romantic or some shit, but that’s by the by.”

“I mean the real problem is that he hid so many things from me,” she frowns, gaze glued to some mindless spot on the bar – venomous green, absinthe maybe? “And although he has never been the one to discuss his past, I was surprised when I read the article, and I’ve been surprised ever since.”

“Mhm, so tell me now, have you ever asked yourself just why he did that?”

“Yes, but um, it was just… a weird experience? I don’t know,” she sighs, hybrid nails scratching at the pale temple. “I feel like he should’ve told me since we’re together, ‘cause that’s… that’s what I’d do.”

“I believe not,” he opposes – dry and unyielding, beyond unexpected.

“Oh great, so now you’re defending him,” she fusses, exasperation evident in her voice. “That’s exactly what I need, thank you very much.”

“Christ, Gia,” he rolls his eyes, sometimes just as equally tired with her pendulum-like moods. “All I wanted to say was that it’s nothing but an academic example. Take for instance that moral dilemma with pedestrian crossing. You’re sitting at home, drinking tea, while choosing to murder random groups of people. And that’s absurd, ‘cause in real life it’d never happen, and even if, when push comes to the shove you might act out of pure instinct, deprived of warm beverage and blanket. So what I’m trying to say is that those hypothetical scenarios… they are all just assumptions, no more no less, and we’ll never know what we’d do unless we find ourselves involved in a certain situation.”

“Okay, but I still think he should’ve told me,” she justifies, seemingly at loss of the mental flexibility.

“How long are you together?” He questions, as if only to prove a point. “Two? Three weeks?”

“Four,” she corrects – a matter considered beyond insignificant by the bartender who is relatively quick to brush the artiste off in resemblance to Connor, and so much to her exasperation.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause, you know, not anyone feels ready to spill the guts after twenty-something days of personal relationship.”

“I was just trying to be honest with him, ‘kay?” She counters, attempting to mitigate the prior surge of spite with an apologetic explanation. “Show a little empathy, or something.”

“So you’re telling me your ‘empathy’ is uniformed when it comes to, I don’t know, traumas?” He retorts, as if genuinely tired with the lacking logics when it comes to justifying her motives.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sorry,” she sighs, once again back to the resigned attitude, now that the ire has evaporated. “It’s just… he’s killed people there, and I don’t know… I feel like it’s a lot to digest. Especially since I got furious and pushed him into telling the truth, and he… he told me so many horrible things, he told me they-”

“Which war was that?” he interrupts, having sensed the approaching lachrymose confession. “Climate one?”

“Yes, the Fifth,” she bestows him with a terse affirmation, swallowing the thick lump in her throat.

“The Fifth one… okay, so think about it now,” he waves his hand in a self-indicating gesture, accompanied by her eyes following the movement, even if for a split second. “He must’ve been like, I don’t know, twenty at best.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” she nods, face marked by a perturbed frown – indication of worry, “but then I started digging, and I’ve discovered some really weird shit.”

“Like what exactly?”

“It’s like he’s been alive for eight years or something,” she begins, having reversed the chronology, at least according to his assumptions, considering she tends to do that sometimes. “I mean he told me he had had some kind of an accident there or whatever, got half off his organs replaced because of that. But when he had gotten better, they were to send him back on the field, right?”

“Right, but what about these eight years or something?” He inquires, attempting to redirect her train of thought to the clarifying realm, now that he is getting curious.

“I’ll circle back to it later, ‘kay?” She sighs, albeit this time to indicate the vexation evoked by his query. “So the last thing he told me was that he deserted, right?”

“Right,” he nods in affirmation.

“And that was when Cara pushed me to start digging,” she reveals, emphasizing it with the click of her cantaloupe nail against the table top.

“Cara? I thought you two were-”

“Yes, we are, but that’s not important now,” she interrupts, determined to set the record straight now that he is interfering with her vision, even if unintentionally. “Anyway, after the desertion there is like… a blank spot on his record – six years or something – and then he’s back in the corporative class.”

“Where have you learned that?” He frowns – puzzled expression dancing over his features.

“In the Net,” she states – a sentence considered beyond obvious, redundant, waste of a triple nature.

“Don’t you think you’re being paranoid?” He indicates, hesitating when it comes to veracity of said assumption, but at the same time uncertain whether it is a sane idea to confirm her beliefs. “Maybe he moved to his parents’ house, wanted to get some rest, or something? Wasn’t active on social media? Christ, I don’t know.”

“I mean it was just the Surface that we managed to check, so…”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re here!” He exclaims, shaking his head in disapproval, now that the realization has been casted upon him. “To pay that sleazy son of fuck to get you down to the Dark, now am I right or am I correct?”

“You know where is he?”

“No,” he negates, careless all off sudden, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, “and I haven’t seen him tonight at all.”

“I don’t believe you,” she states – dry and demanding when refused.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he smiles – both apologetic and condescending once again, prompting her to finish this conversation, no matter how helpful it turned out to be.

“But thanks anyway,” she concludes, having opted for a lighter undertone, since a part of her refuses to treat him akin to some pitiful pushover, not that he would care much in such circumstances.

“Sure, you’re welcome, Gia.”

A greeting appropriate just for tonight.

Indication of lacking fortune.

* * *

Breathing.

It is a simple act, lasting in a self-repeating loop – inhale and exhale, entwined with each other on the model of the aforementioned construct – remaining out of notice due to its permanent presence throughout one’s life. Which is why he considers meditation as worth the effort, since it lets his focus switch to the routine activities connected with the process itself: steady rises and falls of his shoulders, expansion of the ribcage conditioned by the diaphragm’s contractions – a way to get rid of what is redundant but also a method of relaxation, capacity valued in the times of trial.

Times such as now.

Times when he is forced to circle back to the past, and so to break the promise, ideological contract signed by the immaterial stylus, undoubtedly requiring the highest penalty.

Times when the dim lights become blinding.

When the silhouettes stop moving.

When the music dies down.

Leaving him alone in the secluded dimension.

Wiped away from the memories.

From the consciousness.

Buried deep enough to prevent the excavation.

And yet he is standing there, just at the doorway coexisting in two realms – both virtual and metaphorical – ready to take the leap.

Just a mere step

Pass the threshold.

“Everything’s ready?” He ascertains, struggling to recognize the rasp of his own voice.

“Yeah,” he hears the cracking noise reverberate in the earbud, before the connection steadies, allowing him to distinguish the following words properly. “Push it now.”

“Mhm, sure,” he hums, acting as per her request just to be greeted by the sight of a luxurious penthouse, impossible to be swept as a whole.

“I’ll lead you through, ‘kay?” She has a nice voice – a nuance that does not slip past his attention – smooth as molasses.

“Well, I hope so,” he teases, having decided to stray from the subject a bit, even if only for the entertaining purposes. “But, you know, I’ve been wondering what it is that you’re actually risking by helping me?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses to clarify – ice-cold queen. “It’s not like I’m doing it, ‘cause I have the softest heart ever. It’s that kind of shit you get paid for. Generously.”

“No need to lie to me, you know,” he nags further, as if to determine her tolerance for such attitude in general, now that he intends to redirect his train of thoughts – transition between tension and thrill. “Thought you might like to talk, but if not, I get it, no pressure. It’s just… I’m curious, and probably just as fucked as you are, but that’s by the by.”

“Connect to the monitoring system,” she directs – blunt and reserved.

“Sure, anything,” he affirms with a hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips, fingers fishing out the portable device from the inner pocket of his jacket, ready to jack in. “Not in the mood to talk?”

“I? Not in the mood?” She retorts, presumably a query, but the flat tone might be delusionary. “What a plot twist.”

“Mhm, most certainly,” he agrees – a humming baritone that resonates through his chest.

“Mhm,” she mimics the sound, milder when juxtaposed with the prior accusative timbre. “Thanks for not fucking this up by the way.”

“So you’re in the system?” He ascertains, rising an inquisitive eyebrow – a conditional reflex – despite the fact she is unable to see him now.

Or is she?

“Yeah,” she bestows him with a brisk affirmation just as he steps through the threshold of the security room, intent to hide in the opposite area, and so seize the opportunity to sneak up on the pimp from behind.

“Should I worry about anything else?” He inquires – a matter of clarification – now that he is leaning by the quartz pillar.

“For now? No, just wait,” she instructs, probably for the last time this evening, which evokes that odd tension once again, indicating the inevitability of the climax. “He’ll be here soon.”

“And just how’d you know that?”

“’Cause I’ve fucking fried his security system, which means he’s got the message that there’s a malfunction?” She snaps, voiced laced with a distinctive hint of sarcasm; and it suits her, he thinks. “What did you expect?”

“Certainly much more fumbling,” he explains, having opted for ignoring the accusative tone, at least for now, although a part of him still considers it weird, the fact that he is in full supervision of his own security system – dictated by the trust issues maybe?

“Better lower your expectation for the next time, huh?” She suggests, allowing herself to switch back to the bedroom area that he is currently occupying, even for a brief moment, a moment of distraction, curious about his appearance, which might as well be the second most irresponsible decision of this month, but still, she cannot help herself.

It has been sane to say they are both equally fucked.

“That’d actually set them higher,” he chuckles – a sound that catches him off guard for a split second, enhanced by the fact he is the one to voice it – a paradox maybe? “’Cause if I expect a relatively tough situation to run smoothly, it means that I set my expectation high, at least when it comes to the fortunate circumstances or my capacities.”

“But isn’t it like this sometimes?” She ponders, metallic nails scratching her chin, as she drinks in his features – ash blonde hair, geometric cheek implants, and tall silhouette, clad in dark clothing – interesting to say the least. “That, um… that you do something unintentionally or by accident, and in the end it turns out for the better?”

“Maybe it is,” he shrugs, glancing at the camera’s lens, as if he sensed her gaze on him, which has the woman adverting it to the side, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Ridiculous. “Maybe I even dare to say I agree, but-”

“Okay, C,” she does not even know his name, for fuck’s sake. “Sorry to interrupt, but he’s here. Luckily alone.”

“Yeah, right according to our assumptions,” he nods, calmer when confronted by an factual information. “So how much time do I have?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” she vacillates – feverish, and so incapable to decide, even if for a split second. “A minute? Two maybe?”

“Couldn’t you like… tell me earlier?” He frowns, voice laced with a hint of accusation.

“Maybe if you weren’t fucking distracting me?” She mimics his tone – indication of an approaching argument, although she is yet to surprise him in that realm.

“Well, I tend to do that sometimes,” he teases as per usual, maybe to conceal the fact she appears to be quits in that matter, eliciting a vexed huff from his female partner on the other side of the line.

“Uh just- I don’t know, good luck.”

Beep, ensued by silence.

Alone again.

Although not for long.

Indicated by the click of the front door and cautious steps reverberating in the adjoining area, or rather the creeping climax acquiring a form of a male with chrome hand – external damnation – from where he can see approaching the security room with a gun clutched tightly by the synthetic digits.

Closure.

Closure that grants perspectives.

Perspectives at hand.

Hand of providence.

Providence of a man.

Man to replace the God.

Unbelievable.

One step, two, then three… from or towards the target? Clueless, deprived of an ability to count, with tunnel vision drifting him towards the goal – a man leaning by the table, gaze fixated on the computer screen, scrolling through the program.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself – a sound that sends a shiver down the manager’s spine, but also prompts him to move forth, closer and closer to the man, echoing in the mental dimension, on the pinnacle of tensity, bracing for a fall.

A fall that comes with a surge forward, with a clasp of his hands around the pimp’s throat, with a choked groan, uttered in an empty space.

A hiss recognized as his own, evoked by the sharp pain resonating from the wrist, clasp in between the artificial fingers, biting in the flesh.

An idea, out of pure instinct, to pull the target down to the ground, before he manages to elbow him in the gut and so wriggle out from his grasp.

A contact – interference of gazes, dazed juxtaposed (mingled?) with determined, face flushed due to the effort, piercing red irises staring right at him.

A mere adjustment – evidence of skill and practice – to cut off his blood flow, switch from choking to strangling.

A fall that comes with a dull thud – head colliding with the polished floor – body slack in his hands, hands that keep their hold around the victims neck for a few longer moments – a procedure to ascertain that his brain remains hypoxic for long enough to cause fatal damage.

Terminal.

Taxing.

Transitional.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, once again struggling to recognize the sound of his own voice, as he scoots away from the body, finding the necessary support in the nearby wall.

With back pressed flushed against it, head tilted to the side, he is vaguely aware of the dull throbbing resonating from his wrist, now that he is coming to senses, which prompts him to rise the violated limb to the eye level. He is greeted with a sight of reddened flesh, indicating the inevitable appearance of a purplish bruise, albeit deprived of any nasty outcomes – no sprained joints and crushed bones – much to his relief.

Clean work, as for the professional.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, massaging the achy spot with the opposite hand, as he attempts to swallow the thick lump down his throat, parched to some inhuman degree.

Delirious.

Incognizant of what has just happened on the security room’s floor.

Incognizant of the body lying at his feet.

Incognizant of the myriad of possible consequences.

Just tired.

And thirsty.

“Water.”

And with that thought in mind, he makes his way to the kitchen, as if only for the sake of delaying what is inevitable.

Aftermath of conscience.

* * *

Emptiness.

Vastness of possibilities?

Dimension for creation?

Vicious end?

Dreadful perspective?

Sacrifice worth the grief.

Or a decision that has been bothering him since he passed the threshold of that fatal penthouse, burdening him with a distinctive realization – he is far from proud or pleased with the turn of events, all against his will, forced to succumb, degraded to the level of some common mercenary.

Unbelievable.

How many days was that? Two thousand eight hundred and fifty six?

And now? Ten?

A missing piece of puzzles – that is what it feels like – a habit he has grown accustomed with throughout the years, a channel to pour sorrows to, and now? How is he supposed to record his ideas, intents, or insights when he has none, no inquiries, no impressions.

No fate.

An ending line, elongating past the point of a broken promise – informal, yet more meaningful than any other he has ever concluded – indicating the disastrous vision acquiring its vessel’s form – sticky liquid, leaving indelible stains on each and every surface as if to mar it for all eternity.

(That’s a tad bit dramatic, don’t you think?)

(Romantic?)

To be fair, he is far from the level of knowledge that would allow him to elaborate a romantic expertise, not only a loathsome trait, but also lethal, lethal to consider suicide as a redemption from some tragic love – factor that is meant to shatter their proximate universe. As an individual (what a fitting term) he conjectures it to be far more than just plain dangerous: following their obsolete beliefs, soaking up their wisdoms, switching to their philosophy of life – simply damnation-granting. Nevertheless, the contemporary world appears as beyond deprived from any excess traces from the bygone times, pitiful remains that are swept away with the passing years – an eternal river – all to the convenience of its dwellers.

Which leads him to yet another assumption.

What if he is wrong? What if it is bound to indicate a conclusion of entirely different nature, a conclusion leading to an ultimate enlightenment – our future is what we consider it to be, a conglomerate of particles, of events to be foreseen, of idealistic visions and rational objectives, transcending human comprehension, so fatally finite?

With us occupying the creator’s chair.

“People are marred,” he states all of sudden, which captures the artiste’s attention, and so prompts her to rise from the lounging position on the sofa, legs still draped over male’s lap as his fingers trail mindless serpentines over the ivory skin, “damaged, shattered, akin to a glass pane.”

“What makes you think that?” She inquires, forehead marked with two thin lines – indication of puzzlement – with her gaze lingering on male’s profile, on the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, up to the subtle geometric line adorning his cheeks, and the intricate patterns decorating the side of his neck.

“It was just a random thought, nothing significant.”

(Sure I’d believe that.)

“Mind if I smoke?”

“You smoke?” She frowns once again, confused due to the alternating course, watching him from the propped-up position, not the most convenient to be honest.

“Only after sex,” he bestows Gia with a brisk clarification, offering her a helping hand as she rises from the spot, now kneeling beside him with his arm encircling her waist, palm flat on the hip. “So?” He cocks an expecting eyebrow at her, as if searching for an answer. “Do you mind?”

She shakes her head no, shivering once his hand abandons its previous spot, and so deprives the female from his body heat, no matter how moderate it has been until now. With her eyes following the leisure movements that result in lighting up a slim cig, held delicately in between a pair of his long fingers, she cannot help but dwell upon each and every notion evoked by the unfortunate publication, the fact that he barely talks about himself as if he could not trust her – a partner who is supposed to be the person to open up to, a friend to soak up all sorrows, a guarantor of the so-called unconditional love.

But is he even capable of that? Of romantic affection? Or is he simply yet another cold-hearted inhabitant, so fitting in the cruel world, a place where vulnerability overlaps with divergence, a place nowhere near to be considered as home, vast and empty, of multiple dimensions and unexplored concepts?

“What else have you been hiding from me?”

“And what is it that you’re expecting to hear?” He glances at her from the seat by the open window, face illuminated by the shimmering neons. “Some kind of a story?”

“That’s what I’m counting for,” she affirms, fixing the tee that has ridden up her thighs, as if sensing that excess exposure is rather unfavorable in such case.

“Fine then,” he agrees, taking the last drag from the half-smoked cigarette, before he tosses it out of the window, much to her distaste. “I’m gonna tell you a story, a story an idealistic girl like you would never understand.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you know what it feels like… being forced to kill?” He begins, having ignored her opposition, all considered trivial when juxtaposed with his attempt of confession. “Answer me.”

“Why do you think you, or anyone else, have the right to kill?” She huffs, a concept laying beyond her comprehension – a superior man, the one to overuse his authority.

Lord of Life and Death.

Disgusting.

Or an inquiry that has him chuckling in response, a bitter laughter that echoes in the empty space, even if metaphorically so, ringing in her ears as they receive the stimulus.

“And the body? What it smells like? How heavy it is?” He continues, leaning backwards, elbows supported by the window frame, as if bracing for the lethal leap. “Impossibly so. It’s like you can barely lift it… perhaps because of the emotional baggage? Who knows?”

The words that reverberate in the fragile expanse of her mind.

Words that shatters her affection, her deep-rooted fondness.

Everything that she has ever bestowed him with.

And it strips her bare, naked in front of his penetrative gaze.

“What have you done?” She gulps, anticipating the terminal answer with parched throat and tensed muscles.

“And against your conscious will? That’s truly the debasement of humanity,” he shoves the query aside, at least for now, intent to explain everything on his own conditions. “Just imagine that, you have no fucking money, and it forces you to fuck some sleazy pimp in order to provide all necessities. And you hate yourself for that, ‘cause it’s fucking disgusting, fucking… hideous as it seeps through your pores. But you can’t deny it, and more – gotta accept it as a fact, ‘cause there’s no other way.”

“Oh, man of little faith,” she rolls her eyes – a mannerism he chooses to ignore, along with the pitiful comment – a sack full of idealistic absurdities.

“For almost eight years, I thought I could escape my past, ‘cause I’d think that’s where all bygone actions belong,” he continues, gaze fixated on some unidentified spot decorating the opposite wall. “And then I got a phone call from an old pal. You know what he told me?”

“I’m not omniscient,” she retorts, choosing to be sarcastic all of sudden, a turnabout that he finds oddly amusing.

“Oh you’re not? Okay,” he throws her a brief glance, lips laced in a condescending smirk – a signature of his. “So he called me because of a favor. Old times, saved my life in New Mexico, and you’ll never understand what it means, unless you experience that kind of bond. It’s something that’ll always defy the laws of physic, finding its way back to the surface, no matter the amount of stones you use to drown it.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Of the non-negotiable kind,” he clarifies, a matter offensively obvious in his notion, “and what was that favor you may ask? Fairly simple, get rid of some overconfident pimp, the rest is not important.”

A mere statement.

Not to mention beyond expected.

And yet potent enough to drain blood out of her face, push past the pinnacle of emotions, coiling just underneath the surface, coiling and wailing to be released from the confinement of their prison.

Resurrection that comes with catharsis.

Rampant rage.

“You didn’t have to do it, you know,” she spats – blunt and accusatory. “And the fact that you did it only makes you a coward – no – it makes you a hypocrite, who is also a coward, for not following his beliefs, ‘cause… you know what defines one as a human?”

“What defines one as a human, miss Ortega?”

(How dare he!)

“The quality of being good,” she explains, struggling to keep up with the calmer tone, not willing to blow up just yet, “the quality you clearly lack. And it pains me to see how much mistaken I’ve been.”

He laughs again.

And this time it has her blood boiling hot.

“It’s so ease to judge others, don’t you think?” He retorts, calling back to that ridiculous conversation at the Interstellar, just few days prior, or a lifetime maybe? “Especially when all you have to worry is ‘being a good person’. It is an incredible privilege to choose between those two factors – what’s moral and immoral – a privilege not everyone can afford.”

Up to the breaking point.

“You’re incomplete,” he continues, rising to walk towards the door, indicating her inevitable departure that creeps closer and closer, tightening its claws around her weeping soul, “and you’ll always be until you understand that other people’s beliefs don’t define who you are.”

Snap.

“You know what? I hate you! You’re the most hideous, the most disgusting-”

“Sure I am,” he nods – a terse affirmation, so laconic it almost has her slapping him, safe only due to the fact she is putting on her pants. “But I believe you’ve already mentioned that.”

“I- I-”

“Oh do go on, tell me,” he interrupts – a jeering remark, a mannerism that she loathes more than anything else as an evidence of her disastrous tendency to maneuver between the polarities, “share your very important beliefs.”

“No, fuck you!” She exclaims, fingers clasping around the material of her coat, soon to yank it from the hanger. “I’m leaving and I can guarantee you won’t see me. Ever. Again.”

“Overly dramatic, but okay, I can cope with that,” a response that consists of a mere shrug, as if it was the only action laying in his capacity after those few months together – the most vicious farewell. “And whatever you’re planning to do with yourself… good luck with that.”

“Dickhead,” she throws over her shoulder – an expression of bitter virulence – ready to depart with a heavy slam – indication of a bygone phase, never to be retreated, fleetingness laced with some odd kind of beauty, the one he has almost dared to forget throughout the years, all of sudden thirsty for its everlasting charm.

Ergo, he remains awake that night.

Staring at the celling until sunlight accompanies the neons.

* * *

“Day twenty seventh,” he begins, the sound of running shower acting as his lonesome listener, not that he needs any audience today. “I’ve noticed an interesting pattern recently, or maybe I’ve just been reminded of its existence... I don’t know…maybe… The thing is, I’ve got some vague memories of my childhood, maybe because I was trying so desperately to push away the past, to treat every day like a rebirth, and so forced myself to forget… Actually, that sounds ridiculous when spoken out loud, but it’s fine, I can cope with that.”

“So as a kid I’d perceive world in terms of a simple black-and-white matter, which had me thinking my curiosity was soon to be satiated, kind of ironic… Anyway, as I was getting older, I also came to a conclusion that our world is run on secrets, and despite the years that have passed since then, I still agree with this sentence. It gets me to wonder how much of the given information applies to the reality, which makes quite an important factor in the contemporary world, but that’s by the by.”

“Cutting to the chase, realizations are like cycles, and by saying so I meant that they pay us a visit in self-repeating patterns. Which indicates the so-called tendency of changing one’s mind that sometimes allows us to circle back to the starting point. Quite interesting to be honest, especially in the face of some intense experience, both physically and emotionally, that is… that is, um… capable of rearranging the entire sequence of outlooks.”

“For years I’d think that what the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over, or something, I’m only paraphrasing… but this seems to sum up why I’ve decided on all these tattoos, hours and hours of stinging discomfort. But it was nothing compared to being obliged to see all the scars, not because of the aesthetics but because of the continuous pain… the continuous pain and its physical reminiscence. At that time I couldn’t accept it, but now… I don’t know… it’s weird, both relieving and chilling, as if a piece of puzzle was missing… which makes me think that I’ll just need some time to get used to it. Either way it’s refreshing, so blissfully refreshing… fuck, I love it.”

“Normally at this point I’d remind myself of that crappy shit I was told in the past, maybe because it was my only way to connect with it, and fuck… it makes me such a fucking hypocrite, but now… I doubt whether I need it anymore.”

“’Cause I did fucking man up. End of a story.”

Created: 12/28/20 Completed: 03/11/21 Edited: 03/17/21

[notapaladin]

it’s love and it’s decisive pain

I wanted to write a) pining, b) acatl having a fun night with his family and c) acatl making the full and conscious choice that Yes This Is A Relationship He Wants with teomitl. (yes, also I wanted to use “sunlight” by hozier as a fic title bc it is the MOST teocatl song) 5k words later, this fell out.

Can also be read on AO3!

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Family game night had been Mihmatini’s idea.

Or...well, originally, in much better times, it had been Neutemoc’s idea, but the reinstitution of the event had been all Mihmatini’s. “It’s been nearly three years,” she’d said. “Shouldn’t we try to get together as a family again?”

And Neutemoc had agreed.

Acatl was officially invited on a night when, for once, he had something resembling free time. He’d combed his hair and set out earlier than necessary, hoping to catch Teomitl and Mihmatini on their way. Acatl had thought he should probably warn the man—they could be both boisterous and vicious when all of them played patolli together, and he was sure Teomitl was accustomed to a good deal less graphic language and a great many more serious threats over the game board—but when he actually met him alone on the street near Neutemoc’s house, he found he had bigger problems.

Teomitl had dressed up. This is fine, Acatl told his heart sternly. You are not to escape my ribcage because Teomitl is a handsome young man. It had never worked. It certainly wasn’t working now. They were on a dark, quiet street where the neighbors kept themselves to themselves, and Acatl couldn’t stop staring at his brother-in-law.

There was gold at his wrists and on his fingers—he’d kept himself to a bracelet on each wrist and a minimum of rings, but they still gleamed in the sunlight. His cloak was the red afforded to him as the Master of the House of Darts, but the design had been woven in smaller seashells and arrow symbols instead of the huge ones that proclaimed his station to every passerby. He wore earflares Acatl hadn’t seen on him before, too, and from the way the light shimmered on them he was sure there was magical protection involved.

His sister was nowhere in sight. Before the silence could get too awkward—he was aware he’d been staring, aware he couldn’t stop himself—he asked, “Where’s Mihmatini?” Please be nearby. Surely I’d embarrass myself less with an audience. Unlikelier things had happened.

Teomitl glanced down the street, which didn’t help because even the curve of his neck was a distraction. “She ran on ahead; she said she had to help set up.” Judging by the expression on his face, this was a matter of some mild trepidation.

He couldn’t blame him. “Did she tell you what to expect?”

“...The phrase ‘pack of screaming howler monkeys’ was used.”

He winced, but he couldn’t honestly say it was incorrect. “...Rude, but essentially accurate. At least you’ll only have to deal with three of us; it is much more...vibrant when the rest of the family gathers.” There were four sisters between himself and Mihmatini, and though he rarely spent any time with them—they were all married with their own families and very little time for the older brother who’d so disappointed their parents by joining the priesthood—when they were all together they tended to feed off each other’s shared enthusiasm for patolli, and the end result usually included someone laughing until they cried.

Teomitl actually smiled a little at that. “Which is why I’m wearing things I don’t mind losing.”

His gaze fell to all that finery again. Teomitl’s lip plug was gold as well, a rounded disc with an eagle’s head carved on it. He tried not to focus on the shape of his mouth above it. “We...we play for tokens,” he began. “So you don’t have to worry.” It didn’t stop the sudden mental image of Teomitl throwing his gold and jewels atop his shed cloak, skin gleaming in torchlight. No. Enough of that. He swallowed. “Are those earflares new?”

Oh, no. Teomitl was still smiling, and now the curve of his lips was teasing. “Mm-hmm. Do you like them?”

And he drew closer and tilted his head, the better to show them off. They were also decorated with eagles, but with the whole body of the bird picked out in turquoise chips. Acatl exhaled at the sight. He’d been right about the magic; if he let his eyes drift out of focus, he could just about see the shape of Huitzilopochtli’s flames shimmering over the gold. The earflares’ rims were quite thick, the better to fit even more glyphs on them.

I want to see what they say, came his first conscious thought. He was far too aware of how close they were—too close—but he couldn’t make himself step back. Couldn’t make himself do anything, in fact, except reach up and slowly trace the rims with his thumb, turning them up for a better view. They’d been skillfully done, and he had to lean in close enough that a stray strand of Teomitl’s hair tickled his face. Whatever Teomitl used to keep it clean made him want to nuzzle it.

“Oh,” he breathed, “the carvings are…”

“Protective charms.” There was a faint tremor in Teomitl’s voice, which he might never have picked up normally—but their heads were nearly touching, and the only sounds on the street were their own. Everything was heightened, right down to the feeling of the warm metal against his skin.

It was dark where they stood, the walls of nearby buildings casting them both in shadow. He leaned in, heard Teomitl’s breath hitch, and stopped. We should go. My family is waiting. That would be the good decision, the logical decision.

Instead, his thumb slipped from its slow circling of Teomitl’s earrings to caress his earlobe instead, and it was his turn to feel his own breath catch in his throat. Soft—the skin was astonishingly soft here, marred only by the thin scab of that morning’s bloodletting. It was healing well, but when he drew his thumb over it Teomitl gasped. It didn’t sound pained.

His gaze dropped to his face anyway. Teomitl was staring at him wide-eyed, breathless, and gods, but he wanted to see that face again. So he repeated the motion, a little harder this time, and saw the man draw in a long, deep breath. Oh, you’re sensitive. The knowledge intoxicated him further. He curled his fingers, tracing the shell of Teomitl’s ear as lightly as he dared, and heard Teomitl make a soft noise. A wanting noise.

He could barely think past the pounding of his own blood in his veins. All considerations—they were on a public street, his family was waiting, this was his brother-in-law, the man who he’d told people was like a son to him—felt as far away and inconsequential as the rustling of ants through grass. His fingers trailed achingly slowly down the side of Teomitl’s neck, following the line of his jugular and feeling his pulse thump steadily against his fingertips. His thumb came to rest on the other side, such that he held Teomitl’s throat in the loosest of loose grips.

“Mmhm…” The sound that escaped Teomitl’s lips was barely even audible. He wasn’t pulling away. In fact, he was leaning into it, and Acatl felt himself caught as surely as a jaguar would take a deer.

He felt frozen. If he leaned in, spoke, lifted his other hand, the spell between them would be broken and whatever they were doing would end. Whatever they were—he didn’t think about that. He didn’t think about anything except the soft skin under his fingers, how they were so close that he could feel the warmth rolling off him, how much he wanted to be closer still.

He wasn’t looking at the earflares anymore. He didn’t even remember what they looked like. Teomitl’s eyes were dark and hazy, his lips slightly parted, and all he could think was Yes. Yes, please.

He wanted to taste those lips. It would be easy. It would be so easy.

A pink tongue darted out, and he made a noise of his own. “Gnh.”

“...Acatl.” His name on Teomitl’s tongue, said like that, sent a shiver through him. “...I…”

Approaching footsteps broke through the haze. Someone was coming.

Acatl jerked backwards, heart hammering so frantically in his chest that he wondered for a moment if he might faint. He felt the loss of Teomitl’s skin under his hand as keenly as he might feel the loss of the hand in question, but there was no time for that now. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. It’s fine, we’re fine, nothing happened. He closed his eyes; it was easier to regain his equilibrium if he couldn’t see whatever look of dismayed horror was surely on Teomitl’s face right now.

And of course it was Mihmatini doubling back to pick them up. Of course. Because his life was already going so well. Worse, she sounded so cheerful there was absolutely no way she even suspected what he’d been about to do. (With her husband. That fact bore repeating.) “There you are, Acatl! Come on, the first course will get cold.”

He made himself smile at her. “We’re coming.”

It was a short walk to Neutemoc’s house. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Teomitl until they arrived. No—it was more accurate to say that he didn’t look at him. Looking at him would have been easy; the man drew his eye like a single shaft of sunlight piercing the darkness, all easy, radiant warmth, and if he let himself he could stare for hours. So he very deliberately did not. He couldn’t help being attracted to him, but he could damn well help how he reacted to it.

Aside from that shameful display. He huffed out a breath as he walked, keeping his eyes on the canal flowing beside the street. He’d made his decision long ago, when he’d first realized that familial was absolutely not an appropriate way to describe his feelings towards Teomitl—the man had his own life, and Acatl had his, and he wouldn’t ruin either of them by forcing an unwanted connection. There were simply too many ways it could go wrong, too many reasons why it was a terrible idea. The risks far outweighed any brief benefits.

And then the lights of Neutemoc’s house spilled out into the street, and he had no more time for self-recrimination. Family dinner and game night had begun.

Dinner was, of course, delicious. A trifle awkward at first—it always was, because he could never really be sure of Neutemoc’s welcome truly extending to him as well—but then his brother clapped him on the shoulder and bade them all sit, and the awkwardness passed in time for him to enjoy the food. While Neutemoc still hadn’t remarried, his kitchen slaves were more than capable of putting out an excellent spread of fish, frogs, tamales, peppers, and all the tasty things that made life worth living.

It was not a silent affair; while he’d never been one for much conversation over a meal (he only had one mouth and he was busy putting food in it, thank you) his family had no such concerns. Particularly not the children; Necalli and Mazatl attached themselves to either side of Teomitl as soon as he sat down, ready to bombard him with questions. It was a wonder he even had time to eat, but eat he did—in between happily telling Necalli the less gory details of his last campaign and assuring Mazatl that yes, it was true that his sisters had different sets of jewelry for every day of the week, but she didn’t want to grow up to be like them because they were all very, very mean.

Acatl looked up from his plate at that to meet Mihmatini’s eyes, and they shuddered in unison. Chalchiuhnenetl.

It wasn’t a cloud that lingered for long; Neutemoc asked how things were going at their respective temples, and so of course they had to answer. There wasn’t much to tell; things had been blissfully boring lately, and Acatl would have been more than pleased by that if it hadn’t also left him with far too much free time to think. He’d not wanted to spend much time in his own head since…

His gaze drifted to where Teomitl sat. Well. Since I realized that.

He was suddenly very, very glad that Teomitl sat on the other side of the table between two small children. The man was chuckling fondly at whatever Necalli had just said, and the sight was so endearing it made his heart clench painfully in his chest. Damn you, he thought bitterly, unsure whether he meant the organ in his chest or the man that had caused it to beat so hard. I did not ask for this.

Then Mihmatini asked him how he’d met her predecessor, and he was sufficiently distracted not to think about Teomitl again until the meal was over and they hit a snag in their preparations for the night’s patolli games. Namely, bundling the children off to sleep.

Necalli went easily enough, but Neutemoc had to pause, sigh, and gesture for his daughter to follow when he realized she’d been left behind. “Off to bed with you, Mazatl.”

“I’m not tired,” she whined, and flopped bonelessly against Teomitl’s side.

Teomitl chuckled, patting her head. “Of course you aren’t. But it’s going to get very loud in here in a bit, and you don’t like loud noises, do you?”

She shook her head. “Nuh-uh.”

“Then go to your room.”

She heaved a sigh that came from the depths of her soul (and had definitely been inherited from her father), but obligingly sat up and let Neutemoc carry her to her mat. When they were gone, Teomitl was still looking after them a little wistfully. Finally, he announced, “She’s adorable. I want a dozen children just like her.”

Mihmatini looked up from her cup of maguey sap. “Find more wives to give them to you, then.”

Acatl had never actually seen someone choke on his own spit before. It was not an attractive look, and he wished heartily that it didn’t make him feel so terribly soft. Finally Teomitl spluttered, “Mihmatini!” and she only fixed him with a long and steady look that was slightly ruined by her repressed smile.

“You forget, I’ve spent a lot of time looking after my nieces and nephews. I think two or three little Mazatls are enough from me.”

Teomitl was blushing as he muttered, “Well. That’s...alright. I guess.”

Acatl had to look away, guilt twisting his stomach into a knot. Right. They are married. They love each other still, no matter how rocky things were for a while there.  They’ll have a home and children together, a life together. When Teomitl is Revered Speaker, he’ll take even more wives and have the dozens of children he wants from them. That’s how it should be. He’d never look twice at another man, even if...even if back there, I thought…

“I found the board and the pieces. Shall we?”

He’d never been so glad to see Neutemoc, and all but shot to his feet. “Yes, of course.”

They had to play patolli in the receiving room; there simply wasn’t enough floor space in the dining room, and the beans had a tendency to bounce under tables or rugs and be lost for weeks. One time one of them had actually sprouted. But this time the board was set up properly, and everyone had their own painted pieces, and the first throws of the beans to begin the game set the starting rounds firmly in Neutemoc’s favor.

Until, that was, Acatl’s luck turned. Neutemoc was getting cocky, always a mistake in games of chance, and so he didn’t notice when one of his pieces was removed from play until he looked down at the board again. Immediately his brother’s head snapped up, fixing him with a savage glare. “You.”

He felt a broad and—alright—mildly evil grin split his face. It had been far, far too long since he’d indulged in the no-holds-barred ruthlessness of games with family he was on good terms with. “Should have paid more attention to all your pieces.”

It was Mihmatini’s turn, but since she wasn’t in position to take their pieces yet Neutemoc snarled, “You’re a bastard.”

He huffed, “Are you insulting our parents?!”

“I’m not so sure you weren’t left on our doorstep!”

“Aunt Miyahuatl attended my birth!”

“Hmph—oh, look.” Neutemoc’s turn had come around again, and he turned a mirror of Acatl’s own grin back at him as the piece he’d just set down was plucked from the board.

Acatl blinked down at it. “How the hell—“

“You were distracted.” Neutemoc’s grin only widened, and he had to fight the desire to pick up the nearest cushion and beat him around the head with it. They’d done that plenty of times as children, but then it hadn’t been cushions. There’d been no chance of affording those.

“What’s it feel like to play?” Teomitl muttered. He’d gotten a few of his own pieces onto the mat earlier, but they hadn’t stayed there for long. While Acatl thought his siblings probably weren’t ganging up against him on purpose, the effect was the same. His luck had not improved at all since then.

Mihmatini nudged him. “Throw the beans again, maybe you’ll find out.”

He threw. He threw again. And then he was back in the game and he was laughing, and Acatl felt his heart skip several beats in a row. Gods, how he shone in the torchlight. How easy it would be to reach out, take his hand, pull him close—

No. He wrenched his gaze and his focus back to the mat. Not here. And besides...besides, I made my choice. I refuse to be selfish in this.

There was patolli to play.

In the end, each of them won a single game. This naturally necessitated a tiebreaker round, which was tense and hard-fought until Mihmatini, looking immensely pleased with herself, swept the board of all her opposition and sat back to gloat until Teomitl, highly disgruntled, threw a cushion at her. While he’d initially been surprised and more than a bit taken aback at how quickly the three of them degenerated into barely-serious insults and threats of murder, by the time the night wound down he was laughing with the rest of them even if he clearly didn’t dare join in. It warmed Acatl’s heart and fully made up for all the tokens he’d given away on his bets each time Teomitl’s face had lit up like that.

Since it was far, far too late for them to make their way home to the Sacred Precinct, Neutemoc insisted on them staying the night. Acatl turned down the offer of a room and bedded down in the courtyard instead; the air was warm, he was warmer, and he wanted the breeze. (Well, he wanted an ice bath. But he would settle for a breeze.)

He sprawled out on his back under one of the trees, staring at the stars through the thin canopy of leaves. Usually, counting them helped him sleep when he really couldn’t; this time, sleep wouldn’t come.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened earlier. Not the flashes of emotion that had struck him during dinner, but what had happened before they arrived. What could have kept on happening, if Mihmatini hadn’t shown up.

I didn’t do anything wrong, Acatl told himself. He hadn’t. Teomitl had new earflares. Acatl had admired the earflares. He hadn’t broken his vows, hadn’t done anything that would cast shame upon Teomitl’s marriage. They’d only touched. That was all.

But the skin under his fingers had been so soft, and Teomitl had been melting into his touch and looking at him like...like…

Like he wanted me to kiss him. The thought felt like lightning striking the core of him, and he squeezed his eyes shut with an involuntary gasp. He’d seen a cunning version of that look before on women who were clearly hoping he’d make a move on them, priest or no; he’d never in his life seen it like that. Flushed and soft and spellbound, as though the only thing Teomitl had been dreaming of was the moment where their mouths would meet.

And he wanted it. Even now, in his brother’s courtyard, with Teomitl and Mihmatini no doubt wrapped in each other’s arms a few rooms away, he wanted it. He rolled over onto his side and dug his nails into his palms, hoping the pain would center him. It didn’t. The thoughts kept on coming, each one like a hammer blow, and all he could do was reel as they hit home.

I desire him.

I love him.

I can’t tell him.

Because that was the cold, hard truth of it all. He loved Teomitl, and letting him know that would destroy too much he held dear. The peace in his life he’d just started to find would vanish. Happy evenings with his family would turn cold and awkward. Mihmatini—gods, his sister would never forgive him. No, having him in his life like this would have to be enough. They’d meet for dinner, they’d be friends, but Teomitl would build his life as Master of the House of Darts—as Revered Speaker—with Mihmatini by his side, and Acatl would go to his mat alone and it would be fine. It had to be fine. Safety. Security. This is the choice I’m making.

Distant voices intruded, and he shuddered all over again as he heard Mihmatini’s wry, teasing comment of, “I love you, but you do snore.”

“I know.” That was Teomitl, sounding terribly fond. “I’ll go sleep in the courtyard with Acatl.”

“Please.” She said something else, then, but it was too soft for Acatl to catch. Whatever it was, it made Teomitl cough, and she giggled sweetly.

He barely dared to breathe. Even facing away from them, he was far too aware of Teomitl’s footsteps; the man was trying to be stealthy, but he’d always been terrible at that. He felt it, too, when those footsteps stopped near him and—quietly—rolled out a mat. Reeds crunched softly as Teomitl sat down—no, laid down, there was the rustle of cloth as his cloak spread out. They were so close that once again Acatl thought he could feel the warmth of his body.

Silence. Soft breathing. Another, extended rustle as Teomitl rolled over.

And then, so quietly he almost couldn’t hear it, “...Tonight was wonderful. I loved it. I love you.”

Adrenaline flooded his veins. He’d never been more awake in his life; it was only sheer force of will that kept his eyes from shooting open. His heart and his breath both caught, and for a long and irrational moment he wasn’t sure either of them was functioning. No—there was his heartbeat roaring back to life, pounding so fast and hard that his throat squeezed with the effort of it. His lungs were next, a hitched pause that felt so much more momentous than it sounded.

I love you.

He’d made his choice, but now he faced a new one. He could keep his eyes shut, force himself to relax, pretend he’d never heard that confession. In the morning, nothing would happen. Their lives would continue on as before. That would be the safe option.

Or he could turn over, look Teomitl in the eyes, and speak to him as one man to another.

Love meant pain. Loving a man like Teomitl...well. It probably meant even more pain. Teomitl wasn’t an easy man to love. He was stubborn, abrasive, proud, and tended not to listen to the people around him when he thought he knew best. But then, wasn’t Acatl the same? Less proud, he thought, but Acamapichtli called me self-righteous and gods, how I wish he’d been entirely wrong. Teomitl didn’t seem to mind, and he couldn’t possibly be unaware of Acatl’s flaws. No, he saw them. And he loved Acatl anyway. He loved him, flaws and all, risks and all. How could Acatl not do the same?

For once in his life—no. Even to think that would imply he saw an end to it, and Acatl would not back down from this. He would do this, and he would keep doing this, because the risks did not outweigh the benefits.

He took a long, slow breath, stretched out his limbs, and turned over to meet Teomitl’s gaze. For a moment Teomitl just looked stunned, but then the horror asserted itself—Acatl could see every shift of his expression as he registered that yes, he’d said that out loud and yes, Acatl had heard it.

Before he could run away, Acatl grabbed his hand hard enough to hurt.

Teomitl’s eyes went wide. “Acatl,” he began, “I…”

“I wanted to kiss you in the street today,” he blurted out, which was absolutely not what he’d planned to say. (Not that he’d had a plan at all, but I love you too seemed like a decent starting point.) “Tonight was—I lost so much on the games because I couldn’t stop staring at you, every time you laughed, you’re like sunlight—“

“Acatl.” Teomitl’s voice held more than a tinge of desperation. “Shut up.”

He shut up.

Teomitl’s gaze bored into his; as he leaned in, they drew so close that he could feel warm breath wafting across his own lips. His voice was low and serious as the grave. “If you keep talking, I am going to kiss you. Right here in the middle of your brother’s courtyard.”

It was dark. They were under a tree. They were perfectly capable of being quiet. He sucked in a hard breath, feeling his heart hammer frantically in his chest, and breathed, “What are you waiting for?”

Teomitl didn’t make him wait any longer. Their mouths finally met, and it was sweet and hot and something Acatl felt in his spine. Perfect, he thought, and then he wasn’t thinking anything, because he had a hand on Teomitl’s bare back and Teomitl had one buried in his hair and it didn’t matter that he’d never kissed anyone before, because Teomitl was more than skilled enough to make up for any deficiencies in his own technique. That pretty golden lip plug didn’t get in the way at all. More. I want more of this.

The position was awkward, both of them lying on their sides, but then he rolled away to free his trapped arm and Teomitl followed and oh, that was much better, with Teomitl half on top of him and the red of his cloak blending into the night. When they pulled away to breathe, he panted, “We should—“ Get inside, he meant to say. Find somewhere secluded. But it was difficult to get any of that out when Teomitl was kissing him midsentence, nipping at his bottom lip and sighing in pleasure when he slid his hands down his back. The skin was deliciously soft here too, and unscarred.

Teomitl’s fingers slid down his side to the curve of his hip, and even if he hadn’t been able to feel the evidence of his arousal he could pick it up just fine from the roughness in his voice. “Gods, I want you so much.”

“Not here,” he gasped. Even the thought sent a cold spike of fear through his chest. No—not entirely fear. Some part of him, even though he knew better, wanted to see how quiet they could really be.

Someone cleared their throat across the courtyard. They both froze.

It was Mihmatini, talking to a slave in a voice that carried. “No, the room’s wonderful. I’m just a bit warm, so I’m going to sleep in the courtyard. But you know I snore, so I can’t blame the men if they want to take my room instead.”

Teomitl slumped, his head tucking into the crook of Acatl’s neck as though it belonged there permanently. “She doesn’t snore,” he whispered.

He felt an absurd urge to laugh. “I know.”

“She talks in her sleep, which is worse.”

“I know.” But she was also heading their way, so he nudged Teomitl off him and rolled over so by the time she got there, it would look like they were simply dozing. I have the best sister in the world.

“I heard that.”

The best sister in the world was currently giving her husband a very unimpressed look. He was pushing himself upright, flushed with embarrassment—but not, Acatl realized, guilt. Nor the shifty eyes of one who was trying to keep a secret. “It is worse. You’ve said so yourself.”

“About you,” she said dryly. “Acatl, if you can put up with that without strangling him, I’d be very appreciative.”

Teomitl huffed, climbing to his feet and gathering his mat. “Lies and slander.”

And then she grinned at him, and winked. He felt his face go hot. It was one thing to know that she knew, and to have it be something they never spoke about. It was entirely different to do such things with her blessing. To kiss Teomitl, to hold him in his arms, and know that he wouldn’t break his sister’s heart in doing so—that he could have Teomitl, and his family, and not have to give up happiness with either.

Teomitl paused a few feet away, turning to look back over his shoulder. It was impossible to miss the hope in his voice. “Coming, Acatl?”

Another decision. Another chance to say no, he wouldn’t do this, there were lines he wouldn’t cross. He’d taken vows, hadn’t he? Vows of chastity, of celibacy. His virginity was something he’d managed to hold onto all his life, and if he and Teomitl had the privacy of a room with walls and a closed entrance-curtain, he’d fling it away in a heartbeat. There’d be no going back from that.

He rose, pulling a hand through his hair, and followed Teomitl inside.

[hello-thefatlosshabit-blr]

“What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker

I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle. Anyone that has ever kept a financial spending log or food log knows that they changed their spending or eating behavior when they created a record of the activity. We naturally start making better decisions and identifying patterns in our behavior. Monitoring an activity forces, us to pay more attention to it. We naturally start making better choices because we can’t ignore our bad ones. If we aren’t mindful of our choices, we will unconsciously fall into habitual patterns of behavior. The concept is so simple yet potent, I am amazed at how many people don’t use this principle to improve their personal or professional performance.

I think a simple notepad is a self-improvement powerhouse. It is one of the most powerful self-improvement tools in existence; when it is used to record an activity. Logging an activity creates greater awareness. Awareness is the first step in changing our behavior. When we record an activity, it forces us to become more mindful of our decisions, big and small. Often it is the small, seemingly insignificant decisions that are sabotaging us.

Eating that cookie in the breakroom, losing valuable time by allowing yourself to become distracted, skipping a workout, or staying up late watching TV instead of getting a good night’s sleep. Anyone of these decisions by themselves isn’t devastating, but their accumulative effects are.

Whatever it is you want to improve, your time management, your leadership, your relationships, your business, your eating patterns, your exercise consistency, or your spending, you must track it. Be relentless. Track everything related to the behavior you want to improve. Awareness is the first step toward transformation.

“Real transformation requires real honesty. If you want to move forward — get real with yourself. Change will never happen if you lack the ability and courage to see yourself for who you really are. Begin to elevate yourself today. Try to make better decisions.” — Bryant McGill

Bad habits are the result of cognitive neglect and mindless actions. The danger of bad habits is that we aren’t really involved in the decision-making process. We encounter the cue, and we begin to execute the routine, our conscious mind essentially goes to sleep until we receive the reward which reinforces the behavior. When we fall prey to bad habits, our mind is essentially operating at the level of the animals. One of our greatest gifts as human beings is our ability to connect what we are doing in the present to the results it will produce in the future. Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate rewards will determine how much we will accomplish in our lifetime.

Harvard social psychologist Daniel Gilbert says “What’s so curious about human beings is that we can look deeply into the future, foresee disaster, and still do nothing in the present to stop it. The majority of people on this planet are overwhelmed with concerns about their immediate well being.” He says that most of us have a hard time relating to our future self. We treat our future selves like a stranger, so when we are given a choice that will benefit our future self or present self, we have an overwhelming bias to take care of our immediate needs. You might not think this applies to you, in that case, he would tell you, “If you are like most people, then like most people, you don’t know you’re like most people.”

The more we discount future rewards, the more likely we are to act impulsively and develop bad habits; because bad habits always produce immediate gratification, while productive habits rarely do. The reason the “Marshmallow Test” was so predictive of the future behavior of the study’s participants in the decades that followed is that it provided a direct measurement of the child’s ability to delay gratification.

Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate ones will determine if we are going to invest in our future or squander it with impulsive actions. The future is either purchased by the present or stolen by it. Bad habits are thieves that rob us of our future one day at a time. The only way we can protect our future is by replacing bad habits with good habits. It is simple, but it isn’t easy. It requires diligence and effort. Progress is always intentional.

Our original reward system was based on food. Food wasn’t always available, like it is now, so our dopamine system was wired to seek immediate gratification. When our body senses a drop in blood sugar levels, a potentially life-threatening condition, our dopamine system is activated, and our desire to eat is palpable. This triggering mechanism is why small frequent meals, high in protein and slow digesting carbohydrates can significantly reduce cravings by keeping blood sugar levels stable.

Once our dopamine system is activated, any food could restore our blood sugar levels, but our primitive brain has been conditioned to seek high sugar foods since they will produce the most immediate rise in blood sugar levels. A failure to plan and have healthy snack options available, like an apple, will leave you susceptible to whatever junk food someone brought into the office. Instead of satisfying your craving with a nutritious 60-calorie apple, you end up eating an unhealthy 400-calorie donut, kolache, breakfast burrito, or cookie.

We didn’t begin cultivating crops and planning for the future until our newer prefrontal cortex was developed. It is our prefrontal cortex that is responsible for human beings ability to think of the future in a meaningful way. Before it’s development, any reward that was more than a few minutes away, wasn’t a consideration. As you have learned, our Elephant, which is driven to seek immediate gratification is able to easily overpower the Rider when the Rider has not prepared the Path or is uncertain what direction to lead the Elephant.

The smaller Rider cannot hope to overcome the two-ton Elephant through brute force and willpower, but he can steer the Elephant away from the temptation through preparation. He can shape the Path by removing temptations, when possible, having healthy snacks available always, and using future discounting to his advantage.

Our primitive rewards system treats any reward that is 10-minutes away like a future reward. Instead of our Rider telling our Elephant “No, you cannot have it” which would cause our mind to focus on the reward until our willpower is drained to exhaustion, in a phenomenon clinical psychologist call ironic rebound. Ironic rebound theory explains why our mind tends to focus on any thought we try to push away.

It is much easier and more effective to tell our Elephant, “Ok, you can have it, but you have to wait for 10-minutes.” This technique avoids our mind’s tendency to focus on the reward and cools our desires by making the reward feel like a future reward instead of an immediate one. Chances are in 10-minutes you will no longer feel the impulse.[i] Even if you do, you have still strengthened your willpower by overcoming the immediate temptation. Over time, this technique will significantly reduce the number and severity of your willpower lapses. Remember not to be overly critical of yourself when you give in to temptation because it will lead to stress eating. When we are struggling to overcome a bad habit and beat ourselves up about a willpower failure, our stressed-out mind will seek immediate relief, often from the very behavior, we are trying to curb. It isn’t logical, but it is all too human. Emotions can easily overcome reason.

Awareness prevents us from mindlessly falling into bad habits. The problem with most bad habits is that their negative consequences aren’t immediate. If you took one bite from a cookie and immediately gained 5-pounds, you wouldn’t take another bite. If you took one puff from a cigarette and instantly experienced health problems, you would put it down, but of course, these bad habits only produce immediate pleasure without any immediate consequences. If we aren’t mindful of their long-term cumulative effects, it is easy to convince ourselves it is just one cookie, one cigarette.

The self-deceit is especially insidious because there is a basis of truth and logic to the argument. One isolated indiscretion is negligible, it is what we do habitually that matters, but of course, in this case, the behavior is a bad habit, so it does matter. Gretchen Rubin, calls this excuse “the one-coin loophole.” In Erasmus’s Praise of Folly, the argument of the growing heap is made, “If ten coins are not enough to make a man rich, what if you add one coin? What if you add another? Finally, you will have to say that no one can be rich unless one coin can make him so.” What is implied is that while a single coin cannot make one rich, the accumulation of many coins is the only way to become rich.[ii]

Our actions are like the coins in Erasmus’s essay. One visit to the gym or sticking to our meal plan for a single day is inconsequential to our health, but the habit of going to the gym and controlling our food intake is invaluable. I’ll start logging my food intake tomorrow. It’s Sarah’s birthday, I’ll enjoy a piece of cake and start recording my food again next week. It’s just one workout. A year from now, what I did today won’t matter. It’s only one piece of cake. One beer won’t make a difference. Why work on that report today, when the deadline is three weeks away?

People enjoy using the one-coin excuse so often on themselves, that they will use it on other people. Numerous times people have told me that I could skip my lunch hour workout or eat a cookie in the breakroom. They are correct. I could skip the gym or eat the cookie, but I know that it is the habit of going to the gym and resisting the cookie that is important to my health and happiness. Nothing tastes better than looking lean and feeling strong. When you develop the exercise habit, it becomes a positive addiction. I hate missing a workout. I do skip the gym occasionally to bond with colleagues over lunch, but I usually plan ahead by exercising in the morning. I have noticed that I am always dragging in the afternoon when I miss a workout. Regular exercise is addictive because it makes you feel fantastic; improving your mood, focus, and energy.

Every day we are given the gift of choice. Each day our habits can create the future we want, or rob us of it. The only constant in life is change. Habits determine our direction. We can choose to embrace good habits that move us steadily toward our goals, or bad habits that take us further and further off course. The choice is usually between instant gratification and future accomplishment. When we develop good habits, time is our friend, but when we allow bad habits to persist, time works against us. “You cannot change your destination overnight, but you can change your direction overnight.” Jim Rohn We are who we are and where we are because of our past decisions and habits. If we want to improve our circumstances, we must improve the quality of our decisions and habits.

If you really want to change a behavior track it for at least a week. A month would be even better. As you have already learned, it takes approximately 66-days on average to make a new habit sustainable, not the 21-days that most were taught. Habit formation timelines vary depending on how difficult the behavior is perceived to be by the individual. The more difficult the action, the longer the habit takes to form. Making improvements in any area requires measurement, but you must measure the right metrics.

Many people make the mistake of only measuring their desired outcome when attempting to achieve a goal. The other common mistake is not to set a deadline. Effective leaders set stretch goals for their organization that need to be reached within a specified time frame. A goal needs to have a deadline. A deadline helps create a sense of urgency. Deadlines help establish priorities and prevent procrastination. After setting goals, they look at lead and lag indicators. Lead indicators are daily actions we can take to achieve our long-term goal, measured by lag indicators. For example, generating sales leads might be a lead indicator, while the lag indicator would be an increase in sales revenue. Fat loss lead indicators are your daily caloric intake and total daily protein intake. The lag indicators are your weekly body weight averages and average body fat percentages. If you want to achieve a goal, your progress must be measurable.

“If you want it, measure it. If you can’t measure it, forget it.” Peter Drucker

Everything and anything you want to improve must be measurable. You might think some things can’t be measured, like building employee loyalty, but I would argue it can. If a leader wants to build loyalty in their organization, they could decide that twice a week they are going to visit two employees whose managers say they have been doing a great job and paying them a compliment for their excellent work. She could then inquire as to how they are doing and ask if there are any resources they need, including training, to help them be even more effective. Tracking her consistency would be the lead indicators, and quarterly feedback from culture surveys would be the lag indicator. Loyalty is a two-way street. Showing employees that the leadership values their contribution, and is committed to their professional development is how you earn loyalty.

If you want employees to care about the company, the company leadership has to show they care about the employees. Companies like Kimberly Clark inspire strong employee loyalty by coming up with imaginative ways of avoiding layoffs during times of declining revenue. In one instance, they were able to convince 80 of 100 production workers to change roles so they could avoid laying them off. These employees became marketers that added millions of dollars to the company’s annual sales.[iii] Companies that inspire loyalty from their employees enjoy less employee turnover which leads to a better trained, more productive workforce. I don’t want to stray too far from the topic of getting in shape, I just wanted to demonstrate that almost anything can be measured and that anything that can be measured can be improved.

Whatever you want to change or improve you must find a way to measure your progress. You simply need to find an impactful activity you can do each day, a lead indicator and track your consistency. Next, find a way to measure the impact it is having, the lag indicator. More often than not, these small daily activities will take time to produce results; but if you selected impactful daily activities and executed them consistently, they will produce outstanding results. That is the power of compounding effort. Small efforts repeated can create miracles. “Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.” Ovid

Success is a numbers game. Consistency is the key. If you want to become more consistent at doing something, you must track it. Tracking your consistency will cause you to become more consistent. Simple, but how many people actually keep track of their consistency. When I want to adopt a new behavior like performing 30-minutes of professional reading each day, I track it. I keep a simple scorecard on my desk to register how many times each month I complete the task. I only take a minute each day to score my day based on my goals, but the impact is profound.

I can look at the scorecard and immediately see which behaviors I am doing well at adopting and which ones need improvement. Not tracking your performance is like playing a game without keeping score. I know that some people do this so they can protect their little snowflakes from life’s disappointments as long as possible, but I am not a fan of this codling. Life has winners and losers, and kids need to know how they are performing. Life keeps score. The sooner they learn that, the better. You need to keep score as well. You need to know how you are doing. You need to see if you’re making progress or neglecting to make progress. I use the word neglect intentionally. Being consistent requires diligence. When people say; I would do it if I had more time. I tell them to forget it. There isn’t any more time.

We all get 24-hours each day. When the clock hits midnight that wraps it up. I don’t care who you are, a billionaire or a beggar, we all get 24-hours each day to do what is meaningful to us. Today is your life in miniature. What you consistently do is what makes you who you are. What you do consistently will determine where you will be, 3-months from now, 3-years from now. If you don’t make time to do the things that are necessary to get better, then you just aren’t going to get better.

We make time for our priorities; we make excuses for everything else. You need to know where you are succeeding and where you need to improve. If you want to improve your running, keep track of your performance and set goals to reduce your time covering a fixed distance. Simple, but how many people go running each day without keeping track of their average time covering their route?

If you want a new salesperson to make, 10 sales calls a week, on Friday you should invite him into your office and ask, “So how many calls did you make?” When he begins to provide an explanation, you gently explain that that will not fit in your box. You need a number. That number will tell you everything you need to know. His work ethic, his attitude, his drive, his ambition, and what you can expect from him in the future. If for example, he made twenty calls, you have made an excellent hiring decision, but if he only made three calls, well, you’ll need to have a little talk and see what you can do to motivate him to do better. In most cases, workers will improve their performance because they know it is being tracked by management.

Goals must be measurable so you can gauge your progress toward them. Your progress must be so simple that anyone could look at where you are and determine if you are making progress. Your progress has to be calculable. If you can’t measure your progress toward a goal forget it. Consistency is easy to measure. There are apps available that can help you form new habits. Strides, Streaks, Fabulous, and Toodledo, are just a few of the habit-forming apps available. The Strides app is particularly useful at developing new habits because it allows you to program action triggers. You can schedule multiple reminders for each task, and the app tracks your consistency.

We must master consistency. The one trait every successful person, business, or organization has in common is consistency. A restaurant that is hit or miss with the quality of food it serves will be out of business soon and rightfully so. It isn’t what you occasionally do that matters; it is what you do consistently that will make you better. You are what you repeatedly do. Positive actions, repeated every day produce massive results over time. The smallest, seemingly insignificant actions repeated out of habit will produce profound results when given enough time. That is the positive side of disciplined consistency. The negative is also true. Small seemingly unimportant neglects, over time, create a crisis. One bad decision doesn’t normally cause a Bankruptcies. It is typically the result of many bad decisions repeated for months and years. Divorce is usually the result of months and years of neglect as well. The decision to divorce might be triggered by one event, but it is all the small neglects over time that leads to the dissolution of the marriage. Relationships require effort. Probably the best book on the topic is Gary Chapman’s The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts, which has sold over five million copies. Often the couples in his book were able to transform their relationships by learning their spouses love language and developing the habit of expressing love to their partner a couple of times a week. In a matter of weeks they can refill their spouses “love tank;” not with a single grand gesture, but with small seemingly inconsequential acts of affection consistently repeated. These seemingly small gestures produced remarkable results in marriages that were on the brink of divorce. Small doesn’t remain small when it accumulates.

Snowflakes accumulate to form colossal valley glaciers. As a child, Warren Buffet observed that when you rolled a snowball, it grew. He applied this metaphor to money. He saw a dollar today as being worth $10 in the future due to the compounding effect of interest over time. He used this philosophy to avoid wasteful spending in his youth. His unique perspective on money is one reason he was able to accumulate so much wealth. When every dollar you spend today is seen as ten dollars in the future, you realize the cost of a $4 coffee is really $40. This metaphor is the origin of his Biography’s title, The Snowball: Warren Buffett and the Business of Life.

Albert Einstein said, “Compound interest is the eighth wonder of the world. He who understands it earns it… he who doesn’t… pays it.” Darren Hardy, publisher and editorial director of Success magazine, provides a great example of the importance of saving early in life in his excellent book, The Compound Effect. One person begins investing $250 a month, at the age of 23 and does this until the age of 40. Her friend invests the same amount each month but doesn’t begin investing until the age of 40. He continues until the age of 67, which is the average retirement age. If both saw a return of 8% on their investment, she would have accumulated a little over a $1,000,000, while he would have accumulated less than $300,000, because he started late. He would have less than one third her accumulated wealth despite investing for 10 more years than she did and contributing $27,000 more than she did. [iv]

Poor people pay interest, and the wealthy earn it. You can make large sums of money, but if you don’t save or invest any of it, you will never accumulate wealth. Look at all the professional athletes, performers, and lottery winners that end up broke. It was because they didn’t have the discipline to manage their money correctly. It has been said that if you took all the money in the world, divided it up equally among everyone, it would soon end up in the same pockets. Darren Hardy’s mentor Jim Rohn routinely recommended people purchase and read Richest Man in Babylon by George Clason.

Jim said that typically only 10% of the people would purchase the book and read it, despite the book being very inexpensive, and easy to read at one sitting. The book explains in simple terms by way of storytelling how to become wealthy, and yet most people will not bother. He struggled to understand why so few people would invest the small amount of time and money required to learn the fundamentals of accumulating wealth. He explained it this way, what is easy to do is easy not to do. He said the average person will not bother to read the book or apply the information.

Don’t be average. The best way to be successful is to do what unsuccessful people won’t do. If you aren’t financially independent, I also recommend you pick up the book. My 9-year old daughter read it in just a few minutes. I want her to understand how she can become wealthy. I want compound interest and time to work for her. Wealthy people make money work hard for them, while poor people work hard for their money. Successful people adopt good habits that make time work for them, while unsuccessful people develop bad habits that make time work against them.  Learn to make time and money work for you.

“In the confrontation between the stream and the rock the stream always wins not through strength but by perseverance.”  Buddha

Habits produce results similar to the “flywheel effect” that Jim Collins describes in his best seller, Good to Great. When you begin adopting a new habit, it takes a lot of energy, like putting a massive flywheel that is motionless into motion. When you first push on the huge metal disk horizontally mounted on an axle, it barely moves. The motion is almost imperceptible, but push after push it begins to pick up momentum. Effort, upon effort, the massive disk builds more and more momentum until it is generating huge amounts of energy. Twitter was unsuccessful for its first couple of years, but its creators just kept at it, and eventually it picked-up and then exploded. Success is the result of consistency and grit; small effort, upon small effort. These efforts produce small, unremarkable results, but over time, they accumulate until a breakthrough occurs. Jim Collins describes the success of the Good to Great companies this way in his book, “There was no single defining action, no grand program, no one killer innovation, no solitary lucky break, no wrenching revolution. Good to great comes about by a cumulative process—step by step, action by action, decision by decision, turn by turn of the flywheel—that adds up to sustained and spectacular results.” [v]

What separates successful people from unsuccessful people is consistency. People that are in excellent physical condition are not a special breed. The only thing that separates them is that they have mastered consistency. Consistency is the game. Being fit has to do with exercising regularly. Being lean has to do with consistently controlling your food intake, so you don’t exceed your energy requirements. You should do both, but you need to understand that you cannot out exercise a bad diet. If you want to get leaner, you must begin eating less food than your body is burning each day. I wish I could tell you that as long as you work out every day for an hour, you can eat all you want, but that would be a lie. I don’t wish to mislead you.

For years I carried an extra 10 pounds of body fat. I exercised consistently, but I didn’t track my eating. It wasn’t until I started tracking my food intake that I lost those last few pounds. My experience is not unique; anyone that has achieved a lean physique did it by monitoring their food intake. I don’t know anyone that got lean through exercise alone.

Exercise helps you get lean and look better. Strength training helps create a harder looking physique so you can avoid that skinny fat look that cardio only exercise programs produce, but it isn’t the primary driver of body composition improvements. Weight loss is always driven by energy balance.

Cardio and strength training both burn calories, but strength training helps you maintain and build muscle while restricting calories, so it is much more effective at creating a better-looking physique. A common mistake I see people making when trying to gain muscle or lose fat is focusing on their exercise program.

Weight gain and weight loss are controlled by calories in vs. calories out. When you want to gain or lose weight, focus primarily on your diet; how many calories and how much protein you consume everyday. When you want to improve performance, focus on setting performance goals and varying the intensity of your workouts so that an intense period of training is followed by an intense period of recovery. Everything matters, but some things matter more than others. You cannot outrun a bad diet. You can train with an all-out effort all the time, or you’ll experience mental and physical burnout and increase your likelihood of injury. Consistency is more important than intensity.  “A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.” Anthony Trollope

[i] Kelly McGonigal, The Willpower Instinct: How Self-Control Works, Why It Matters, and What You Can Do to Get More of It, Avery; Reprint edition (December 31, 2013)

[ii] Gretchen Rubin, Strategy of Loophole-Spotting #10: the One-Coin Loophole. January 31, 2014.

[iii] Elizabeth M. Fowler, Careers; When Job Security Is Provided, The New York Times, Published: October 10, 1984.

[iv] Darren Hardy, The Compound Effect, Vanguard Press; Csm edition (October 2, 2012).

[v] Jim Collins, Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap and Others Don’t, HarperBusiness; 1st edition (October 16, 2001).)

      “Real transformation requires real honesty. If you want to move forward — get real with yourself. Change will never happen if you lack the ability and courage to see yourself for who you really are. Begin to elevate yourself today. Try to make better decisions. Become a beauty seeker. If you can begin to believe in your own beauty, you can then begin to believe in the beauty of others. The transformation of the world takes place in your heart. Once you reach the summit of your own heart you will see beauty is everywhere.” — Bryant McGill “What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle.

[garywonghc]

Real Happiness

by Sharon Salzberg

Meditation is essentially a way to train our attention so we can be more aware of both our inner workings and what’s happening around us. It’s straightforward and simple, but it isn’t easy.

People have been transforming their minds through meditation for thousands of years. Every major world religion includes some form of contemplative exercise, though today meditation is often practised apart from any belief system. Meditation may be done in silence and stillness, by using voice and sound, or by engaging the body in movement. All forms emphasise the training of attention.

“My experience is what I agree to attend to,” the pioneering psychologist William James wrote at the turn of the twentieth century. “Only those items I notice shape my mind.” At its most basic level, attention — what we allow ourselves to notice — literally determines how we experience and navigate the world. The ability to summon and sustain attention is what allows us to job hunt, juggle, learn math, make pancakes, aim a cue and pocket the eight ball, protect our kids, and perform surgery. It lets us be discerning in our dealings with the world, responsive in our intimate relationships, and honest when we examine our own feelings and motives. Attention determines our degree of intimacy with our ordinary experiences and contours our entire sense of connection to life.

The content and quality of our lives depend on our level of awareness — a fact we are often not aware of. There’s an old story, usually attributed to a Native American elder, that’s meant to illuminate the power of attention. A grandfather imparting a life lesson to his grandson tells him, “I have two wolves fighting in my heart. One wolf is vengeful, fearful, envious, resentful, deceitful. The other wolf is loving, compassionate, generous, truthful, and serene.” The grandson asks which wolf will win the fight. The grandfather answers, “The one I feed.”

But that’s only part of the picture. True, whatever gets our attention flourishes, so if we lavish attention on the negative and inconsequential, they can overwhelm the positive and the meaningful. But if we do the opposite, refusing to deal with or acknowledge what’s difficult and painful, pretending it doesn’t exist, then our world is out of whack. Whatever doesn’t get our attention withers — or retreats below conscious awareness, where it may still affect our lives. In a perverse way, ignoring the painful and the difficult is just another way of feeding the wolf. Meditation teaches us to open our attention to all of human experience and all parts of ourselves.

Meditation is pragmatic, the psychological and emotional equivalent of a physical training program: If you exercise regularly, you get certain results — stronger muscles, denser bones, increased stamina. If you meditate regularly, you also get certain results, including greater calm, and improved concentration and more connection to others. But there are other rewards.

You’ll begin to spot the unexamined assumptions that get in the way of happiness.

These assumptions we make about who we are and the way the world works — what we deserve, how much we can handle, where happiness is to be found, whether or not positive change is possible — all greatly influence how and to what we pay attention.

I was reminded of how assumptions can get in our way when I visited the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C., to view a work of art by a sculptor friend. Eagerly I checked every room, peered at every display case and pedestal — no sculpture. Finally I gave up. As I headed for the exit, I glanced up — and there was her beautiful piece. It was a bas-relief hanging on the wall, not the freestanding statue I’d expected; my assumptions had put blinders on me and almost robbed me of the experience of seeing what was really there — her amazing work. In the same way, our assumptions keep us from appreciating what’s right in front of us — a stranger who’s a potential friend, a perceived adversary who might actually be a source of help. Assumptions block direct experience and prevent us from gathering information that could bring us comfort and relief, or information that, though saddening and painful, will allow us to make better decisions.

Here are some familiar assumptions you might recognise: We have nothing in common. I won’t be able to do it. You can’t reason with a person like that. Tomorrow will be exactly like today. If I just try hard enough, I’ll manage to control him/her/it/them. Only big risks can make me feel alive. I’ve blown it; I should just give up. I know just what she’s going to say, so I don’t really need to listen to her. Happiness is for other people, not me. Statements like these are motivated by fear, desire, boredom, or ignorance. Assumptions bind us to the past, obscure the present, limit our sense of what’s possible, and elbow out joy. Until we detect and examine our assumptions, they short-circuit our ability to observe objectively; we think we already know what’s what.

You’ll stop limiting yourself. When we practice meditation, we often begin to recognise a specific sort of conditioned response — previously undetected restrictions we’ve imposed on our lives. We spot the ways we sabotage our own growth and success because we’ve been conditioned to be content with meagre results. Meditation allows us to see that these limits aren’t inherent or immutable; they were learned and they can be unlearned — but not until we recognise them. (Some common limiting ideas: She’s the smart one, you’re the pretty one. People like us don’t stand a chance. Kids from this neighbourhood don’t become doctors.) Training attention through meditation opens our eyes. Then we can assess these conditioned responses — and if parts of them contain some truth, we can see it clearly and put it to good use; if parts of them just don’t hold up under scrutiny, we can let them go.

You’ll weather hard times better. Meditation teaches us safe ways to open ourselves to the full range of experience — painful, pleasurable, and neutral — so we can learn how to be a friend to ourselves in good times and bad. During meditation sessions we practice being with difficult emotions and thoughts, even frightening or intense ones, in an open and accepting way, without adding self-criticism to something that already hurts. Especially in times of uncertainty or pain, meditation broadens our perspective and deepens our sense of courage and capacity for adventure. Here’s how you get braver: little by little. In small, manageable, bearable increments, we make friends with the feelings that once terrified us. Then we can say to ourselves, I’ve managed to sit down, face some of my most despairing thoughts and my most exuberantly hopeful ones without judging them. That took strength; what else can I tackle with that same strength? Meditation lets us see that we can accomplish things we didn’t think ourselves capable of.

You’ll rediscover a deeper sense of what’s really important to you. Once you look beneath distractions and conditioned reactions, you’ll have a clearer view of your deepest, most enduring dreams, goals, and values.

You’ll have a portable emergency resource. Meditation is the ultimate mobile device; you can use it anywhere, anytime, unobtrusively. You’re likely to find yourself in situations — having a heated argument at work, say, or chauffeuring a crowd of rambunctious kids to a soccer game — when you can’t blow off steam by walking around the block, hitting the gym, or taking a time-out in the tub. But you can always follow your breath.

You’ll be in closer touch with the best parts of yourself. Meditation practice cultivates qualities such as kindness, trust, and wisdom that you may think are missing from your makeup but are actually undeveloped or obscured by stress and distractions. Meditation practice gives us the chance to locate these qualities so we can access them more easily and frequently.

You’ll recapture the energy you’ve been wasting trying to control the uncontrollable. I once led a retreat in California during a monsoon like rainstorm. It’s so soggy and unpleasant that people aren’t going to have a good retreat, I thought. I felt bad for the participants; in fact, I felt responsible. For a few days I wanted to apologise to everybody for the rain until a thought flickered: Wait a minute. I’m not even from California; I’m from Massachusetts. This isn’t my weather. This is their weather. Maybe they should apologise to me! And then the voice of deeper wisdom arose: Weather is weather. This is what happens.

We’ve all had weather moments — times when we’ve felt responsible for everyone’s good time or well-being. It’s our job, we think, to fix the temperature and humidity, or the people around us (if we could only get our partner to quit smoking, consult a map, stick to a diet). We even think we’re capable of totally controlling our own emotions — I shouldn’t ever feel envious, or resentful, or spiteful! That’s awful! I’m going to stop. You might as well say, “I’m never going to catch a cold again!” Though we can affect our physical and emotional experiences, we can’t ultimately determine them; we can’t decree what emotions will arise within us. But we can learn through meditation to change our responses to them. That way we’re spared a trip down a path of suffering we’ve travelled many times before. Recognising what we can’t control (the feelings that arise within us; other people; the weather) helps us have healthier boundaries at work and at home — no more trying to reform everyone all the time. It helps us to stop beating up on ourselves for having perfectly human emotions. It frees energy we expend on trying to control the uncontrollable.

You’ll understand how to relate to change better — to accept that it’s inevitable and believe that it’s possible. Most of us have a mixed, often paradoxical attitude toward change. Some of us don’t think change is possible at all; we believe we’re stuck forever doing things the way we’ve always done them. Some of us simultaneously hope for change and fear it. We want to believe that change is possible, because that means that our lives can get better. But we also have trouble accepting change, because we want to hold on permanently to what’s pleasurable and positive. We’d like difficulties to be fleeting and comfort to stick around.

Trying to avoid change is exhausting and stressful. Everything is impermanent: happiness, sorrow, a great meal, a powerful empire, what we’re feeling, the people around us, ourselves. Meditation helps us comprehend this fact — perhaps the basic truth of human existence, and the one we humans are most likely to balk at or be oblivious to, especially when it comes to the biggest change of all: Mortality happens, whether we like it or not. We grow old and die. (In the ancient Indian epic, the Mahabharata, a wise king is asked to name the most wondrous thing in the universe. “The most wondrous thing in the entire universe,” he says, “is that all around us people are dying and we don’t believe it will happen to us.”) Meditation is a tool for helping us accept the profound fact that everything changes all the time.

Meditating offers a chance to see change in microcosm. Following our breath while observing how thoughts continually ebb and flow can help us realise that all elements of our experience are in constant flux. During a meditation session, it’s natural to go through many ups and downs, to encounter both new delights and newly awakened conflicts that have bubbled up from the unconscious mind. Sometimes you tap into a wellspring of peace. Other times you might feel waves of sleepiness, boredom, anxiety, anger, or sadness. Snatches of old songs may play in your head; long-buried memories can surface. You may feel wonderful or awful. Daily meditation will remind us that if we look closely at a painful emotion or difficult situation, it’s bound to change; it’s not as solid and unmanageable as it might have seemed. The fear we feel in the morning may be gone by the afternoon. Hopelessness may be replaced by a glimmer of optimism. Even while a challenging situation is unfolding, it is shifting from moment to moment, varied, alive. What happens during meditation shows us that we’re not trapped, that we have options. Then, even if we’re afraid, we can find a way to go on, to keep trying.

This is not a Pollyanna sentiment that everything will be just fine, according to our wishes or our timetable. Rather it is an awakened understanding that gives us the courage to go into the unknown and the wisdom to remember that as long as we are alive, possibility is alive. We can’t control what thoughts and emotions arise within us, nor can we control the universal truth that everything changes. But we can learn to step back and rest in the awareness of what’s happening. That awareness can be our refuge.

[vmfx]

I CHATED DEATH...AND WON.

It was just another Friday afternoon on my way to work at the women’s clothing store. The weather was damp, humid, and drizzly; post-rain with grey skies. I drove my way up to Caleb’s Path and switched to the right lane with the vehicle in front of me now on my left as I wait for the stoplight to go green.

When it turned green, I went forward turning left, assuming I’d complete the turn, go forward on Motor Parkway, wait for another light, check the day’s oil prices, and jump on the expressway to Huntington with no problem. I assumed wrong.  As I made that left-hand turn on my right lane, I met the pick-up truck that introduced itself to my driver’s side without warning. We hit it off right away.

We collided and the feeling was so unreal. I never even thought to be in the position that I was at that day. The impact was so great that my body rocked and swayed inside the vehicle like a Texas rodeo with the seatbelt holding me back. My head and face connected with the airbag with a hit feeling like never before. God bless the airbag.

After it was over, I was left with this amazing feeling that I was in this unimaginable situation, that I was still alive, amazed that this had happened to me. In a matter of just five seconds after impact, I got right out of the passenger’s side of the car and surveyed the damage. Needless to say, the truck driver was more shaken up than I was. He couldn’t contain himself.

His truck, mostly intact, pushed my car onto the middle of the street. That was how powerful it was. Within minutes the police arrive to check up on me. By that time I was smiling like it was nothing because already the incident fucked itself and failed and I knew everything would be all right. I sat on the back of his truck thinking about how lucky I really was like never before. I was also thinking about Yenny, the one person in my life who really cared for me since day one and how sad and distraught she would be if I came out crippled or brain-dead; the dramatic result from the lively, dynamic, animated me to a flat-lining, lifeless spectacle.

The fire department came and lo and behold the first person from that department who helped me was this guy Nicky who was my former schoolyard bully from my Brentwood years. He didn’t believe to see me in a situation like this but it was good times until the department laid me out on the stretcher and into the ambulance for safety sake. I was then introduced to Patrick, another person from Brentwood whom I have not seen in years who is now part of the department. The good times keep on rolling.

Back at work, all the female supervisors had no idea that I won’t be showing up to work. They had no idea that I was in a car accident…yet. They decided I was late for work and went on with their office roundtable conversations about yesterday’s Oprah and celebrity gossip. The clock is ticking.

I arrive at the emergency room, laid out on the bed being checked out by medical and holding my already-broken nose from bleeding. My face feels burndt, bruised, and swollen from the impact from the airbag. I also receive a good headache from the impact. My face would be puffy and zenfully painful for days. From there my family is with me and we all put together the pieces of the puzzle of what else happened at the scene of the accident. My brother White Boy got the call of what happened and death-raced toward the scene.

Then the headache gets heavier and heavier. I lie for a good hour wishing for a dream state because my mind just wants to drift from all the numbness I was dealing with. After being written up and released from the hospital, I’m on my way home. Through the emergency room people stop, look, and stare at me like the Second Coming of Christ, only they never seen a person in such horrible shape.

I retire at home to take a shower, call work to verify that I definitely won’t make it to work, and tell Yenny that everything is AOK. She stopped by later that night to drop off a care-package as she always does. Iced tea, Dr. Pepper, fruit cups, string cheese, that day’s news, and a teddy bear. She was talking to me about her road test for her license, then I show her my car, now totaled from earlier before which had made its way back home resting on my driveway.

I took pictures of the final result which is twisted metal. The driver’s side door is totally blown in and crushed. A massive dent no mechanic could ever fix, totally hopeless. The windshield drew itself as a cracked spider web that kept itself together. No back windshield, that’s gone. The back left tire also was torn apart.

In a few days, I find out a lot of things concerning my accident. My family and I find out that the driver of the truck did indeed blow the red light and was fearful enough to admit it on record. My brother showed me a tiny piece of the truck’s front bumper that broke off upon impact, flying through the side window. It missed my cranium by an inch or two and ended up in the back seat of my car.

Had I taken off from the light a split-second later or went just a little slower, that piece of fender would have impaled me and I possibly would not have ever woken up from the accident. Or, how my brother also explained to me that the entire back windshield flew off from my car and was recovered from the front lawn of an industrial building twenty feet from the accident site, all in one piece. After filling several forms out, sitting through some meetings with an insurance agent, and driving a rental 2005 Chevy Malibu to remember this time of my life by, in due time the accident is all past me as if it never happened.

**********

I look back and think about what if, just what if? What if I left work a little earlier and not catch that helping of an accident? What if I was struck in the head with that stray piece of fender? How worse would that accident be if that airbag somehow did not go off? How would I live with myself and deal with the new cards I’ve been dealt with? How would I be handicapped and debilitated, and what would others think of me? It no longer matters anymore because I am still the same, if not, even more resilient than ever before. I don’t even think about it because it’s now inconsequential.

Just like the next five or ten minutes after the accident, I scoffed it off because I know the Devil did not win. I knew I was going to be all right. Remember when you were 12, 13, 15, 17, and whatever trouble you got into you got out of because you felt invincible? That’s how I felt. I was saved. I counted my lucky stars that a seat belt and an airbag saved my life. They helped me cheat death, that talent only some people could ever have. Even though they are not 100% effective as some people attest, every measure of safety is better than none.

After the accident, my life and luck has changed for the better. For some reason I have been feeling euphoric, intense, and supercharged. Maybe it’s the events, people, smiles, and surprises around me. The car crash had been a big wake-up call that I needed to make the best out of this situation called life. Only a person like me would laugh at an event like this, and I’m going to ride this out for all it’s worth.

The end result of the accident is just as pleasing as a life revelation: you can’t prepare for these things, they just happen out of nowhere and you end up dealing with it. The outcome is always ugly to experience and to look at it from a retrospect.

For those of you who were with me: thank you for your condolences and wishes. For those against me: sorry, deal with it. Better luck next time. For those keeping score: I’m great, but the car is now shite.

[whatdoyouexpectthistime]

Astoria: In Chaos - Part 1

This story is set somewhere after the events of Hydra’s Season 2, but before he gets hitched to ‘MC’ (who is actually Jazz in this instance). Der, Miho is the NEW MC.

DAY X

Miho rounded the corner with a spring in her step, but came to a sudden, jarring halt.

Before her stood a man she thought she’d never see again – a source of deep, agonising love, deep pain and terrible trepidation.

As if he too was surprised, Hades simply stood staring at her, though with far less confusion than she – after all, he had been doing the searching, and she the hiding.

Careful to not yet move, he studied her eyes, locked with his. Those hazel meres had once held such strength, a powerful, noble and idealistic passion he’d thought immutable, but now the light seemed all but gone. She was exhausted, her skin far paler than he had ever seen, her hair dull, her lips a slowly parting line of anguish he had carved there himself.

When finally he moved his hand, just the slightest of forward motions, she flinched back a step, poised to flee.

“Miho wait,” he said quickly – not quite a gasp or a hiss, not quite a barking command, but clearly conveying the urgency of his entreaty.

Her lips began to tremble, and the sea rushed to fill her eyes with waves barely held in check.

“You have no idea,” she began, her voice a mere and shaking whisper, “how much I have wanted, to hear you say my name…”

There she paused, as the knife drawing new blood from her already tattered heart, also cut deep ravines across her brow.

“… and how much I have feared it,” she finished on little more than a desperate breath.

But as she inhaled she drew herself up.

“I am so tired, so empty – just a frayed, threadbare effigy of my former self you set on fire,” she asserted through her teeth, “but I am not going back. I will not surrender - so stop hunting me.”

 DAYS 1 to 5

Once upon a time, idealistic me thought exposing and telling the truth was all that mattered. Lies, white or any other colour of the spectrum, were the root of all evil, chaos and discontent, and as a crusader, what I wanted most was to play my part in revealing them.

For justice.

For transparency.

For equity.

So good could prevail.

Well, I was an idiot, like most young zealots – blinded by self-righteousness and the lofty stature of my moral high horse.

I had cast aside the nay-sayers who told me journalism was a highly competitive fist-fight over the scraps of humanity, and set my sparkling, innocent eyes on uncovering corruption, slashing my way through subterfuge, and sticking it to the powerful who thought the ‘little guy’ was inconsequential.

Au contraire!

As one of those negligible blips in an ever shifting city, I was determined to prove it only took effort and perseverance to make a positive impact in the world. So I slogged my way through cat-up-tree stories, to burst water-mains and traffic chaos, from teacher strikes to criminal vandalism. From there it wasn’t long before I had my claws into theft and assault, and I was wolfishly eyeing off which local politician looked like he or she harboured a deep, dark secret. And I’d lived in Astoria my whole life, so I knew it like the back of my hand.

Except neighbourhoods are a whole lot more complicated than hands.

Hell, you can’t always see what’s really happening in the light, so you can forget about what’s lurking in the darkness… unless you’re a stupidly passionate investigative reporter looking for wrongs to right. Because if you’re anything like me, that leads you down dark alleys and into underground clubs, through seedy bars choked with smoke and into dens filled with monsters far worse than anything humanity really has to offer.

I stumbled into a labyrinth, resolute I’d find the bare facts at the centre – even if that meant I’d never find my way out.

But was I lost? Hell no!

Nope… wasn’t lost.

Not even once.

Knew my way back at any time.

Yep.

Back at my desk in three… two…

 DAY 6

Miho had run three blocks flat-chat, and when she finally skidded to a halt felt like she might vomit. Seeing her objective in front of her, however, swept away the nausea and refocused her mind on the goal of her mid-morning sprint.

There was a bloody great hole in the north end of Vernon Boulevard, rimming with jagged asphalt, concrete and dirt, but a cordon had already begun to take shape stopping traffic in both directions and access to Hallets Cove Playground.

“Regular cops,” she noted, still listening through one earbud to the police scanner she had tucked into her handbag.

As she looked for a way to get closer, she stretched out with her ‘reporter senses’, a preternatural ability to spot even the most seemingly insignificant detail.

No broken water mains here, not stranded cats, but also no bodies, no crashed cars, no smoke – just this ridiculous crater like something had exploded in the middle of the street.

“No bomb squad,” she murmured, slowly weaving through a group of curious bystanders toward the playground.

East River lapped gentle at the nearby dilapidated jetty, and for a moment Miho considered a brief swim might be her best way beyond the crime scene tape.

“Get back,” a policewoman growl somewhere to Miho’s right, and when her eyes turned she found a familiar figure.

“Come on,” the man grumbled, “just a few pictures; no one’s hurt right?”

“Thank you Rodger Mallard,” Miho grinned, as the other officer manning the boundary moved to assist his colleague in fending off Miho’s competitor.

She did not waste the opportunity.

Quickly she slid to the wire fence, and with her bag looped over one shoulder, she scaled the obstacle.

“They’re not here yet,” she grinned after a quick scan, and dug her phone out to begin taking photos.

What she found were several other craters like the one on the road, but she was more intrigued by the gaping great hole in the closest building. It looked like a car, or perhaps something a little taller, had crash through one wall, and continued right through and out the other side; but when Miho followed what looked to be the trajectory toward the water, she found no tyre tracks, and the undamaged play equipment between the building and the river indicated whatever had caused the destruction had stopped, or at the very least changed direction at a very sharp angle.

“You again,” came an irritated voice behind Miho.

She dodged away from the sound before looking back, a habit she’d developed after being nabbed for trespassing far too many times. As a result, the hand that had indeed reached for her swiped through the empty space where she’d been standing; it was only after she’d skipped forward and to the right a little, that she turned to look at the man who’d spoke.

Ice blue and fierce in his displeasure.

“I could say the same thing,” she smirked, backing up a little more as she tucked her phone into her pocket. “I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but you and yours have a habit of getting in the way of my stories.”

“Maybe if the tabloids had a little more respect for the victims of criminal damage, we wouldn’t have to,” he pointed out, matching her retreat with steady steps forward.

Miho became aware there was also a female figure approaching from the left, one she also recognised.

“Throw me a crumb and I’ll back off,” Miho volleyed. “What caused this damage maybe? Or how about, the name of the authority you belong to?”

Again she sidestepped when this time the woman reached for her, practiced footwork.

“How about your names so I at least know who keeps covering up these weird crimes,” she added.

Working his jaw, the man looked to his female compatriot almost as if for permission, and Miho saw the slight shake of her head.

“Fine,” he huffed, but it wasn’t in response to Miho’s request.

Suddenly he burst toward her, and it was only by a narrow margin that Miho was able to evade. If he caught her, her phone and the pictures she took would almost certainly be confiscated, and that just wouldn’t do.

As if being chased by a monster, Miho bolted for the gates of the park, even though they were closed and she could see the tall black screening this anonymous group of cover-up agents used to shroud their sites. Even if there were others on the other side, she was confident she could avoid them since she had the element of surprise.

But a tall, broad figure stepped from concealment and through the gates just as Miho reached them, and there was simply no time to stopped. Heavily she collided with the man’s solid chest, and rebounded with such force she was throw inelegantly to the ground.

Gasping and reeling from the shock of the impact, Miho sat dazed long enough for her two pursuers to catch up and block her in, but it was the shadow that had fallen over her that drew her attention.

He was also not unknown to her; she had seen him arrive at many of the other mysteriously cordoned off crime scenes over the last few months, though she had no name for him either.

“Miss Fujiwara,” he stated – a smooth baritone filled with disapproval. “This is becoming something of an inconvenient habit.”

This was the closest she’d ever been to him, and now just a couple of feet away, the magnitude of his presence momentarily strangled the witticism that begged to leave her lips.

And when she found her tongue, her first words to him were.

���Lilac hair. Bold choice.”

“Get up,” the man behind her hissed, taking her under the arm and lifting her up.

“Hey, watch where you’re putting those hands,” she protested, but did not struggle, for it seemed her muscles were paralysed by the luminescent amethysts bearing down upon her.

Eyes, two pools of liquid stardust reaching to some powerful place beyond her understanding.

Her bag, everything within it including her phone, was taken by the black suit-clad woman, while Miho continued to stare up.

“It seems you have me at a bit of a disadvantage,” she managed finally, but her voice emerged much smaller than she meant it to. “More than one, actually. If you’re going to take my stuff, maybe you could exchange it for your name? A badge maybe?”

“Hades,” he answered plainly.

“Sir?” the woman queried, her chin lifting quickly.

“Please show Miss Fujiwara to the correct side of the barrier, Agent Mann,” Hades prompted.

“Is that Mr. Hades? Dr. Hades? Officer Hades?” Miho pressed, seeming to snap out of the spell Hades’ had her under, thanks perhaps to the shove given to her my Agent Mann.

“Come on,” Agent Mann urged with an exasperated sigh.

“Come oooon!” Miho called back over her shoulder. “Professor Hades? How about Reverend Hades?”

“Reverend Hades,” Hydra smirked, when Agent Mann and Miho had disappeared from sight. “If only she knew.”

“It’s our job to ensure she doesn’t,” Hades pointed out coolly.

Though there was no longer any question about who it was Agent Mann had chosen as her lover, there was still no love lost between the god and the monster.

“Then why did you give her your name?” Hydra pursued, bristling a little.

“I hope giving her something might sate her long enough for at least this matter to be resolved,” Hades answered, but Hydra was shaking his head even half way through Hades’ sentence.

“That one’s a bloodhound, and in case her showing up at every crime scene we’ve been called to doesn’t clue you in, she’s persistent too,” Hydra told him, a little heat creeping into his tone. “She’s going to continue being a pest until we do something about it.”

“And what, precisely, would you suggest?” Hades enquired, his arms slowly moving until they were crossed over his chest.

“Silence her,” Hydra answered flatly, “or at the very least her voice.”

“You focus on who’s carving up the neighbourhood,” Hades instructed. “Leave Miss Fujiwara to me.”

 Though she tried every persuasive trick she knew in the book, Miho was unable to get the ‘suits’ to return her bag and phone until Hades himself strode to the edge of the barricade.

She pouted sourly when he held out her handbag and she saw the police scanner was gone.

“I don’t suppose you left me any pictures?” she grumbled rhetorically.

“No,” Hades answered curtly, then lifted a brow when Miho looked up at him with a suddenly sweet smile and fluttered her eyelashes.

“Phone number? The hair is totally growing on me.”

"It is in your best interests to not interfere with any further investigations," he told her firmly, watching as her hands crept to her hips.

“I’d consider it, if I knew who exactly was doing the investigating, Hades,” she suggested.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” he countered calmly, but Miho wasn’t yet done.

“You only say that because you think I’ve nothing to offer,” she grinned.

Hades shifted his feet.

“Is that your modus operandi, Miss Fujiwara? Sexual favours for inside stories?”

Miho’s grin widened, her eyes laughing.

“I don’t know how you figured I was offering sexual favours,” she chuckled. “The conclusion you jumped to out of hope, perhaps?”

At this Hades blinked – in surprise at her gall? Astonishment he’d walked right into it?

Seriousness suddenly reshaped Miho’s expression as she shifted gears.

“Damage like that has been appearing around Astoria for a week now,” she declared – like he didn’t know. “Huge holes in solid concrete, brick and asphalt with no evidence of heavy digging equipment, vehicular impact or explosives, and no evident pattern or motive, so I, and local residents would like more of an explanation than nothing to see here and don’t interfere.”

“I understand your frustration, but for your safety…” Hades began, but Miho cut him off sharply.

“I don’t feel safe in a city where pseudo-authorities, suits, relieve actual law-enforcers of their jurisdiction, and refuse answers to the tax-paying citizens who live in fear,” she growled.

“Hydra was right about her,” Hades thought a little bitterly, then spoke, drawing himself up and pressing out with his presence. “You don’t look very afraid,”

“I’m…” Miho began, her teeth bared, when it suddenly felt as if the man before her had grown ten feet, and could somehow squash her like a bug. “…not.”

“Take this as your final warning,” Hades told her, his voice shuddering its way through her skin. “Do not interfere in any further investigations of any kind. The consequences of failing to heed this will be unpleasant.”

“Threats now?” she responded through her teeth, glaring fiercely though Hades could see her trembling slightly.

“Yes,” he affirmed plainly, then stepped back and headed once more behind the barriers.

For several minutes Miho remained standing, stuck to the spot in an attempt to slow the thundering of her heart.

“What the hell,” she exhaled finally, a whispery, raspy sound.

Slowly she broke free of the spell that had rendered her immobile, and the anger began to bubble again.

“Who does he think he is with his ridiculous I just want to be trendy earring, and that unicorn, fairy-floss dye job?” she fumed.

So much for threats.

TO PART 2

[cadenthouseofcastiel-blog]

(OOC) Why I Didn’t Kill Myself

I have not had a very fantastic 20 years, but no matter how I pull them apart and branch off different possibilities as if my life could be simplified to an inconsequential choose your own adventure story, there’s no way I would change what has happened. After a long chat with my sister (nearly 3 hours, like holy shit, how do I even have enough to talk about), I realized that while there are some ideals I would love to have in life, I would hate the reality that I would receive. Sure, I wish my Mom was alive to see important milestones and to be able to run to when everything just seemed to much, but the reality is that it never would be that simple, cookie cutter deal- that wasn’t who my Mom was. And yeah I’m going through what feels like Hell because it’s a God damn throwback Thursday in the worst way. What’s happened recently has brought up a lot of painful memories that I had hoped were buried and in the past, but nothing ever stays that way I suppose.

I confessed to my sister that I have no idea what the Hell I’m doing and that I don’t know why or appreciate that things have gone the way they do. I know that everything has been my decision- rash or not- and that if I’m not where I wanna be, then it’s on me. But she pointed out that over the 20 years I’ve been alive, I’ve been through more than most people have to deal with in their entire life course, between losing both my parents after having been in a beyond broken home, losing my closest in age sister to suicide, and numerous other things (some of which I still haven’t told and I don’t want to if I don’t have to). I try to take that in consideration, but that doesn’t always mean anything. At my age, some of this shit shouldn’t be such a huge thing, but it is. Everything just seems so overwhelming and I would love to just be able to just duck out of life for awhile and just come back to it whenever I’m ready to deal with whatever bullshit it wants to throw at me next, but that’s not how it works.

I admit I had my time today where I shut my phone off for like three hours after my now ex-boyfriend came and got what I believe is the last of his stuff and I just let it all hit me. He’s gone, what we had is gone, and I’m alone, again. Then came the flood- how the Hell am I supposed to deal with all these bills, with having almost no possessions down here, having a pet to take care of on my own, whether I can stay where I am or do I need to find somewhere else... I damn near bottomed out. I laid in bed, curled up in a ball, feeling so hurt and lost that I couldn’t even muster up the tears to shed over my ridiculous situation. I was messaging people before and after so that no one would hunt me down and give me the are you okay bullshit because no, I’m not okay- I am far from okay. 

All my life people have asked that question and asked for an honest answer and if I gave that honest answer, they would have me committed. There’s a reason for that. I would have to admit that while I laid in bed for those three hours, dozing on and off because I’m physically, emotionally, and mentally beyond exhausted, I contemplated taking that glass cup out from the book shelf next to my bed, shattering it and then stepping on the jagged pieces until one found just the right vein or artery to splice open. Then I could just lay down and slowly bleed to death, a quiet peaceful passing. I would have to explain that the only reason I didn’t act on that plan is because the survival rate is too high. My roommate or someone would likely find me and take me to the ER and then I’m stuck with a huge bill that I’ll pay off when I’m dead because then I’d have to take time off from work to recover and wouldn’t have the money and then the debt collectors would come and I’d be fucked. I don’t want to go back to the behavioral health ward because it’s not going to help otherwise I would’ve had a bigger turn around than I did- I’ve relapsed several times since that week on the ward when I was a junior in high school. 

With that in mind, I still have that part of my conscience that pipes up and says, ‘Hey, what the fuck are you thinking trying to end your life when your sister did that to you and everyone else? Where do you get off thinking it’s okay to pull the same bullshit and getting different results? News flash, you’ve become close with so many people in so many places that you would pretty literally cause world wide grief. Can you even begin to deal with that?’ The answer is no, I can’t even begin to deal with that. As it stands now, my niece will one day too soon have to go through the uncomfortable and scary talk of why she never met Aunt Sammy because Aunt Sammy put a bullet in her brain and I don’t like the thought of being that second story of her never having time with Aunt Lizzy because she cut open her artery and bled to death and it was a huge debate for a long time whether it was an accident or not because of how she died. Then there’s all of you who barely know me and somehow you’ve come to see me as a very close friend if not family. Given that I view you all as family, I can’t hurt you like that, partly because I would have no way to let you all know what I’d done and why because I would be in the midst of dying. But the bigger reason is that it’s not something you burden your loved ones with because whether or not anyone realizes this, you are burdening your loved ones when you commit suicide because they are forever saddled with survivor’s guilt (which is a legitimate thing, it’s taught in psychology and therapists will even diagnose it). 

So today, I almost took that final leap, but instead, I thought of all of you and realized that I couldn’t hurt you or anyone else by killing myself. I don’t want any of you to suffer because I made a dumb decision while I was going through some shit that would eventually be a drop in the ocean in the long run.

I am sorry to anyone I might have scared, worried or anything along those lines. I didn’t mean to stress you like that and hopefully you’ll forgive me. I’m still not in good shape, but I’m a tiny bit better than before. I have a few people to thank for that: My sister, 

@hellagayangelofthelord  @deanismyvessel @hellasarcasticdemonfromhell @driver-picks-the-music-67 @666crowley-king-of-hell666 and even my ex and his mother, who have both been checking in on me to make sure I’m okay because they know just how hard things have been and how much I gave up to try and start a new chapter here with them.

So thank you to all of you, even those of you who didn’t know that I was going through this. It was a nice distraction to be able to glance through your posts and try to forget that things aren’t even close to decent. Thank you again and here’s some lyrics to a song that helped me get through today:

“ I am sorry this is always how it goes The wind blows loudest when you've got your eyes closed But I never changed a single colour that I breathe So you could have tried to take a closer look at me I am tired of punching in the wind I am tired of letting it all in And I should eat you up and spit you right out I should not care but I don't know how...

I am sorry for the trouble, I suppose My blood runs red but my body feels so cold I guess I could swim for days in the salty sea But in the end the waves will discolour me...

So I take off my face 'Cause it reminds me how it all went wrong And I pull out my tongue 'Cause it reminds me how it all went wrong

And I cough up my lungs

'Cause they remind me how it all went wrong

But I leave in my heart 'Cause I don't want to stay in the dark...”

- Of Monsters and Men, “Organs”

[selfhelpqa-blog]

Mental Efficiency

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Mental Efficiency

MENTAL EFFICIENCY

AND OTHER HINTS TO MEN AND WOMEN

by

Arnold Bennett

I

Mental Efficiency

THE APPEAL

If there is any virtue in advertisements–and a journalist should be the last person to say that there is not–the American nation is rapidly reaching a state of physical efficiency of which the world has probably not seen the like since Sparta. In all the American newspapers and all the American monthlies are innumerable illustrated announcements of “physical-culture specialists,” who guarantee to make all the organs of the body perform their duties with the mighty precision of a 60 h.p. motor-car that never breaks down. I saw a book the other day written by one of these specialists, to show how perfect health could be attained by devoting a quarter of an hour a day to certain exercises. The advertisements multiply and increase in size. They cost a great deal of money. Therefore they must bring in a great deal of business. Therefore vast numbers of people must be worried about the non-efficiency of their bodies, and on the way to achieve efficiency. In our more modest British fashion, we have the same phenomenon in England. And it is growing. Our muscles are growing also. Surprise a man in his bedroom of a morning, and you will find him lying on his back on the floor, or standing on his head, or whirling clubs, in pursuit of physical efficiency. I remember that once I “went in” for physical efficiency myself. I, too, lay on the floor, my delicate epidermis separated from the carpet by only the thinnest of garments, and I contorted myself according to the fifteen diagrams of a large chart (believed to be the _magna charta_ of physical efficiency) daily after shaving. In three weeks my collars would not meet round my prize-fighter’s neck; my hosier reaped immense profits, and I came to the conclusion that I had carried physical efficiency quite far enough.

A strange thing–was it not?–that I never had the idea of devoting a quarter of an hour a day after shaving to the pursuit of mental efficiency. The average body is a pretty complicated affair, sadly out of order, but happily susceptible to culture. The average mind is vastly more complicated, not less sadly out of order, but perhaps even more susceptible to culture. We compare our arms to the arms of the gentleman illustrated in the physical efficiency advertisement, and we murmur to ourselves the classic phrase: “This will never do.” And we set about developing the muscles of our arms until we can show them off (through a frock coat) to women at afternoon tea. But it does not, perhaps, occur to us that the mind has its muscles, and a lot of apparatus besides, and that these invisible, yet paramount, mental organs are far less efficient than they ought to be; that some of them are atrophied, others starved, others out of shape, etc. A man of sedentary occupation goes for a very long walk on Easter Monday, and in the evening is so exhausted that he can scarcely eat. He wakes up to the inefficiency of his body, caused by his neglect of it, and he is so shocked that he determines on remedial measures. Either he will walk to the office, or he will play golf, or he will execute the post-shaving exercises. But let the same man after a prolonged sedentary course of newspapers, magazines, and novels, take his mind out for a stiff climb among the rocks of a scientific, philosophic, or artistic subject. What will he do? Will he stay out all day, and return in the evening too tired even to read his paper? Not he. It is ten to one that, finding himself puffing for breath after a quarter of an hour, he won’t even persist till he gets his second wind, but will come back at once. Will he remark with genuine concern that his mind is sadly out of condition and that he really must do something to get it into order? Not he. It is a hundred to one that he will tranquilly accept the _status quo_, without shame and without very poignant regret. Do I make my meaning clear?

I say, without a _very poignant_ regret, because a certain vague regret is indubitably caused by realizing that one is handicapped by a mental inefficiency which might, without too much difficulty, be cured. That vague regret exudes like a vapour from the more cultivated section of the public. It is to be detected everywhere, and especially among people who are near the half-way house of life. They perceive the existence of immense quantities of knowledge, not the smallest particle of which will they ever make their own. They stroll forth from their orderly dwellings on a starlit night, and feel dimly the wonder of the heavens. But the still small voice is telling them that, though they have read in a newspaper that there are fifty thousand stars in the Pleiades, they cannot even point to the Pleiades in the sky. How they would like to grasp the significance of the nebular theory, the most overwhelming of all theories! And the years are passing; and there are twenty-four hours in every day, out of which they work only six or seven; and it needs only an impulse, an effort, a system, in order gradually to cure the mind of its slackness, to give “tone” to its muscles, and to enable it to grapple with the splendours of knowledge and sensation that await it! But the regret is not poignant enough. They do nothing. They go on doing nothing. It is as though they passed for ever along the length of an endless table filled with delicacies, and could not stretch out a hand to seize. Do I exaggerate? Is there not deep in the consciousness of most of us a mournful feeling that our minds are like the liver of the advertisement–sluggish, and that for the sluggishness of our minds there is the excuse neither of incompetence, nor of lack of time, nor of lack of opportunity, nor of lack of means? Why does not some mental efficiency specialist come forward and show us how to make our minds do the work which our minds are certainly capable of doing? I do not mean a quack. All the physical efficiency specialists who advertise largely are not quacks. Some of them achieve very genuine results. If a course of treatment can be devised for the body, a course of treatment can be devised for the mind. Thus we might realize some of the ambitions which all of us cherish in regard to the utilization in our spare time of that magnificent machine which we allow to rust within our craniums. We have the desire to perfect ourselves, to round off our careers with the graces of knowledge and taste. How many people would not gladly undertake some branch of serious study, so that they might not die under the reproach of having lived and died without ever really having known anything about anything! It is not the absence of desire that prevents them. It is, first, the absence of will-power–not the will to begin, but the will to continue; and, second, a mental apparatus which is out of condition, “puffy,” “weedy,” through sheer neglect. The remedy, then, divides itself into two parts, the cultivation of will-power, and the getting into condition of the mental apparatus. And these two branches of the cure must be worked concurrently.

I am sure that the considerations which I have presented to you must have already presented themselves to tens of thousands of my readers, and that thousands must have attempted the cure. I doubt not that many have succeeded. I shall deem it a favour if those readers who have interested themselves in the question will communicate to me at once the result of their experience, whatever its outcome. I will make such use as I can of the letters I receive, and afterwards I will give my own experience.

THE REPLIES

The correspondence which I have received in answer to my appeal shows that at any rate I did not overstate the case. There is, among a vast mass of reflecting people in this country, a clear consciousness of being mentally less than efficient, and a strong (though ineffective) desire that such mental inefficiency should cease to be. The desire is stronger than I had imagined, but it does not seem to have led to much hitherto. And that “course of treatment for the mind,” by means of which we are to “realize some of the ambitions which all of us cherish in regard to the utilization in our spare time of the magnificent machine which we allow to rust within our craniums”–that desiderated course of treatment has not apparently been devised by anybody. The Sandow of the brain has not yet loomed up above the horizon. On the other hand, there appears to be a general expectancy that I personally am going to play the rôle of the Sandow of the brain. Vain thought!

I have been very much interested in the letters, some of which, as a statement of the matter in question, are admirable. It is perhaps not surprising that the best of them come from women–for (genius apart) woman is usually more touchingly lyrical than man in the yearning for the ideal. The most enthusiastic of all the letters I have received, however, is from a gentleman whose notion is that we should be hypnotised into mental efficiency. After advocating the establishment of “an institution of practical psychology from whence there can be graduated fit and proper people whose efforts would be in the direction of the subconscious mental mechanism of the child or even the adult,” this hypnotist proceeds: “Between the academician, whose specialty is an inconsequential cobweb, the medical man who has got it into his head that he is the logical foster-father for psychonomical matters, and the blatant ‘professor’ who deals with monkey tricks on a few somnambules on the music-hall stage, you are allowing to go unrecognized one of the most potent factors of mental development.” Am I? I have not the least idea what this gentleman means, but I can assure him that he is wrong. I can make more sense out of the remarks of another correspondent who, utterly despising the things of the mind, compares a certain class of young men to “a halfpenny bloater with the roe out,” and asserts that he himself “got out of the groove” by dint of having to unload ten tons of coal in three hours and a half every day during several years. This is interesting and it is constructive, but it is just a little beside the point.

A lady, whose optimism is indicated by her pseudonym, “Espérance,” puts her finger on the spot, or, rather, on one of the spots, in a very sensible letter. “It appears to me,” she says, “that the great cause of mental inefficiency is lack of concentration, perhaps especially in the case of women. I can trace my chief failures to this cause. Concentration, is a talent. It may be in a measure cultivated, but it needs to be inborn…. The greater number of us are in a state of semi-slumber, with minds which are only exerted to one-half of their capability.” I thoroughly agree that inability to concentrate is one of the chief symptoms of the mental machine being out of condition. “Espérance’s” suggested cure is rather drastic. She says: “Perhaps one of the best cures for mental sedentariness is arithmetic, for there is nothing else which requires greater power of concentration.” Perhaps arithmetic might be an effective cure, but it is not a practical cure, because no one, or scarcely any one, would practise it. I cannot imagine the plain man who, having a couple of hours to spare of a night, and having also the sincere desire but not the will-power to improve his taste and knowledge, would deliberately sit down and work sums by way of preliminary mental calisthenics. As Ibsen’s puppet said: “People don’t do these things.” Why do they not? The answer is: Simply because they won’t; simply because human nature will not run to it. “Espérance’s” suggestion of learning poetry is slightly better. Certainly the best letter I have had is from Miss H. D. She says: “This idea [to avoid the reproach of ‘living and dying without ever really knowing anything about anything’] came to me of itself from somewhere when I was a small girl. And looking back I fancy that the thought itself spurred me to do something in this world, to get into line with people who did things–people who painted pictures, wrote books, built bridges, or did something beyond the ordinary. This only has seemed to me, all my life since, worth while.” Here I must interject that such a statement is somewhat sweeping. In fact, it sweeps a whole lot of fine and legitimate ambitions straight into the rubbish heap of the Not-worth-while. I think the writer would wish to modify it. She continues: “And when the day comes in which I have not done some serious reading, however small the measure, or some writing … or I have been too sad or dull to notice the brightness of colour of the sun, of grass and flowers, of the sea, or the moonlight on the water, I think the day ill-spent. So I must think the _incentive_ to do a little each day beyond the ordinary towards the real culture of the mind, is the beginning of the cure of mental inefficiency.” This is very ingenious and good. Further: “The day comes when the mental habit has become a part of our life, and we value mental work for the work’s sake.” But I am not sure about that. For myself, I have never valued work for its own sake, and I never shall. And I only value such mental work for the more full and more intense consciousness of being alive which it gives me.

Miss H. D.’s remedies are vague. As to lack of will-power, “the first step is to realize your weakness; the next step is to have ordinary shame that you are defective.” I doubt, I gravely doubt, if these steps would lead to anything definite. Nor is this very helpful: “I would advise reading, observing, writing. I would advise the use of every sense and every faculty by which we at last learn the sacredness of life.” This is begging the question. If people, by merely wishing to do so, could regularly and seriously read, observe, write, and use every faculty and sense, there would be very little mental inefficiency. I see that I shall be driven to construct a programme out of my own bitter and ridiculous experiences.

THE CURE

“But tasks in hours of insight willed Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.”

The above lines from Matthew Arnold are quoted by one of my very numerous correspondents to support a certain optimism in this matter of a systematic attempt to improve the mind. They form part of a beautiful and inspiring poem, but I gravely fear that they run counter to the vast mass of earthly experience. More often than not I have found that a task willed in some hour of insight can _not_ be fulfilled through hours of gloom. No, no, and no! To will is easy: it needs but the momentary bright contagion of a stronger spirit than one’s own. To fulfil, morning after morning, or evening after evening, through months and years–this is the very dickens, and there is not one of my readers that will not agree with me. Yet such is the elastic quality of human nature that most of my correspondents are quite ready to ignore the sad fact and to demand at once: “what shall we will? Tell us what we must will.” Some seem to think that they have solved the difficulty when they have advocated certain systems of memory and mind-training. Such systems may be in themselves useful or useless–the evidence furnished to me is contradictory–but were they perfect systems, a man cannot be intellectually born again merely by joining a memory-class. The best system depends utterly on the man’s power of resolution. And what really counts is not the system, but the spirit in which the man handles it. Now, the proper spirit can only be induced by a careful consideration and realization of the man’s conditions–the limitations of his temperament, the strength of adverse influences, and the lessons of his past.

Let me take an average case. Let me take your case, O man or woman of thirty, living in comfort, with some cares, and some responsibilities, and some pretty hard daily work, but not too much of any! The question of mental efficiency is in the air. It interests you. It touches you nearly. Your conscience tells you that your mind is less active and less informed than it might be. You suddenly spring up from the garden-seat, and you say to yourself that you will take your mind in hand and do something with it. Wait a moment. Be so good as to sink back into that garden-seat and clutch that tennis racket a little longer. You have had these “hours of insight” before, you know. You have not arrived at the age of thirty without having tried to carry out noble resolutions–and failed. What precautions are you going to take against failure this time? For your will is probably no stronger now than it was aforetime. You have admitted and accepted failure in the past. And no wound is more cruel to the spirit of resolve than that dealt by failure. You fancy the wound closed, but just at the critical moment it may reopen and mortally bleed you. What are your precautions? Have you thought of them? No. You have not. I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance. But I know you because I know myself. Your failure in the past was due to one or more of three causes. And the first was that you undertook too much at the beginning. You started off with a magnificent programme. You are something of an expert in physical exercises–you would be ashamed not to be, in these physical days–and so you would never attempt a hurdle race or an uninterrupted hour’s club-whirling without some preparation. The analogy between the body and the mind ought to have struck you. _This_ time, please do not form an elaborate programme. Do not form any programme. Simply content yourself with a preliminary canter, a ridiculously easy preliminary canter. For example (and I give this merely as an example), you might say to yourself: “Within one month from this date I will read twice Herbert Spencer’s little book on ‘Education’–sixpence–and will make notes in pencil inside the back cover of the things that particularly strike me.” You remark that that is nothing, that you can do it “on your head,” and so on. Well, do it. When it is done you will at any rate possess the satisfaction of having resolved to do something and having done it. Your mind will have gained tone and healthy pride. You will be even justified in setting yourself some kind of a simple programme to extend over three months. And you will have acquired some general principles by the light of which to construct the programme. But best of all, you will have avoided failure, that dangerous wound.

The second possible cause of previous failure was the disintegrating effect on the will-power of the ironic, superior smile of friends. Whenever a man “turns over a new leaf” he has this inane giggle to face. The drunkard may be less ashamed of getting drunk than of breaking to a crony the news that he has signed the pledge. Strange, but true! And human nature must be counted with. Of course, on a few stern spirits the effect of that smile is merely to harden the resolution. But on the majority its influence is deleterious. Therefore don’t go and nail your flag to the mast. Don’t raise any flag. Say nothing. Work as unobtrusively as you can. When you have won a battle or two you can begin to wave the banner, and then you will find that that miserable, pitiful, ironic, superior smile will die away ere it is born.

The third possible cause was that you did not rearrange your day. Idler and time-waster though you have been, still you had done _something_ during the twenty-four hours. You went to work with a kind of dim idea that there were twenty-six hours in every day. _Something large and definite has to be dropped._ Some space in the rank jungle of the day has to be cleared and swept up for the new operations. Robbing yourself of sleep won’t help you, nor trying to “squeeze in” a time for study between two other times. Use the knife, and use it freely. If you mean to read or think half an hour a day, arrange for an hour. A hundred per cent. margin is not too much for a beginner. Do you ask me where the knife is to be used? I should say that in nine cases out of ten the rites of the cult of the body might be abbreviated. I recently spent a week-end in a London suburb, and I was staggered by the wholesale attention given to physical recreation in all its forms. It was a gigantic debauch of the muscles on every side. It shocked me. “Poor withering mind!” I thought. “Cricket, and football, and boating, and golf, and tennis have their ‘seasons,’ but not thou!” These considerations are general and prefatory. Now I must come to detail.

MENTAL CALISTHENICS

I have dealt with the state of mind in which one should begin a serious effort towards mental efficiency, and also with the probable causes of failure in previous efforts. We come now to what I may call the calisthenics of the business, exercises which may be roughly compared to the technical exercises necessary in learning to play a musical instrument. It is curious that a person studying a musical instrument will have no false shame whatever in doing mere exercises for the fingers and wrists while a person who is trying to get his mind into order will almost certainly experience a false shame in going through performances which are undoubtedly good for him. Herein lies one of the great obstacles to mental efficiency. Tell a man that he should join a memory class, and he will hum and haw, and say, as I have already remarked, that memory isn’t everything; and, in short, he won’t join the memory class, partly from indolence, I grant, but more from false shame. (Is not this true?) He will even hesitate about learning things by heart. Yet there are few mental exercises better than learning great poetry or prose by heart. Twenty lines a week for six months: what a “cure” for debility! The chief, but not the only, merit of learning by heart as an exercise is that it compels the mind to concentrate. And the most important preliminary to self-development is the faculty of concentrating at will. Another excellent exercise is to read a page of no-matter-what, and then immediately to write down–in one’s own words or in the author’s–one’s full recollection of it. A quarter of an hour a day! No more! And it works like magic. This brings me to the department of writing. I am a writer by profession; but I do not think I have any prejudices in favour of the exercise of writing. Indeed, I say to myself every morning that if there is one exercise in the world which I hate, it is the exercise of writing. But I must assert that in my opinion the exercise of writing is an indispensable part of any genuine effort towards mental efficiency. I don’t care much what you write, so long as you compose sentences and achieve continuity. There are forty ways of writing in an unprofessional manner, and they are all good. You may keep “a full diary,” as Mr. Arthur Christopher Benson says he does. This is one of the least good ways. Diaries, save in experienced hands like those of Mr. Benson, are apt to get themselves done with the very minimum of mental effort. They also tend to an exaggeration of egotism, and if they are left lying about they tend to strife. Further, one never knows when one may not be compelled to produce them in a court of law. A journal is better. Do not ask me to define the difference between a journal and a diary. I will not and I cannot. It is a difference that one feels instinctively. A diary treats exclusively of one’s self and one’s doings; a journal roams wider, and notes whatever one has observed of interest. A diary relates that one had lobster mayonnaise for dinner and rose the next morning with a headache, doubtless attributable to mental strain. A journal relates that Mrs. —-, whom one took into dinner, had brown eyes, and an agreeable trick of throwing back her head after asking a question, and gives her account of her husband’s strange adventures in Colorado, etc. A diary is

All I, I, I, I, itself I

(to quote a line of the transcendental poetry of Mary Baker G. Eddy). A journal is the large spectacle of life. A journal may be special or general. I know a man who keeps a journal of all cases of current superstition which he actually encounters. He began it without the slightest suspicion that he was beginning a document of astounding interest and real scientific value; but such was the fact. In default of a diary or a journal, one may write essays (provided one has the moral courage); or one may simply make notes on the book one reads. Or one may construct anthologies of passages which have made an individual and particular appeal to one’s tastes. Anthology construction is one of the pleasantest hobbies that a person who is not mad about golf and bridge–that is to say, a thinking person–can possibly have; and I recommend it to those who, discreetly mistrusting their power to keep up a fast pace from start to finish, are anxious to begin their intellectual course gently and mildly. In any event, writing–the act of writing–is vital to almost any scheme. I would say it was vital to every scheme, without exception, were I not sure that some kind correspondent would instantly point out a scheme to which writing was obviously not vital.

After writing comes thinking. (The sequence may be considered odd, but I adhere to it.) In this connexion I cannot do better than quote an admirable letter which I have received from a correspondent who wishes to be known only as “An Oxford Lecturer.” The italics (except the last) are mine, not his. He says: “Till a man has got his physical brain completely under his control–_suppressing its too-great receptivity, its tendencies to reproduce idly the thoughts of others, and to be swayed by every passing gust of emotion_–I hold that he cannot do a tenth part of the work that he would then be able to perform with little or no effort. Moreover, work apart, he has not entered upon his kingdom, and unlimited possibilities of future development are barred to him. Mental efficiency can be gained by constant practice in meditation–i.e., by concentrating the mind, say, for but ten minutes daily, but with absolute regularity, on some of the highest thoughts of which it is capable. Failures will be frequent, but they must be regarded with simple indifference and dogged perseverance in the path chosen. If that path be followed _without intermission_ even for a few weeks the results will speak for themselves.” I thoroughly agree with what this correspondent says, and am obliged to him for having so ably stated the case. But I regard such a practice of meditation as he indicates as being rather an “advanced” exercise for a beginner. After the beginner has got under way, and gained a little confidence in his strength of purpose, and acquired the skill to define his thoughts sufficiently to write them down–then it would be time enough, in my view, to undertake what “An Oxford Lecturer” suggests. By the way, he highly recommends Mrs. Annie Besant’s book, _Thought Power: Its Control and Culture_. He says that it treats the subject with scientific clearness, and gives a practical method of training the mind, I endorse the latter part of the statement.

So much for the more or less technical processes of stirring the mind from its sloth and making it exactly obedient to the aspirations of the soul. And here I close. Numerous correspondents have asked me to outline a course of reading for them. In other words, they have asked me to particularize for them the aspirations of their souls. My subject, however, was not self-development My subject was mental efficiency as a means to self-development. Of course, one can only acquire mental efficiency in the actual effort of self-development. But I was concerned, not with the choice of route; rather with the manner of following the route. You say to me that I am busying myself with the best method of walking, and refusing to discuss where to go. Precisely. One man cannot tell another man where the other man wants to go.

If he can’t himself decide on a goal he may as well curl up and expire, for the root of the matter is not in him. I will content myself with pointing out that the entire universe is open for inspection. Too many people fancy that self-development means literature. They associate the higher life with an intimate knowledge of the life of Charlotte Brontë, or the order of the plays of Shakespeare. The higher life may just as well be butterflies, or funeral customs, or county boundaries, or street names, or mosses, or stars, or slugs, as Charlotte Brontë or Shakespeare. Choose what interests you. Lots of finely-organized, mentally-efficient persons can’t read Shakespeare at any price, and if you asked them who was the author of _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_ they might proudly answer Emily Brontë, if they didn’t say they never heard of it. An accurate knowledge of _any_ subject, coupled with a carefully nurtured sense of the relativity of that subject to other subjects, implies an enormous self-development. With this hint I conclude.

II

Expressing One’s Individuality

A most curious and useful thing to realize is that one never knows the impression one is creating on other people. One may often guess pretty accurately whether it is good, bad, or indifferent–some people render it unnecessary for one to guess, they practically inform one–but that is not what I mean. I mean much more than that. I mean that one has one’s self no mental picture corresponding to the mental picture which one’s personality leaves in the minds of one’s friends. Has it ever struck you that there is a mysterious individual going around, walking the streets, calling at houses for tea, chatting, laughing, grumbling, arguing, and that all your friends know him and have long since added him up and come to a definite conclusion about him–without saying more than a chance, cautious word to you; and that that person is _you_? Supposing that _you_ came into a drawing-room where you were having tea, do you think you would recognize yourself as an individuality? I think not. You would be apt to say to yourself, as guests do when disturbed in drawing-rooms by other guests: “Who’s this chap? Seems rather queer, I hope he won’t be a bore.” And your first telling would be slightly hostile. Why, even when you meet yourself in an unsuspected mirror in the very clothes that you have put on that very day and that you know by heart, you are almost always shocked by the realization that you are you. And now and then, when you have gone to the glass to arrange your hair in the full sobriety of early morning, have you not looked on an absolute stranger, and has not that stranger piqued your curiosity? And if it is thus with precise external details of form, colour, and movement, what may it not be with the vague complex effect of the mental and moral individuality?

A man honestly tries to make a good impression. What is the result? The result merely is that his friends, in the privacy of their minds, set him down as a man who tries to make a good impression. If much depends on the result of a single interview, or a couple of interviews, a man may conceivably force another to accept an impression of himself which he would like to convey. But if the receiver of the impression is to have time at his disposal, then the giver of the impression may just as well sit down and put his hands in his pockets, for nothing that he can do will modify or influence in any way the impression that he will ultimately give. The real impress is, in the end, given unconsciously, not consciously; and further, it is received unconsciously, not consciously. It depends partly on both persons. And it is immutably fixed beforehand. There can be no final deception. Take the extreme case, that of the mother and her son. One hears that the son hoodwinks his mother. Not he! If he is cruel, neglectful, overbearing, she is perfectly aware of it. He does not deceive her, and she does not deceive herself. I have often thought: If a son could look into a mother’s heart, what an eye-opener he would have! “What!” he would cry. “This cold, impartial judgment, this keen vision for my faults, this implacable memory of little slights, and injustices, and callousnesses committed long ago, in the breast of my mother!” Yes, my friend, in the breast of your mother. The only difference between your mother and another person is that she takes you as you are, and loves you for what you are. She isn’t blind: do not imagine it.

The marvel is, not that people are such bad judges of character, but that they are such good judges, especially of what I may call fundamental character. The wiliest person cannot for ever conceal his fundamental character from the simplest. And people are very stern judges, too. Think of your best friends–are you oblivious of their defects? On the contrary, you are perhaps too conscious of them. When you summon them before your mind’s eye, it is no ideal creation that you see. When you meet them and talk to them you are constantly making reservations in their disfavour–unless, of course, you happen to be a schoolgirl gushing over like a fountain with enthusiasm. It is well, when one is judging a friend, to remember that he is judging you with the same godlike and superior impartiality. It is well to grasp the fact that you are going through life under the scrutiny of a band of acquaintances who are subject to very few illusions about you, whose views of you are, indeed, apt to be harsh and even cruel. Above all it is advisable to comprehend thoroughly that the things in your individuality which annoy your friends most are the things of which you are completely unconscious. It is not until years have passed that one begins to be able to form a dim idea of what one has looked like to one’s friends. At forty one goes back ten years, and one says sadly, but with a certain amusement: “I must have been pretty blatant then. I can see how I must have exasperated ’em. And yet I hadn’t the faintest notion of it at the time. My intentions were of the best. Only I didn’t know enough.” And one recollects some particularly crude action, and kicks one’s self…. Yes, that is all very well; and the enlightenment which has come with increasing age is exceedingly satisfactory. But you are forty now. What shall you be saying of yourself at fifty? Such reflections foster humility, and they foster also a reluctance, which it is impossible to praise too highly, to tread on other people’s toes.

A moment ago I used the phrase “fundamental character.” It is a reminiscence of Stevenson’s phrase “fundamental decency.” And it is the final test by which one judges one’s friends. “After all, he’s a decent fellow.” We must be able to use that formula concerning our friends. Kindliness of heart is not the greatest of human qualities–and its general effect on the progress of the world is not entirely beneficent–but it is the greatest of human qualities in friendship. It is the least dispensable quality. We come back to it with relief from more brilliant qualities. And it has the great advantage of always going with a broad mind. Narrow-minded people are never kind-hearted. You may be inclined to dispute this statement: please think it over; I am inclined to uphold it.

We can forgive the absence of any quality except kindliness of heart. And when a man lacks that, we blame him, we will not forgive him. This is, of course, scandalous. A man is born as he is born. And he can as easily add a cubit to his stature as add kindliness to his heart. The feat never has been done, and never will be done. And yet we blame those who have not kindliness. We have the incredible, insufferable, and odious audacity to blame them. We think of them as though they had nothing to do but go into a shop and buy kindliness. I hear you say that kindliness of heart can be “cultivated.” Well, I hate to have even the appearance of contradicting you, but it can only be cultivated in the botanical sense. You can’t cultivate violets on a nettle. A philosopher has enjoined us to suffer fools gladly. He had more usefully enjoined us to suffer ill-natured persons gladly…. I see that in a fit of absentmindedness I have strayed into the pulpit. I descend.

III

Breaking with the Past

On that dark morning we woke up, and it instantly occurred to us–or at any rate to those of us who have preserved some of our illusions and our _naïveté_–that we had something to be cheerful about, some cause for a gay and strenuous vivacity; and then we remembered that it was New Year’s Day, and there were those Resolutions to put into force! Of course, we all smile in a superior manner at the very mention of New Year’s Resolutions; we pretend they are toys for children, and that we have long since ceased to regard them seriously as a possible aid to conduct. But we are such deceivers, such miserable, moral cowards, in such terror of appearing naïve, that I for one am not to be taken in by that smile and that pretence. The individual who scoffs at New Year’s Resolutions resembles the woman who says she doesn’t look under the bed at nights; the truth is not in him, and in the very moment of his lying, could his cranium suddenly become transparent, we should see Resolutions burning brightly in his brain like lamps in Trafalgar Square. Of this I am convinced, that nineteen-twentieths of us got out of bed that morning animated by that special feeling of gay and strenuous vivacity which Resolutions alone can produce. And nineteen-twentieths of us were also conscious of a high virtue, forgetting that it is not the making of Resolutions, but the keeping of them, which renders pardonable the consciousness of virtue.

And at this hour, while the activity of the Resolution is yet in full blast, I would wish to insist on the truism, obvious perhaps, but apt to be overlooked, that a man cannot go forward and stand still at the same time. Just as moralists have often animadverted upon the tendency to live in the future, so I would animadvert upon the tendency to live in the past. Because all around me I see men carefully tying themselves with an unbreakable rope to an immovable post at the bottom of a hill and then struggling to climb the hill. If there is one Resolution more important than another it is the Resolution to break with the past. If life is not a continual denial of the past, then it is nothing. This may seem a hard and callous doctrine, but you know there are aspects of common sense which decidedly are hard and callous. And one finds constantly in plain common-sense persons (O rare and select band!) a surprising quality of ruthlessness mingled with softer traits. Have you not noticed it? The past is absolutely intractable. One can’t do anything with it. And an exaggerated attention to it is like an exaggerated attention to sepulchres–a sign of barbarism. Moreover, the past is usually the enemy of cheerfulness, and cheerfulness is a most precious attainment.

Personally, I could even go so far as to exhibit hostility towards grief, and a marked hostility towards remorse–two states of mind which feed on the past instead of on the present. Remorse, which is not the same thing as repentance, serves no purpose that I have ever been able to discover. What one has done, one has done, and there’s an end of it. As a great prelate unforgettably said, “Things are what they are, and the consequences of them will be what they will be. Why, then, attempt to deceive ourselves”–that remorse for wickedness is a useful and praiseworthy exercise? Much better to forget. As a matter of fact, people “indulge” in remorse; it is a somewhat vicious form of spiritual pleasure. Grief, of course, is different, and it must be handled with delicate consideration. Nevertheless, when I see, as one does see, a man or a woman dedicating existence to sorrow for the loss of a beloved creature, and the world tacitly applauding, my feeling is certainly inimical. To my idea, that man or woman is not honouring, but dishonouring, the memory of the departed; society suffers, the individual suffers, and no earthly or heavenly good is achieved. Grief is of the past; it mars the present; it is a form of indulgence, and it ought to be bridled much more than it often is. The human heart is so large that mere remembrance should not be allowed to tyrannize over every part of it.

But cases of remorse and absorbing grief are comparatively rare. What is not rare is that misguided loyalty to the past which dominates the lives of so many of us. I do not speak of leading principles, which are not likely to incommode us by changing; I speak of secondary yet still important things. We will not do so-and-so because we have never done it–as if that was a reason! Or we have always done so-and-so, therefore we must always do it–as if _that_ was logic! This disposition to an irrational Toryism is curiously discoverable in advanced Radicals, and it will show itself in the veriest trifles. I remember such a man whose wife objected to his form of hat (not that I would call so crowning an affair as a hat a trifle!). “My dear,” he protested, “I have always worn this sort of hat. It may not suit me, but it is absolutely impossible for me to alter it now.” However, she took him by means of an omnibus to a hat shop and bought him another hat and put it on his head, and made a present of the old one to the shop assistant, and marched him out of the shop. “There!” she said, “you see how impossible it is.” This is a parable. And I will not insult your intelligence by applying it.

The faculty that we chiefly need when we are in the resolution-making mood is the faculty of imagination, the faculty of looking at our lives as though we had never looked at them before–freshly, with a new eye. Supposing that you had been born mature and full of experience, and that yesterday had been the first day of your life, you would regard it to-day as an experiment, you would challenge each act in it, and you would probably arrange to-morrow in a manner that showed a healthy disrespect for yesterday. You certainly would not say: “I have done so-and-so once, therefore I must keep on doing it.” The past is never more than an experiment. A genuine appreciation of this fact will make our new Resolutions more valuable and drastic than they usually are. I have a dim notion that the most useful Resolution for most of us would be to break quite fifty per cent. of all the vows we have ever made. “Do not accustom yourself to enchain your _volatility_ with vows…. Take this warning; it is of great importance.” (The wisdom is Johnson’s, but I flatter myself on the italics.)

IV

Settling Down in Life

The other day a well-known English novelist asked me how old I thought she was, _really_. “Well,” I said to myself, “since she has asked for it, she shall have it; I will be as true to life as her novels.” So I replied audaciously: “Thirty-eight.” I fancied I was erring if at all, on the side of “really,” and I trembled. She laughed triumphantly. “I am forty-three,” she said. The incident might have passed off entirely to my satisfaction had she not proceeded: “And now tell me how old _you_ are.” That was like a woman. Women imagine that men have no reticences, no pretty little vanities. What an error! Of course I could not be beaten in candour by a woman. I had to offer myself a burnt sacrifice to her curiosity, and I did it, bravely but not unflinchingly. And then afterwards the fact of my age remained with me, worried me, obsessed me. I saw more clearly than ever before that age was telling on me. I could not be blind to the deliberation of my movements in climbing stairs and in dressing. Once upon a time the majority of persons I met in the street seemed much older than myself. It is different now. The change has come unperceived. There is a generation younger than mine that smokes cigars and falls in love. Astounding! Once I could play left-wing forward for an hour and a half without dropping down dead. Once I could swim a hundred and fifty feet submerged at the bottom of a swimming-bath. Incredible! Simply incredible!… Can it be that I have already lived?

And lo! I, at the age of nearly forty, am putting to myself the old questions concerning the intrinsic value of life, the fundamentally important questions: What have I got out of it? What am I likely to get out of it? In a word, what’s it worth? If a man can ask himself a question more momentous, radical, and critical than these questions, I would like to know what it is. Innumerable philosophers have tried to answer these questions in a general way for the average individual, and possibly they have succeeded pretty well. Possibly I might derive benefit from a perusal of their answers. But do you suppose I am going to read them? Not I! Do you suppose that I can recall the wisdom that I happen already to have read? Not I! My mind is a perfect blank at this moment in regard to the wisdom of others on the essential question. Strange, is it not? But quite a common experience, I believe. Besides, I don’t actually care twopence what any other philosopher has replied to my question. In this, each man must be his own philosopher. There is an instinct in the profound egoism of human nature which prevents us from accepting such ready-made answers. What is it to us what Plato thought? Nothing. And thus the question remains ever new, and ever unanswered, and ever of dramatic interest. The singular, the highly singular thing is–and here I arrive at my point–that so few people put the question to themselves in time, that so many put it too late, or even die without putting it.

I am firmly convinced that an immense proportion of my instructed fellow-creatures do not merely omit to strike the balance-sheet of their lives, they omit even the preliminary operation of taking stock. They go on, and on, and on, buying and selling they know not what, at unascertained prices, dropping money into the till and taking it out. They don’t know what goods are in the shop, nor what amount is in the till, but they have a clear impression that the living-room behind the shop is by no means as luxurious and as well-ventilated as they would like it to be. And the years pass, and that beautiful furniture and that system of ventilation are not achieved. And then one day they die, and friends come to the funeral and remark: “Dear me! How stuffy this room is, and the shop’s practically full of trash!” Or, some little time before they are dead, they stay later than usual in the shop one evening, and make up their minds to take stock and count the till, and the disillusion lays them low, and they struggle into the living-room and murmur: “I shall never have that beautiful furniture, and I shall never have that system of ventilation. If I had known earlier, I would have at least got a few inexpensive cushions to go on with, and I would have put my fist through a pane in the window. But it’s too late now. I’m used to Windsor chairs, and I should feel the draught horribly.” If I were a preacher, and if I hadn’t got more than enough to do in minding my own affairs, and if I could look any one in the face and deny that I too had pursued for nearly forty years the great British policy of muddling through and hoping for the best–in short, if things were not what they are, I would hire the Alhambra Theatre or Exeter Hall of a Sunday night–preferably the Alhambra, because more people would come to my entertainment–and I would invite all men and women over twenty-six. I would supply the seething crowd with what they desired in the way of bodily refreshment (except spirits–I would draw the line at poisons), and having got them and myself into a nice amiable expansive frame of mind, I would thus address them–of course in ringing eloquence that John Bright might have envied:

Men and women (I would say), companions in the universal pastime of hiding one’s head in the sand,–I am about to impart to you the very essence of human wisdom. It is not abstract. It is a principle of daily application, affecting the daily round in its entirety, from the straphanging on the District Railway in the morning to the straphanging on the District Railway the next morning. Beware of hope, and beware of ambition! Each is excellently tonic, like German competition, in moderation. But all of you are suffering from self-indulgence in the first, and very many of you are ruining your constitutions with the second. Be it known unto you, my dear men and women, that existence rightly considered is a fair compromise between two instincts–the instinct of hoping one day to live, and the instinct to live here and now. In most of you the first instinct has simply got the other by the throat and is throttling it. Prepare to live by all means, but for heaven’s sake do not forget to live. You will never have a better chance than you have at present. You may think you will have, but you are mistaken. Pardon this bluntness. Surely you are not so naïve as to imagine that the road on the other side of that hill there is more beautiful than the piece you are now traversing! Hopes are never realized; for in the act of realization they become something else. Ambitions may be attained, but ambitions attained are rather like burnt coal, ninety per cent. of the heat generated has gone up the chimney instead of into the room. Nevertheless, indulge in hopes and ambitions, which, though deceiving, are agreeable deceptions; let them cheat you a little, a lot. But do not let them cheat you too much. This that you are living now is life itself–it is much more life itself than that which you will be living twenty years hence. Grasp that truth. Dwell on it. Absorb it. Let it influence your conduct, to the end that neither the present nor the future be neglected. You search for happiness? Happiness is chiefly a matter of temperament. It is exceedingly improbable that you will by struggling gain more happiness than you already possess. In fine, settle down at once into _life_. (Loud cheers.)

The cheers would of course be for the refreshments.

There is no doubt that the mass of the audience would consider that I had missed my vocation, and ought to have been a caterer instead of a preacher. But, once started, I would not be discouraged. I would keep on, Sunday night after Sunday night. Our leading advertisers have richly proved that the public will believe anything if they are told of it often enough. I would practise iteration, always with refreshments. In the result, it would dawn upon the corporate mind that there was some glimmering of sense in my doctrine, and people would at last begin to perceive the folly of neglecting to savour the present, the folly of assuming that the future can be essentially different from the present, the fatuity of dying before they have begun to live.

V

Marraige

THE DUTY OF IT

Every now and then it becomes necessary to deal faithfully with that immortal type of person, the praiser of the past at the expense of the present. I will not quote Horace, as by all the traditions of letters I ought to do, because Horace, like the incurable trimmer that he was, “hedged” on this question; and I do not admire him much either. The praiser of the past has been very rife lately. He has told us that pauperism and lunacy are mightily increasing, and though the exact opposite has been proved to be the case and he has apologized, he will have forgotten the correction in a few months, and will break out again into renewed lamentation. He has told us that we are physically deteriorating, and in such awful tones that we have shuddered, and many of us have believed. And considering that the death-rate is decreasing, that slums are decreasing, that disease is decreasing, that the agricultural labourer eats more than ever he did, our credence does not do much credit to our reasoning powers, does it? Of course, there is that terrible “influx” into the towns, but I for one should be much interested to know wherein the existence of the rustic in times past was healthier than the existence of the town-dwellers of to-day. The personal appearance of agricultural veterans does not help me; they resemble starved ‘bus-drivers twisted out of shape by lightning.

But the _pièce de résistance_ of the praiser of the past is now marriage, with discreet hints about the birth-rate. The praiser of the past is going to have a magnificent time with the subject of marriage. The first moanings of the tempest have already been heard. Bishops have looked askance at the birth-rate, and have mentioned their displeasure. The matter is serious. As the phrase goes, “it strikes at the root.” We are marrying later, my friends. Some of us, in the hurry and pre-occupation of business, are quite forgetting to marry. It is the duty of the citizen to marry and have children, and we are neglecting our duty, we are growing selfish! No longer are produced the glorious “quiverfuls” of old times! Our fathers married at twenty; we marry at thirty-five. Why? Because a gross and enervating luxury has overtaken us. What will become of England if this continues? There will be no England! Hence we must look to it! And so on, in the same strain.

I should like to ask all those who have raised and will raise such outcries. Have you read “X”? Now, the book that I refer to as “X” is a mysterious work, written rather more than a hundred years ago by an English curate. It is a classic of English science; indeed, it is one of the great scientific books of the world. It has immensely influenced all the scientific thought of the nineteenth century, especially Darwin’s. Mr. H.G. Wells, as cited in “Chambers’s Cyclopædia of English Literature,” describes it as “the most ‘shattering’ book that ever has or will be written.” If I may make a personal reference, I would say that it affected me more deeply than any other scientific book that I have read. Although it is perfectly easy to understand, and free from the slightest technicality, it is the most misunderstood book in English literature, simply because it is _not_ read. The current notion about it is utterly false. It might be a powerful instrument of education, general and sociological, but publishers will not reprint it–at least, they do not. And yet it is forty times more interesting and four hundred times more educational than Gilbert White’s remarks on the birds of Selborne. I will leave you to guess what “X” is, but I do not offer a prize for the solution of a problem which a vast number of my readers will certainly solve at once.

If those who are worrying themselves about the change in our system of marriage would read “X,” they would probably cease from worrying. For they would perceive that they had been putting the cart before the horse; that they had elevated to the dignity of fundamental principles certain average rules of conduct which had sprung solely from certain average instincts in certain average conditions, and that they were now frightened because, the conditions having changed, the rules of conduct had changed with them. One of the truths that “X” makes clear is that conduct conforms to conditions, and not conditions to conduct.

The payment of taxes is a duty which the citizen owes to the state. Marriage, with the begetting of children, is not a duty which the citizen owes to the state. Marriage, with its consequences, is a matter of personal inclination and convenience. It never has been anything else, and it never will be anything else. How could it be otherwise? If a man goes against inclination and convenience in a matter where inclination is “of the essence of the contract,” he merely presents the state with a discontented citizen (if not two) in exchange for a contented one! The happiness of the state is the sum of the happiness of all its citizens; to decrease one’s own happiness, then, is a singular way of doing one’s duty to the state! Do you imagine that when people married early and much they did so from a sense of duty to the state–a sense of duty which our “modern luxury” has weakened? I imagine they married simply because it suited ’em. They married from sheer selfishness, as all decent people do marry. And do those who clatter about the duty of marriage kiss the girls of their hearts with an eye to the general welfare? I can fancy them saying, “My angel, I love you–from a sense of duty to the state. Let us rear innumerable progeny–from a sense of duty to the state.” How charmed the girls would be! If the marrying age changes, if the birth-rate shows a sympathetic tendency to follow the death-rate (as it must–see “X”), no one need be alarmed. Elementary principles of right and wrong are not trembling on their bases. The human conscience is not silenced. The nation is not going to the dogs. Conduct is adjusting itself to new conditions, and that is all. We may not be able to see exactly _how_ conditions are changing; that is a detail; our descendants will see exactly; meanwhile the change in our conduct affords us some clew. And although certain nervous persons do get alarmed, and do preach, and do “take measures,” the rest of us may remain placid in the sure faith that “measures” will avail nothing whatever. If there are two things set high above legislation, “movements,” crusades, and preaching, one is the marrying age and the other is the birth-rate. For there the supreme instinct comes along and stamps ruthlessly on all insincere reasonings and sham altruisms; stamps on everything, in fact, and blandly remarks: “I shall suit my own convenience, and no one but Nature herself (with a big, big N) shall talk to _me_. Don’t pester me with Right and Wrong. I _am_ Right and Wrong….” Having thus attempted to clear the ground a little of fudge, I propose next to offer a few simple remarks on marriage.

THE ADVENTURE OF IT

Having endeavoured to show that men do not, and should not, marry from a sense of duty to the state or to mankind, but simply and solely from an egoistic inclination to marry, I now proceed to the individual case of the man who is “in a position to marry” and whose affections are not employed. Of course, if he has fallen in love, unless he happens to be a person of extremely powerful will, he will not weigh the pros and cons of marriage; he will merely marry, and forty thousand cons will not prevent him. And he will be absolutely right and justified, just as the straw as it rushes down the current is absolutely right and justified. But the privilege of falling in love is not given to everybody, and the inestimable privilege of falling deeply in love is given to few. However, the man whom circumstances permit to marry but who is not in love, or is only slightly amorous, will still think of marriage. How will he think of it?

I will tell you. In the first place, if he has reached the age of thirty unscathed by Aphrodite, he will reflect that that peculiar feeling of romantic expectation with which he gets up every morning would cease to exist after marriage–and it is a highly agreeable feeling! In its stead, in moments of depression, he would have the feeling of having done something irremediable, of having definitely closed an avenue for the outlet of his individuality. (Kindly remember that I am not describing what this human man ought to think. I am describing what he does think.) In the second place, he will reflect that, after marriage, he could no longer expect the charming welcomes which bachelors so often receive from women; he would be “done with” as a possibility, and he does not relish the prospect of being done with as a possibility. Such considerations, all connected more or less with the loss of “freedom” (oh, mysterious and thrilling word!), will affect his theoretical attitude. And be it known that even the freedom to be lonely and melancholy is still freedom. Other ideas will suggest themselves. One morning while brushing his hair he will see a gray hair, and, however young he may be, the anticipation of old age will come to him. A solitary old age! A senility dependent for its social and domestic requirements on condescending nephews and nieces, or even more distant relations! Awful! Unthinkable! And his first movement, especially if he has read that terrible novel, “_Fort comme la Mort_,” of De Maupassant, is to rush out into the street and propose to the first girl he encounters, in order to avoid this dreadful nightmare of a solitary old age. But before he has got as far as the doorstep he reflects further. Suppose he marries, and after twenty years his wife dies and leaves him a widower! He will still have a solitary old age, and a vastly more tragical one than if he had remained single. Marriage is not, therefore, a sure remedy for a solitary old age; it may intensify the evil. Children? But suppose he doesn’t have any children! Suppose, there being children, they die–what anguish! Suppose merely that they are seriously ill and recover–what an ageing experience! Suppose they prove a disappointment–what endless regret! Suppose they “turn out badly” (children do)–what shame! Suppose he finally becomes dependent upon the grudging kindness of an ungrateful child–what a supreme humiliation! All these things are occurring constantly everywhere. Suppose his wife, having loved him, ceased to love him, or suppose he ceased to love his wife! _Ces choses ne se commandent pas_–these things do not command themselves. Personally, I should estimate that in not one per cent. even of romantic marriages are the husband and wife capable of _passion_ for each other after three years. So brief is the violence of love! In perhaps thirty-three per cent. passion settles down into a tranquil affection–which is ideal. In fifty per cent. it sinks into sheer indifference, and one becomes used to one’s wife or one’s husband as to one’s other habits. And in the remaining sixteen per cent. it develops into dislike or detestation. Do you think my percentages are wrong, you who have been married a long time and know what the world is? Well, you may modify them a little–you won’t want to modify them much.

The risk of finding one’s self ultimately among the sixteen per cent. can be avoided by the simple expedient of not marrying. And by the same expedient the other risks can be avoided, together with yet others that I have not mentioned. It is entirely obvious, then (in fact, I beg pardon for mentioning it), that the attitude towards marriage of the heart-free bachelor must be at best a highly cautious attitude. He knows he is already in the frying-pan (none knows better), but, considering the propinquity of the fire, he doubts whether he had not better stay where he is. His life will be calmer, more like that of a hibernating snake; his sensibilities will be dulled; but the chances of poignant suffering will be very materially reduced.

So that the bachelor in a position to marry but not in love will assuredly decide in theory against marriage–that is to say, if he is timid, if he prefers frying-pans, if he is lacking in initiative, if he has the soul of a rat, if he wants to live as little as possible, if he hates his kind, if his egoism is of the miserable sort that dares not mingle with another’s. But if he has been more happily gifted he will decide that the magnificent adventure is worth plunging into; the ineradicable and fine gambling instinct in him will urge him to take, at the first chance, a ticket in the only lottery permitted by the British Government. Because, after all, the mutual sense of ownership felt by the normal husband and the normal wife is something unique, something the like of which cannot be obtained without marriage. I saw a man and a woman at a sale the other day; I was too far off to hear them, but I could perceive they were having a most lively argument–perhaps it was only about initials on pillowcases; they were _absorbed_ in themselves; the world did not exist for them. And I thought: “What miraculous exquisite Force is it that brings together that strange, sombre, laconic organism in a silk hat and a loose, black overcoat, and that strange, bright, vivacious, querulous, irrational organism in brilliant fur and feathers?” And when they moved away the most interesting phenomenon in the universe moved away. And I thought: “Just as no beer is bad, but some beer is better than other beer, so no marriage is bad.” The chief reward of marriage is something which marriage is bound to give–companionship whose mysterious _interestingness_ nothing can stale. A man may hate his wife so that she can’t thread a needle without annoying him, but when he dies, or she dies, he will say: “Well, _I was interested_.” And one always is. Said a bachelor of forty-six to me the other night: “Anything is better than the void.”

THE TWO WAYS OF IT

Sabine and other summary methods of marrying being now abandoned by all nice people, there remain two broad general ways. The first is the English way. We let nature take her course. We give heed to the heart’s cry. When, amid the hazards and accidents of the world, two souls “find each other,” we rejoice. Our instinctive wish is that they shall marry, if the matter can anyhow be arranged. We frankly recognise the claim of romance in life, and we are prepared to make sacrifices to it. We see a young couple at the altar; they are in love. Good! They are poor. So much the worse! But nevertheless we feel that love will pull them through. The revolting French system of bargain and barter is the one thing that we can neither comprehend nor pardon in the customs of our great neighbours. We endeavour to be polite about that system; we simply cannot. It shocks our finest, tenderest feelings. It is so obviously contrary to nature. The second is the French way, just alluded to as bargain and barter. Now, if there is one thing a Frenchman can neither comprehend nor pardon in the customs of a race so marvelously practical and sagacious as ourselves, it is the English marriage system. He endeavours to be polite about it, and he succeeds. But it shocks his finest, tenderest feelings. He admits that it is in accordance with nature; but he is apt to argue that the whole progress of civilisation has been the result of an effort to get away from nature. “What! Leave the most important relation into which a man can enter to the mercy of chance, when a mere gesture may arouse passion, or the colour of a corsage induce desire! No, you English, you who are so self-controlled, you are not going seriously to defend that! You talk of love as though it lasted for ever. You talk of sacrificing to love; but what you really sacrifice, or risk sacrificing, is the whole of the latter part of married existence for the sake of the first two or three years. Marriage is not one long honeymoon. We wish it were. When _you_ agree to a marriage you fix your eyes on the honeymoon. When _we_ agree to a marriage we try to see it as it will be five or ten years hence. We assert that, in the average instance, five years after the wedding it doesn’t matter whether or not the parties were in love on the wedding-day. Hence we will not yield to the gusts of the moment. Your system is, moreover, if we may be permitted the observation, a premium on improvidence; it is, to some extent, the result of improvidence. You can marry your daughters without dowries, and the ability to do so tempts you to neglect your plain duty to your daughters, and you do not always resist the temptation. Do your marriages of ‘romance’ turn out better than our marriages of prudence, of careful thought, of long foresight? We do not think they do.”

So much for the two ways. Patriotism being the last refuge of a scoundrel, according to Doctor Johnson, I have no intention of judging between them, as my heart prompts me to do, lest I should be accused of it. Nevertheless, I may hint that, while perfectly convinced by the admirable logic of the French, I am still, with the charming illogicalness of the English, in favour of romantic marriages (it being, of course, understood that dowries _ought_ to be far more plentiful than they are in England). If a Frenchman accuses me of being ready to risk sacrificing the whole of the latter part of married life for the sake of the first two or three years, I would unhesitatingly reply: “Yes, I _am_ ready to risk that sacrifice. I reckon the first two or three years are worth it.” But, then, I am English, and therefore romantic by nature. Look at London, that city whose outstanding quality is its romantic quality; and look at the Englishwomen going their ways in the wonderful streets thereof! Their very eyes are full of romance. They may, they do, lack _chic_, but they are heroines of drama. Then look at Paris; there is little romance in the fine right lines of Paris. Look at the Parisiennes. They are the most astounding and adorable women yet invented by nature. But they aren’t romantic, you know. They don’t know what romance is. They are so matter-of-fact that when you think of their matter-of-factness it gives you a shiver in the small of your back.

To return. One may view the two ways in another light. Perhaps the difference between them is, fundamentally, less a difference between the ideas of two races than a difference between the ideas of two “times of life”; and in France the elderly attitude predominates. As people get on in years, even English people, they are more and more in favour of the marriage of reason as against the marriage of romance. Young people, even French people, object strongly to the theory and practice of the marriage of reason. But with them the unique and precious ecstasy of youth is not past, whereas their elders have forgotten its savour. Which is right? No one will ever be able to decide. But neither the one system nor the other will apply itself well to all or nearly all cases. There have been thousands of romantic marriages in England of which it may be said that it would have been better had the French system been in force to prevent their existence. And, equally, thousands of possible romantic marriages have been prevented in France which, had the English system prevailed there, would have turned out excellently. The prevalence of dowries in England would not render the English system perfect (for it must be remembered that money is only one of several ingredients in the French marriage), but it would considerably improve it. However, we are not a provident race, and we are not likely to become one. So our young men must reconcile themselves to the continued absence of dowries.

The reader may be excused for imagining that I am at the end of my remarks. I am not. All that precedes is a mere preliminary to what follows. I want to regard the case of the man who has given the English system a fair trial and found it futile. Thus, we wait on chance in England. We wait for love to arrive. Suppose it doesn’t arrive? Where is the English system then? Assume that a man in a position to marry reaches thirty-five or forty without having fallen in love. Why should he not try the French system for a change? Any marriage is better than none at all. Naturally, in England, he couldn’t go up to the Chosen Fair and announce: “I am not precisely in love with you, but will you marry me?” He would put it differently. And she would understand. And do you think she would refuse?

VI

Books

THE PHYSICAL SIDE

The chief interest of many of my readers is avowedly books; they may, they probably do, profess other interests, but they are primarily “bookmen,” and when one is a bookman one is a bookman during about twenty-three and three-quarter hours in every day. Now, bookmen are capable of understanding things about books which cannot be put into words; they are not like mere subscribers to circulating libraries; for them a book is not just a book–it is a _book_. If these lines should happen to catch the eye of any persons not bookmen, such persons may imagine that I am writing nonsense; but I trust that the bookmen will comprehend me. And I venture, then, to offer a few reflections upon an aspect of modern bookishness that is becoming more and more “actual” as the enterprise of publishers and the beneficent effects of education grow and increase together. I refer to “popular editions” of classics.

Now, I am very grateful to the devisers of cheap and handy editions. The first book I ever bought was the first volume of the first modern series of presentable and really cheap reprints, namely, Macaulay’s “Warren Hastings,” in “Cassell’s National Library” (sixpence, in cloth). That foundation stone of my library has unfortunately disappeared beneath the successive deposits, but another volume of the same series, F.T. Palgrave’s “Visions of England” (an otherwise scarce book), still remains to me through the vicissitudes of seventeen years of sale, purchase, and exchange, and I would not care to part with it. I have over two hundred volumes of that inestimable and incomparable series, “The Temple Classics,” besides several hundred assorted volumes of various other series. And when I heard of the new “Everyman’s Library,” projected by that benefactor of bookmen, Mr. J.M. Dent, my first impassioned act was to sit down and write a postcard to my bookseller ordering George Finlay’s “The Byzantine Empire,” a work which has waited sixty years for popular recognition. So that I cannot be said to be really antagonistic to cheap reprints.

Strong in this consciousness, I beg to state that cheap and handy reprints are “all very well in their way”–which is a manner of saying that they are not the Alpha and Omega of bookishness. By expending £20 yearly during the next five years a man might collect, in cheap and handy reprints, all that was worth having in classic English literature. But I for one would not be willing to regard such a library as a real library. I would regard it as only a cheap edition of a library. There would be something about it that would arouse in me a certain benevolent disdain, even though every volume was well printed on good paper and inoffensively bound. Why? Well, although it is my profession in life to say what I feel in plain words, I do not know that in this connection I _can_ say what I feel in plain words. I have to rely on a sympathetic comprehension of my attitude in the bookish breasts of my readers.

In the first place, I have an instinctive antipathy to a “series.” I do not want “The Golden Legend” and “The Essays of Elia” uniformed alike in a regiment of books. It makes me think of conscription and barracks. Even the noblest series of reprints ever planned (not at all cheap, either, nor heterogeneous in matter), the Tudor Translations, faintly annoys me in the mass. Its appearances in a series seems to me to rob a book of something very delicate and subtle in the aroma of its individuality–something which, it being inexplicable, I will not try to explain.

In the second place, most cheap and handy reprints are small in size. They may be typographically excellent, with large type and opaque paper; they may be convenient to handle; they may be surpassingly suitable for the pocket and the very thing for travel; they may save precious space where shelf-room is limited; but they are small in size. And there is, as regards most literature, a distinct moral value in size. Do I carry my audience with me? I hope so. Let “Paradise Lost” be so produced that you can put it in your waistcoat pocket, and it is no more “Paradise Lost.” Milton needs a solid octavo form, with stoutish paper and long primer type. I have “Walpole’s Letters” in Newnes’s “Thin Paper Classics,” a marvellous volume of near nine hundred pages, with a portrait and a good index and a beautiful binding, for three and six, and I am exceedingly indebted to Messrs. Newnes for creating that volume. It was sheer genius on their part to do so. I get charming sensations from it, but sensations not so charming as I should get from Mrs. Paget Toynbee’s many-volumed and grandiose edition, even aside from Mrs. Toynbee’s erudite notes and the extra letters which she has been able to print. The same letter in Mrs. Toynbee’s edition would have a higher æsthetic and moral value for me than in the “editionlet” of Messrs. Newnes. The one cheap series which satisfies my desire for size is Macmillan’s “Library of English Classics,” in which I have the “Travels” of that mythical personage, Sir John Mandeville. But it is only in paying for it that you know this edition to be cheap, for it measures nine inches by six inches by two inches.

And in the third place, when one buys series, one only partially chooses one’s books; they are mainly chosen for one by the publisher. And even if they are not chosen for one by the publisher, they are suggested _to_ one by the publisher. Not so does the genuine bookman form his library. The genuine bookman begins by having specific desires. His study of authorities gives him a demand, and the demand forces him to find the supply. He does not let the supply create the demand. Such a state of affairs would be almost humiliating, almost like the _parvenu_ who calls in the wholesale furnisher and decorator to provide him with a home. A library must be, primarily, the expression of the owner’s personality. Let me assert again that I am strongly in favour of cheap series of reprints. Their influence though not the very finest, is undisputably good. They are as great a boon as cheap bread. They are indispensable where money or space is limited, and in travelling. They decidedly help to educate a taste for books that are neither cheap nor handy; and the most luxurious collectors may not afford to ignore them entirely. But they have their limitations, their disadvantages. They cannot form the backbone of a “proper” library. They make, however, admirable embroidery to a library. My own would look rather plain if it was stripped of them.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF BOOK-BUYING

For some considerable time I have been living, as regards books, with the minimum of comfort and decency–with, in fact, the bare necessaries of life, such necessaries being, in my case, sundry dictionaries, Boswell, an atlas, Wordsworth, an encyclopædia, Shakespere, Whitaker, some De Maupassant, a poetical anthology, Verlaine, Baudelaire, a natural history of my native county, an old directory of my native town, Sir Thomas Browne, Poe, Walpole’s Letters, and a book of memoirs that I will not name. A curious list, you will say. Well, never mind! We do not all care to eat beefsteak and chip potatoes off an oak table, with a foaming quart to the right hand. We have our idiosyncrasies. The point is that I existed on the bare necessaries of life (very healthy–doctors say) for a long time. And then, just lately, I summoned energy and caused fifteen hundred volumes to be transported to me; and I arranged them on shelves; and I re-arranged them on shelves; and I left them to arrange themselves on shelves.

Well, you know, the way that I walk up and down in front of these volumes, whose faces I had half-forgotten, is perfectly infantile. It is like the way of a child at a menagerie. There, in its cage, is that 1839 edition of Shelley, edited by Mrs. Shelley, that I once nearly sold to the British Museum because the Keeper of Printed Books thought he hadn’t got a copy–only he had! And there, in a cage by himself, because of his terrible hugeness, is the 1652 Paris edition of Montaigne’s Essays. And so I might continue, and so I would continue, were it not essential that I come to my argument.

Do you suppose that the presence of these books, after our long separation, is making me read more than I did? Do you suppose I am engaged in looking up my favourite passages? Not a bit. The other evening I had a long tram journey, and, before starting, I tried to select a book to take with me. I couldn’t find one to suit just the tram-mood. As I had to _catch_ the tram I was obliged to settle on something, and in the end I went off with nothing more original than “Hamlet,” which I am really too familiar with…. Then I bought an evening paper, and read it all through, including advertisements. So I said to myself: “This is a nice result of all my trouble to resume company with some of my books!” However, as I have long since ceased to be surprised at the eccentric manner in which human nature refuses to act as one would have expected it to act, I was able to keep calm and unashamed during this extraordinary experience. And I am still walking up and down in front of my books and enjoying them without reading them.

I wish to argue that a great deal of cant is talked (and written) about reading. Papers such as the “Anthenæum,” which nevertheless I peruse with joy from end to end every week, can scarcely notice a new edition of a classic without expressing, in a grieved and pessimistic tone, the fear that more people buy these agreeable editions than read them. And if it is so? What then? Are we only to buy the books that we read? The question has merely to be thus bluntly put, and it answers itself. All impassioned bookmen, except a few who devote their whole lives to reading, have rows of books on their shelves which they have never read, and which they never will read. I know that I have hundreds such. My eye rests on the works of Berkeley in three volumes, with a preface by the Right Honourable Arthur James Balfour. I cannot conceive the circumstances under which I shall ever read Berkeley; but I do not regret having bought him in a good edition, and I would buy him again if I had him not; for when I look at him some of his virtue passes into me; I am the better for him. A certain aroma of philosophy informs my soul, and I am less crude than I should otherwise be. This is not fancy, but fact.

Taking Berkeley simply as an instance, I will utilise him a little further. I ought to have read Berkeley, you say; just as I ought to have read Spenser, Ben Jonson, George Eliot, Victor Hugo. Not at all. There is no “ought” about it. If the mass of obtainable first-class literature were, as it was perhaps a century ago, not too large to be assimilated by a man of ordinary limited leisure _in_ his leisure and during the first half of his life, then possibly there might be an “ought” about it. But the mass has grown unmanageable, even by those robust professional readers who can “grapple with whole libraries.” And I am not a professional reader. I am a writer, just as I might be a hotel-keeper, a solicitor, a doctor, a grocer, or an earthenware manufacturer. I read in my scanty spare time, and I don’t read in all my spare time, either. I have other distractions. I read what I feel inclined to read, and I am conscious of no duty to finish a book that I don’t care to finish. I read in my leisure, not from a sense of duty, not to improve myself, but solely because it gives me pleasure to read. Sometimes it takes me a month to get through one book. I expect my case is quite an average case. But am I going to fetter my buying to my reading? Not exactly! I want to have lots of books on my shelves because I know they are good, because I know they would amuse me, because I like to look at them, and because one day I might have a caprice to read them. (Berkeley, even thy turn may come!) In short, I want them because I want them. And shall I be deterred from possessing them by the fear of some sequestered and singular person, some person who has read vastly but who doesn’t know the difference between a J.S. Muria cigar and an R.P. Muria, strolling in and bullying me with the dreadful query: “_Sir, do you read your books?_”

Therefore I say: In buying a book, be influenced by two considerations only. Are you reasonably sure that it is a good book? Have you a desire to possess it? Do not be influenced by the probability or the improbability of your reading it. After all, one does read a certain proportion of what one buys. And further, instinct counts. The man who spends half a crown on Stubbs’s “Early Plantagenets” instead of going into the Gaiety pit to see “The Spring Chicken,” will probably be the sort of man who can suck goodness out of Stubbs’s “Early Plantagenets” years before he bestirs himself to read it.

VII

Success

CANDID REMARKS

There are times when the whole free and enlightened Press of the United Kingdom seems to become strangely interested in the subject of “success,” of getting on in life. We are passing through such a period now. It would be difficult to name the prominent journalists who have not lately written, in some form or another, about success. Most singular phenomenon of all, Dr. Emil Reich has left Plato, duchesses, and Claridge’s Hotel, in order to instruct the million readers of a morning paper in the principles of success! What the million readers thought of the Doctor’s stirring and strenuous sentences I will not imagine; but I know what I thought, as a plain man. After taking due cognizance of his airy play with the “constants” and “variables” of success, after watching him treat “energetics” (his wonderful new name for the “science” of success) as though because he had made it end in “ics” it resembled mathematics, I thought that the sublime and venerable art of mystification could no further go. If my fellow-pilgrim through this vale of woe, the average young man who arrives at Waterloo at 9.40 every morning with a cigarette in his mouth and a second-class season over his heart and vague aspirations in his soul, was half as mystified as I was, he has probably ere this decided that the science of success has all the disadvantages of algebra without any of the advantages of cricket, and that he may as well leave it alone lest evil should befall him. On the off-chance that he has come as yet to no decision about the science of success, I am determined to deal with the subject in a disturbingly candid manner. I feel that it is as dangerous to tell the truth about success as it is to tell the truth about the United States; but being thoroughly accustomed to the whistle of bullets round my head, I will nevertheless try.

Most writers on success are, through sheer goodness of heart, wickedly disingenuous. For the basis of their argument is that nearly any one who gives his mind to it can achieve success. This is, to put it briefly, untrue. The very central idea of success is separation from the multitude of plain men; it is perhaps the only idea common to all the various sorts of success–differentiation from the crowd. To address the population at large, and tell it how to separate itself from itself, is merely silly. I am now, of course, using the word success in its ordinary sense. If human nature were more perfect than it is, success in life would mean an intimate knowledge of one’s self and the achievement of a philosophic inward calm, and such a goal might well be reached by the majority of mortals. But to us success signifies something else. It may be divided into four branches: (1) Distinction in pure or applied science. This is the least gross of all forms of success as we regard it, for it frequently implies poverty, and it does not by any means always imply fame. (2) Distinction in the arts. Fame and adulation are usually implied in this, though they do not commonly bring riches with them. (3) Direct influence and power over the material lives of other men; that is to say, distinction in politics, national or local. (4) Success in amassing money. This last is the commonest and easiest. Most forms of success will fall under one of these heads. Are they possible to that renowned and much-flattered person, the man in the street? They are not, and well you know it, all you professors of the science of success! Only a small minority of us can even become rich.

Happily, while it is true that success in its common acceptation is, by its very essence, impossible to the majority, there is an accompanying truth which adjusts the balance; to wit, that the majority do not desire success. This may seem a bold saying, but it is in accordance with the facts. Conceive the man in the street suddenly, by some miracle, invested with political power, and, of course, under the obligation to use it. He would be so upset, worried, wearied, and exasperated at the end of a week that he would be ready to give the eyes out of his head in order to get rid of it. As for success in science or in art, the average person’s interest in such matters is so slight, compared with that of the man of science or the artist, that he cannot be said to have an interest in them. And supposing that distinction in them were thrust upon him he would rapidly lose that distinction by simple indifference and neglect. The average person certainly wants some money, and the average person does not usually rest until he has got as much as is needed for the satisfaction of his instinctive needs. He will move the heaven and earth of his environment to earn sufficient money for marriage in the “station” to which he has been accustomed; and precisely at that point his genuine desire for money will cease to be active. The average man has this in common with the most exceptional genius, that his career in its main contours is governed by his instincts. The average man flourishes and finds his ease in an atmosphere of peaceful routine. Men destined for success flourish and find their ease in an atmosphere of collision and disturbance. The two temperaments are diverse. Naturally the average man dreams vaguely, upon occasion; he dreams how nice it would be to be famous and rich. We all dream vaguely upon such things. But to dream vaguely is not to desire. I often tell myself that I would give anything to be the equal of Cinquevalli, the juggler, or to be the captain of the largest Atlantic liner. But the reflective part of me tells me that my yearning to emulate these astonishing personages is not a genuine desire, and that its realization would not increase my happiness. To obtain a passably true notion of what happens to the mass of mankind in its progress from the cradle to the grave, one must not attempt to survey a whole nation, nor even a great metropolis, nor even a very big city like Manchester or Liverpool. These panoramas are so immense and confusing that they defeat the observing eye. It is better to take a small town of, say, twenty or thirty thousand inhabitants–such a town as most of us know, more or less intimately. The extremely few individuals whose instincts mark them out to take part in the struggle for success can be identified at once. For the first thing they do is to leave the town. The air of the town is not bracing enough for them. Their nostrils dilate for something keener. Those who are left form a microcosm which is representative enough of the world at large. Between the ages of thirty and forty they begin to sort themselves out. In their own sphere they take their places. A dozen or so politicians form the town council and rule the town. Half a dozen business men stand for the town’s commercial activity and its wealth. A few others teach science and art, or are locally known as botanists, geologists, amateurs of music, or amateurs of some other art. These are the distinguished, and it will be perceived that they cannot be more numerous than they are. What of the rest? Have they struggled for success and been beaten? Not they. Do they, as they grow old, resemble disappointed men? Not they. They have fulfilled themselves modestly. They have got what they genuinely tried to get. They have never even gone near the outskirts of the battle for success. But they have not failed. The number of failures is surprisingly small. You see a shabby, disappointed, ageing man flit down the main street, and someone replies to your inquiry: “That’s So-and-so, one of life’s failures, poor fellow!” And the very tone in which the words are uttered proves the excessive rarity of the real failure. It goes without saying that the case of the handful who have left the town in search of the Success with the capital S has a tremendous interest of curiosity for the mass who remain. I will consider it.

THE SUCCESSFUL AND THE UNSUCCESSFUL

Having boldly stated that success is not, and cannot be, within grasp of the majority, I now proceed to state, as regards the minority, that they do not achieve it in the manner in which they are commonly supposed to achieve it. And I may add an expression of my thankfulness that they do not. The popular delusion is that success is attained by what I may call the “Benjamin Franklin” method. Franklin was a very great man; he united in his character a set of splendid qualities as various, in their different ways, as those possessed by Leonardo da Vinci. I have an immense admiration for him. But his Autobiography does make me angry. His Autobiography is understood to be a classic, and if you say a word against it in the United States you are apt to get killed. I do not, however, contemplate an immediate visit to the United States, and I shall venture to assert that Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography is a detestable book and a misleading book. I can recall only two other volumes which I would more willingly revile. One is _Samuel Budgett: The Successful Merchant_, and the other is _From Log Cabin to White House_, being the history of President Garfield. Such books may impose on boys, and it is conceivable that they do not harm boys (Franklin, by the way, began his Autobiography in the form of a letter to his son), but the grown man who can support them without nausea ought to go and see a doctor, for there is something wrong with him.

“I began now,” blandly remarks Franklin, “to have some acquaintance among the young people of the town that were lovers of reading, with whom I spent my evenings very pleasantly; _and gained money by my industry and frugality_.” Or again: “It was about this time I conceived the bold and arduous project of arriving at moral perfection…. I made a little book, in which I allotted a page for each of the virtues. I ruled each page with red ink, so as to have seven columns, one for each day of the week…. I crossed these columns with thirteen red lines, marking the beginning of each line with the first letter of one of the virtues; on which line, and in its proper column, I might mark, by a little black spot, every fault I found upon examination to have been committed respecting that virtue, upon that day.” Shade of Franklin, where’er thou art, this is really a little bit stiff! A man may be excused even such infamies of priggishness, but truly he ought not to go and write them down, especially to his son. And why the detail about red ink? If Franklin’s son was not driven to evil courses by the perusal of that monstrous Autobiography, he must have been a man almost as astounding as his father. Now Franklin could only have written his “immortal classic” from one of three motives: (1) Sheer conceit. He was a prig, but he was not conceited. (2) A desire that others should profit by his mistakes. He never made any mistakes. Now and again he emphasizes some trifling error, but that is “only his fun.” (3) A desire that others should profit by the recital of his virtuous sagacity to reach a similar success. The last was undoubtedly his principal motive. Honest fellow, who happened to be a genius! But the point is that his success was in no way the result of his virtuous sagacity. I would go further, and say that his dreadful virtuous sagacity often hindered his success. No one is a worse guide to success than your typical successful man. He seldom understands the reasons of his own success; and when he is asked by a popular magazine to give his experiences for the benefit of the youth of a whole nation, it is impossible for him to be natural and sincere. He knows the kind of thing that is expected from him, and if he didn’t come to London with half a crown in his pocket he probably did something equally silly, and he puts _that_ down, and the note of the article or interview is struck, and good-bye to genuine truth! There recently appeared in a daily paper an autobiographic-didactic article by one of the world’s richest men which was the most “inadequate” article of the sort that I have ever come across. Successful men forget so much of their lives! Moreover, nothing is easier than to explain an accomplished fact in a nice, agreeable, conventional way. The entire business of success is a gigantic tacit conspiracy on the part of the minority to deceive the majority.

Are successful men more industrious, frugal, and intelligent than men who are not successful? I maintain that they are not, and I have studied successful men at close quarters. One of the commonest characteristics of the successful man is his idleness, his immense capacity for wasting time. I stoutly assert that as a rule successful men are by habit comparatively idle. As for frugality, it is practically unknown among the successful classes: this statement applies with particular force to financiers. As for intelligence, I have over and over again been startled by the lack of intelligence in successful men. They are, indeed, capable of stupidities that would be the ruin of a plain clerk. And much of the talk in those circles which surround the successful man is devoted to the enumeration of instances of his lack of intelligence. Another point: successful men seldom succeed as the result of an ordered arrangement of their lives; they are the least methodical of creatures. Naturally when they have “arrived” they amuse themselves and impress the majority by being convinced that right from the start, with a steady eye on the goal, they had carefully planned every foot of the route.

No! Great success never depends on the practice of the humbler virtues, though it may occasionally depend on the practice of the prouder vices. Use industry, frugality, and common sense by all means, but do not expect that they will help you to success. Because they will not. I shall no doubt be told that what I have just written has an immoral tendency, and is a direct encouragement to sloth, thriftlessness, etc. One of our chief national faults is our hypocritical desire to suppress the truth on the pretext that to admit it would encourage sin, whereas the real explanation is that we are afraid of the truth. I will not be guilty of that fault. I do like to look a fact in the face without blinking. I am fully persuaded that, per head, there is more of the virtues in the unsuccessful majority than in the successful minority. In London alone are there not hundreds of miles of streets crammed with industry, frugality, and prudence? Some of the most brilliant men I have known have been failures, and not through lack of character either. And some of the least gifted have been marvellously successful. It is impossible to point to a single branch of human activity in which success can be explained by the conventional principles that find general acceptance. I hear you, O reader, murmuring to yourself: “This is all very well, but he is simply being paradoxical for his own diversion.” I would that I could persuade you of my intense seriousness! I have endeavoured to show what does not make success. I will next endeavour to show what does make it. But my hope is forlorn.

THE INWARDNESS OF SUCCESS

Of course, one can no more explain success than one can explain Beethoven’s C minor symphony. One may state what key it is written in, and make expert reflections upon its form, and catalogue its themes, and relate it to symphonies that preceded it and symphonies that followed it, but in the end one is reduced to saying that the C minor symphony is beautiful–because it is. In the same manner one is reduced to saying that the sole real difference between success and failure is that success succeeds. This being frankly admitted at the outset, I will allow myself to assert that there are three sorts of success. Success A is the accidental sort. It is due to the thing we call chance, and to nothing else. We are all of us still very superstitious, and the caprices of chance have a singular effect upon us. Suppose that I go to Monte Carlo and announce to a friend my firm conviction that red will turn up next time, and I back red for the maximum and red does turn up; my friend, in spite of his intellect, will vaguely attribute to me a mysterious power. Yet chance alone would be responsible. If I did that six times running all the players at the table would be interested in me. If I did it a dozen times all the players in the Casino would regard me with awe. Yet chance alone would be responsible. If I did it eighteen times my name would be in every newspaper in Europe. Yet chance alone would be responsible. I should be, in that department of human activity, an extremely successful man, and the vast majority of people would instinctively credit me with gifts that I do not possess. If such phenomena of superstition can occur in an affair where the agency of chance is open and avowed, how much more probable is it that people should refuse to be satisfied with the explanation of “sheer accident” in affairs where it is to the interest of the principal actors to conceal the rôle played by chance! Nevertheless, there can be no doubt in the minds of persons who have viewed success at close quarters that a proportion of it is due solely and utterly to chance. Successful men flourish to-day, and have flourished in the past, who have no quality whatever to differentiate them from the multitude. Red has turned up for them a sufficient number of times, and the universal superstitious instinct not to believe in chance has accordingly surrounded them with a halo. It is merely ridiculous to say, as some do say, that success is never due to chance alone. Because nearly everybody is personally acquainted with reasonable proof, on a great or a small scale, to the contrary.

The second sort of success, B, is that made by men who, while not gifted with first-class talents, have, beyond doubt, the talent to succeed. I should describe these men by saying that, though they deserve something, they do not deserve the dazzling reward known as success. They strike us as overpaid. We meet them in all professions and trades, and we do not really respect them. They excite our curiosity, and perhaps our envy. They may rise very high indeed, but they must always be unpleasantly conscious of a serious reservation in our attitude towards them. And if they could read their obituary notices they would assuredly discern therein a certain chilliness, however kindly we acted up to our great national motto of _De mortuis nil nist bunkum_. It is this class of success which puzzles the social student. How comes it that men without any other talent possess a mysterious and indefinable talent to succeed? Well, it seems to me that such men always display certain characteristics. And the chief of these characteristics is the continual, insatiable _wish_ to succeed. They are preoccupied with the idea of succeeding. We others are not so preoccupied. We dream of success at intervals, but we have not the passion for success. We don’t lie awake at nights pondering upon it.

The second characteristic of these men springs naturally from the first. They are always on the look-out. This does not mean that they are industrious. I stated in a previous article my belief that as a rule successful men are not particularly industrious. A man on a raft with his shirt for a signal cannot be termed industrious, but he will keep his eyes open for a sail on the horizon. If he simply lies down and goes to sleep he may miss the chance of his life, in a very special sense. The man with the talent to succeed is the man on the raft who never goes to sleep. His indefatigable orb sweeps the main from sunset to sunset. Having sighted a sail, he gets up on his hind legs and waves that shirt in so determined a manner that the ship is bound to see him and take him off. Occasionally he plunges into the sea, risking sharks and other perils. If he doesn’t “get there,” we hear nothing of him. If he does, some person will ultimately multiply by ten the number of sharks that he braved: that person is called a biographer.

Let me drop the metaphor. Another characteristic of these men is that they seem to have the exact contrary of what is known as common sense. They will become enamoured of some enterprise which infallibly impresses the average common-sense person as a mad and hopeless enterprise. The average common-sense person will demolish the hopes of that enterprise by incontrovertible argument. He will point out that it is foolish on the face of it, that it has never been attempted before, and that it responds to no need of humanity. He will say to himself: “This fellow with his precious enterprise has a twist in his brain. He can’t reply to my arguments, and yet he obstinately persists in going on.” And the man destined to success does go on. Perhaps the enterprise fails; it often fails; and then the average common-sense person expends much breath in “I told you so’s.” But the man continues to be on the look-out. His thirst is unassuaged; his taste for enterprises foredoomed to failure is incurable. And one day some enterprise foredoomed to failure develops into a success. We all hear of it. We all open our mouths and gape. Of the failures we have heard nothing. Once the man has achieved success, the thing becomes a habit with him. The difference between a success and a failure is often so slight that a reputation for succeeding will ensure success, and a reputation for failing will ensure failure. Chance plays an important part in such careers, but not a paramount part. One can only say that it is more useful to have luck at the beginning than later on. These “men of success” generally have pliable temperaments. They are not frequently un-moral, but they regard a conscience as a good servant and a bad master. They live in an atmosphere of compromise.

There remains class C of success–the class of sheer high merit. I am not a pessimist, nor am I an optimist. I try to arrive at the truth, and I should say that in putting success C at ten per cent. of the sum total of all successes, I am being generous to class C. Not that I believe that vast quantities of merit go unappreciated. My reason for giving to Class C only a modest share is the fact that there is so little sheer high merit. And does it not stand to reason that high merit must be very exceptional? This sort of success needs no explanation, no accounting for. It is the justification of our singular belief in the principle of the triumph of justice, and it is among natural phenomena perhaps the only justification that can be advanced for that belief. And certainly when we behold the spectacle of genuine distinguished merit gaining, without undue delay and without the sacrifice of dignity or of conscience, the applause of the kind-hearted but obtuse and insensible majority of the human race, we have fair reason to hug ourselves.

VIII

The Petty Artificialities

The phrase “petty artificialities,” employed by one of the correspondents in the great Simple Life argument, has stuck in my mind, although I gave it a plain intimation that it was no longer wanted there. Perhaps it sheds more light than I had at first imagined on the mental state of the persons who use it when they wish to arraign the conditions of “modern life.” A vituperative epithet is capable of making a big show. “Artificialities” is a sufficiently scornful word, but when you add “petty” you somehow give the quietus to the pretensions of modern life. Modern life had better hide its diminished head, after that. Modern life is settled and done for–in the opinion of those who have thrown the dart. Only it isn’t done for, really, you know. “Petty,” after all, means nothing in that connexion. Are there, then, artificialities which are not “petty,” which are noble, large, and grand? “Petty” means merely that the users of the word are just a little cross and out of temper. What they think they object to is artificialities of any kind, and so to get rid of their spleen they refer to “petty” artificialities. The device is a common one, and as brilliant as it is futile. Rude adjectives are like blank cartridge. They impress a vain people, including the birds of the air, but they do no execution.

At the same time, let me admit that I deeply sympathize with the irritated users of the impolite phrase “petty artificialities.” For it does at any rate show a “divine discontent”; it does prove a high dissatisfaction with conditions which at best are not the final expression of the eternal purpose. It does make for a sort of crude and churlish righteousness. I well know that feeling which induces one to spit out savagely the phrase “petty artificialities of modern life.” One has it usually either on getting up or on going to bed. What a petty artificial business it is, getting up, even for a male! Shaving! Why shave? And then going to a drawer and choosing a necktie. Fancy an immortal soul, fancy a fragment of the eternal and indestructible energy, which exists from everlasting to everlasting, deliberately expending its activity on the choice of a necktie! Why a necktie? Then one goes downstairs and exchanges banal phrases with other immortals. And one can’t start breakfast immediately, because some sleepy mortal is late.

Why babble? Why wait? Why not say straight out: “Go to the deuce, all of you! Here it’s nearly ten o’clock, and me anxious to begin living the higher life at once instead of fiddling around in petty artificialities. Shut up, every one of you. Give me my bacon instantly, and let me gobble it down quick and be off. I’m sick of your ceremonies!” This would at any rate not be artificial. It would save time. And if a similar policy were strictly applied through the day, one could retire to a well-earned repose in the full assurance that the day had been simplified. The time for living the higher life, the time for pushing forward those vast schemes of self-improvement which we all cherish, would decidedly have been increased. One would not have that maddening feeling, which one so frequently does have when the shades of night are falling fast, that the day had been “frittered away.” And yet–and yet–I gravely doubt whether this wholesale massacre of those poor petty artificialities would bring us appreciably nearer the millennium.

For there is one thing, and a thing of fundamental importance, which the revolutionists against petty artificialities always fail to appreciate, and that is the necessity and the value of convention. I cannot in a paragraph deal effectively with this most difficult and complex question. I can only point the reader to analogous phenomena in the arts. All the arts are a conventionalization, an ordering of nature. Even in a garden you put the plants in rows, and you subordinate the well-being of one to the general well-being. The sole difference between a garden and the wild woods is a petty artificiality. In writing a sonnet you actually cramp the profoundest emotional conceptions into a length and a number of lines and a jingling of like sounds arbitrarily fixed beforehand! Wordsworth’s “The world is too much with us” is a solid, horrid mass of petty artificiality. Why couldn’t the fellow say what he meant and have done with it, instead of making “powers” rhyme with “ours,” and worrying himself to use exactly a hundred and forty syllables? As for music, the amount of time that must have been devoted to petty artificiality in the construction of an affair like Bach’s Chaconne is simply staggering. Then look at pictures, absurdly confined in frames, with their ingenious contrasts of light and shade and mass against mass. Nothing but petty artificiality! In other words, nothing but “form”–“form” which is the basis of all beauty, whether material or otherwise.

Now, what form is in art, conventions (petty artificialities) are in life. Just as you can have too much form in art, so you can have too much convention in life. But no art that is not planned in form is worth consideration, and no life that is not planned in convention can ever be satisfactory. Convention is not the essence of life, but it is the protecting garment and preservative of life, and it is also one very valuable means by which life can express itself. It is largely symbolic; and symbols, while being expressive, are also great time-savers. The despisers of petty artificialities should think of this. Take the striking instance of that pettiest artificiality, leaving cards. Well, searchers after the real, what would you substitute for it? If you dropped it and substituted nothing, the result would tend towards a loosening of the bonds of society, and it would tend towards the diminution of the number of your friends. And if you dropped it and tried to substitute something less artificial and more real, you would accomplish no more than you accomplish with cards, you would inconvenience everybody, and waste a good deal of your own time. I cannot too strongly insist that the basis of convention is a symbolism, primarily meant to display a regard for the feelings of other people. If you do not display a regard for the feelings of other people, you may as well go and live on herbs in the desert. And if you are to display such a regard you cannot do it more expeditiously, at a smaller outlay of time and brains, than by adopting the code of convention now generally practised. It comes to this–that you cannot have all the advantages of living in the desert while you are living in a society. It would be delightful for you if you could, but you can’t.

There are two further reasons for the continuance of conventionality. And one is the mysterious but indisputable fact that the full beauty of an activity is never brought out until it is subjected to discipline and strict ordering and nice balancing. A life without petty artificiality would be the life of a tiger in the forest. A beautiful life, perhaps, a life of “burning bright,” but not reaching the highest ideal of beauty! Laws and rules, forms and ceremonies are good in themselves, from a merely æsthetic point of view, apart from their social value and necessity.

And the other reason is that one cannot always be at the full strain of “self-improvement,” and “evolutionary progress,” and generally beating the big drum. Human nature will not stand it. There is, if we will only be patient, ample time for the “artificial” as well as for the “real.” Those persons who think that there isn’t, ought to return to school and learn arithmetic. Supposing that all “petty artificialities” were suddenly swept away, and we were able to show our regard and consideration for our fellow creatures by the swift processes of thought alone, we should find ourselves with a terrible lot of time hanging heavy on our hands. We can no more spend all our waking hours in consciously striving towards higher things than we can dine exclusively off jam. What frightful prigs we should become if we had nothing to do but cultivate our noblest faculties! I beg the despisers of artificiality to reflect upon these observations, however incomplete these observations may be, and to consider whether they would be quite content if they got what they are crying out for.

IX

The Secret of Content

I have said lightly à propos of the conclusion arrived at by several correspondents and by myself that the cry for the simple life was merely a new form of the old cry for happiness, that I would explain what it was that made life worth living for me. The word has gone forth, and I must endeavour to redeem my promise. But I do so with qualms and with diffidence. First, there is the natural instinct against speaking of that which is in the core of one’s mind. Second, there is the fear, nearly amounting to certainty, of being misunderstood or not comprehended at all. And third, there is the absurd insufficiency of space. However!… For me, spiritual content (I will not use the word “happiness,” which implies too much) springs essentially from no mental or physical facts. It springs from the spiritual fact that there is something higher in man than the mind, and that that something can control the mind. Call that something the soul, or what you will. My sense of security amid the collisions of existence lies in the firm consciousness that just as my body is the servant of my mind, so is my mind the servant of _me_. An unruly servant, but a servant–and possibly getting less unruly every day! Often have I said to that restive brain: “Now, O mind, sole means of communication between the divine _me_ and all external phenomena, you are not a free agent; you are a subordinate; you are nothing but a piece of machinery; and obey me you _shall_.”

The mind can only be conquered by regular meditation, by deciding beforehand what direction its activity ought to take, and insisting that its activity takes that direction; also by never leaving it idle, undirected, masterless, to play at random like a child in the streets after dark. This is extremely difficult, but it can be done, and it is marvellously well worth doing. The fault of the epoch is the absence of meditativeness. A sagacious man will strive to correct in himself the faults of his epoch. In some deep ways the twelfth century had advantages over the twentieth. It practised meditation. The twentieth does Sandow exercises. Meditation (I speak only for myself) is the least dispensable of the day’s doings. What do I force my mind to meditate upon? Upon various things, but chiefly upon one.

Namely, that Force, Energy, Life–the Incomprehensible has many names–is indestructible, and that, in the last analysis, there is only one single, unique Force, Energy, Life. Science is gradually reducing all elements to one element. Science is making it increasingly difficult to conceive matter apart from spirit. Everything lives. Even my razor gets “tired.” And the fatigue of my razor is no more nor less explicable than my fatigue after a passage of arms with my mind. The Force in it, and in me, has been transformed, not lost. All Force is the same force. Science just now has a tendency to call it electricity; but I am indifferent to such baptisms. The same Force pervades my razor, my cow in my field, and the central _me_ which dominates my mind: the same force in different stages of evolution. And that Force persists forever. In such paths do I compel my mind to walk daily. Daily it has to recognize that the mysterious Ego controlling it is a part of that divine Force which exists from everlasting to everlasting, and which, in its ultimate atoms, nothing can harm. By such a course of training, even the mind, the coarse, practical mind, at last perceives that worldly accidents don’t count.

“But,” you will exclaim, “this is nothing but the immortality of the soul over again!” Well, in a slightly more abstract form, it is. (I never said I had discovered anything new.) I do not permit myself to be dogmatic about the persistence of personality, or even of individuality after death. But, in basing my physical and mental life on the assumption that there is something in me which is indestructible and essentially changeless, I go no further than science points. Yes, if it gives you pleasure, let us call it the immortality of the soul. If I miss my train, or my tailor disgraces himself, or I lose that earthly manifestation of Force that happens to be dearest to me, I say to my mind: “Mind, concentrate your powers upon the full realization of the fact that I, your master, am immortal and beyond the reach of accidents.” And my mind, knowing by this time that I am a hard master, obediently does so. Am I, a portion of the Infinite Force that existed billions of years ago, and which will exist billions of years hence, going to allow myself to be worried by any terrestrial physical or mental event? I am not. As for the vicissitudes of my body, that servant of my servant, it had better keep its place, and not make too much fuss. Not that any fuss occurring in either of these outward envelopes of the eternal _me_ could really disturb me. The eternal is calm; it has the best reason for being so.

So you say to yourselves: “Here is a man in a penny weekly paper advocating daily meditation upon the immortality of the soul as a cure for discontent and unhappiness! A strange phenomenon!” That it should be strange is an indictment of the epoch. My only reply to you is this: Try it. Of course, I freely grant that such meditation, while it “casts out fear,” slowly kills desire and makes for a certain high indifference; and that the extinguishing of desire, with an accompanying indifference, be it high or low, is bad for youth. But I am not a youth, and to-day I am writing for those who have tasted disillusion: which youth has not. Yet I would not have you believe that I scorn the brief joys of this world. My attitude towards them would fain be that of Socrates, as stated by the incomparable Marcus Aurelius: “He knew how to lack, and how to enjoy, those things in the lack whereof most men show themselves weak; and in the fruition, intemperate.”

Besides commanding my mind to dwell upon the indestructibly and final omnipotence of the Force which is me, I command it to dwell upon the logical consequence of that _unity_ of force which science is now beginning to teach. The same essential force that is _me_ is also _you_. Says the Indian proverb: “I met a hundred men on the road to Delhi, and they were all my brothers.” Yes, and they were all my twin brothers, if I may so express it, and a thousand times closer to me even than the common conception of twin brothers. We are all of us the same in essence; what separates us is merely differences in our respective stages of evolution. Constant reflection upon this fact must produce that universal sympathy which alone can produce a positive content. It must do away with such ridiculous feelings as blame, irritation, anger, resentment. It must establish in the mind an all-embracing tolerance. Until a man can look upon the drunkard in his drunkenness, and upon the wife-beater in his brutality, with pure and calm compassion; until his heart goes out instinctively to every other manifestation of the unique Force; until he is surcharged with an eager and unconquerable benevolence towards everything that lives; until he has utterly abandoned the presumptuous practice of judging and condemning–he will never attain real content. “Ah!” you exclaim again, “he has nothing newer to tell us than that ‘the greatest of these is charity’!” I have not. It may strike you as excessively funny, but I have discovered nothing newer than that. I merely remind you of it. Thus it is, twins on the road to Delhi, by continual meditation upon the indestructibility of Force, that I try to cultivate calm, and by continual meditation upon the oneness of Force that I try to cultivate charity, being fully convinced that in calmness and in charity lies the secret of a placid if not ecstatic happiness. It is often said that no thinking person can be happy in this world. My view is that the more a man thinks the more happy he is likely to be. I have spoken. I am overwhelmingly aware that I have spoken crudely, abruptly, inadequately, confusedly.

THE END

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“What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker

I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle. Anyone that has ever kept a financial spending log or food log knows that they changed their spending or eating behavior when they created a record of the activity. We naturally start making better decisions and identifying patterns in our behavior. Monitoring an activity forces, us to pay more attention to it. We naturally start making better choices because we can’t ignore our bad ones. If we aren’t mindful of our choices, we will unconsciously fall into habitual patterns of behavior. The concept is so simple yet potent, I am amazed at how many people don’t use this principle to improve their personal or professional performance.

I think a simple notepad is a self-improvement powerhouse. It is one of the most powerful self-improvement tools in existence; when it is used to record an activity. Logging an activity creates greater awareness. Awareness is the first step in changing our behavior. When we record an activity, it forces us to become more mindful of our decisions, big and small. Often it is the small, seemingly insignificant decisions that are sabotaging us.

Eating that cookie in the breakroom, losing valuable time by allowing yourself to become distracted, skipping a workout, or staying up late watching TV instead of getting a good night’s sleep. Anyone of these decisions by themselves isn’t devastating, but their accumulative effects are.

Whatever it is you want to improve, your time management, your leadership, your relationships, your business, your eating patterns, your exercise consistency, or your spending, you must track it. Be relentless. Track everything related to the behavior you want to improve. Awareness is the first step toward transformation.

Bad habits are the result of cognitive neglect and mindless actions. The danger of bad habits is that we aren’t really involved in the decision-making process. We encounter the cue, and we begin to execute the routine, our conscious mind essentially goes to sleep until we receive the reward which reinforces the behavior. When we fall prey to bad habits, our mind is essentially operating at the level of the animals. One of our greatest gifts as human beings is our ability to connect what we are doing in the present to the results it will produce in the future. Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate rewards will determine how much we will accomplish in our lifetime.

Harvard social psychologist Daniel Gilbert says “What’s so curious about human beings is that we can look deeply into the future, foresee disaster, and still do nothing in the present to stop it. The majority of people on this planet are overwhelmed with concerns about their immediate well being.” He says that most of us have a hard time relating to our future self. We treat our future selves like a stranger, so when we are given a choice that will benefit our future self or present self, we have an overwhelming bias to take care of our immediate needs. You might not think this applies to you, in that case, he would tell you, “If you are like most people, then like most people, you don’t know you’re like most people.”

The more we discount future rewards, the more likely we are to act impulsively and develop bad habits; because bad habits always produce immediate gratification, while productive habits rarely do. The reason the “Marshmallow Test” was so predictive of the future behavior of the study’s participants in the decades that followed is that it provided a direct measurement of the child’s ability to delay gratification.

Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate ones will determine if we are going to invest in our future or squander it with impulsive actions. The future is either purchased by the present or stolen by it. Bad habits are thieves that rob us of our future one day at a time. The only way we can protect our future is by replacing bad habits with good habits. It is simple, but it isn’t easy. It requires diligence and effort. Progress is always intentional.

Our original reward system was based on food. Food wasn’t always available, like it is now, so our dopamine system was wired to seek immediate gratification. When our body senses a drop in blood sugar levels, a potentially life-threatening condition, our dopamine system is activated, and our desire to eat is palpable. This triggering mechanism is why small frequent meals, high in protein and slow digesting carbohydrates can significantly reduce cravings by keeping blood sugar levels stable.

Once our dopamine system is activated, any food could restore our blood sugar levels, but our primitive brain has been conditioned to seek high sugar foods since they will produce the most immediate rise in blood sugar levels. A failure to plan and have healthy snack options available, like an apple, will leave you susceptible to whatever junk food someone brought into the office. Instead of satisfying your craving with a nutritious 60-calorie apple, you end up eating an unhealthy 400-calorie donut, kolache, breakfast burrito, or cookie.

We didn’t begin cultivating crops and planning for the future until our newer prefrontal cortex was developed. It is our prefrontal cortex that is responsible for human beings ability to think of the future in a meaningful way. Before it’s development, any reward that was more than a few minutes away, wasn’t a consideration. As you have learned, our Elephant, which is driven to seek immediate gratification is able to easily overpower the Rider when the Rider has not prepared the Path or is uncertain what direction to lead the Elephant.

The smaller Rider cannot hope to overcome the two-ton Elephant through brute force and willpower, but he can steer the Elephant away from the temptation through preparation. He can shape the Path by removing temptations, when possible, having healthy snacks available always, and using future discounting to his advantage.

Our primitive rewards system treats any reward that is 10-minutes away like a future reward. Instead of our Rider telling our Elephant “No, you cannot have it” which would cause our mind to focus on the reward until our willpower is drained to exhaustion, in a phenomenon clinical psychologist call ironic rebound. Ironic rebound theory explains why our mind tends to focus on any thought we try to push away.

It is much easier and more effective to tell our Elephant, “Ok, you can have it, but you have to wait for 10-minutes.” This technique avoids our mind’s tendency to focus on the reward and cools our desires by making the reward feel like a future reward instead of an immediate one. Chances are in 10-minutes you will no longer feel the impulse.[i] Even if you do, you have still strengthened your willpower by overcoming the immediate temptation. Over time, this technique will significantly reduce the number and severity of your willpower lapses. Remember not to be overly critical of yourself when you give in to temptation because it will lead to stress eating. When we are struggling to overcome a bad habit and beat ourselves up about a willpower failure, our stressed-out mind will seek immediate relief, often from the very behavior, we are trying to curb. It isn’t logical, but it is all too human. Emotions can easily overcome reason.

Awareness prevents us from mindlessly falling into bad habits. The problem with most bad habits is that their negative consequences aren’t immediate. If you took one bite from a cookie and immediately gained 5-pounds, you wouldn’t take another bite. If you took one puff from a cigarette and instantly experienced health problems, you would put it down, but of course, these bad habits only produce immediate pleasure without any immediate consequences. If we aren’t mindful of their long-term cumulative effects, it is easy to convince ourselves it is just one cookie, one cigarette.

The self-deceit is especially insidious because there is a basis of truth and logic to the argument. One isolated indiscretion is negligible, it is what we do habitually that matters, but of course, in this case, the behavior is a bad habit, so it does matter. Gretchen Rubin, calls this excuse “the one-coin loophole.” In Erasmus’s Praise of Folly, the argument of the growing heap is made, “If ten coins are not enough to make a man rich, what if you add one coin? What if you add another? Finally, you will have to say that no one can be rich unless one coin can make him so.” What is implied is that while a single coin cannot make one rich, the accumulation of many coins is the only way to become rich.[ii]

Our actions are like the coins in Erasmus’s essay. One visit to the gym or sticking to our meal plan for a single day is inconsequential to our health, but the habit of going to the gym and controlling our food intake is invaluable. I’ll start logging my food intake tomorrow. It’s Sarah’s birthday, I’ll enjoy a piece of cake and start recording my food again next week. It’s just one workout. A year from now, what I did today won’t matter. It’s only one piece of cake. One beer won’t make a difference. Why work on that report today, when the deadline is three weeks away?

People enjoy using the one-coin excuse so often on themselves, that they will use it on other people. Numerous times people have told me that I could skip my lunch hour workout or eat a cookie in the breakroom. They are correct. I could skip the gym or eat the cookie, but I know that it is the habit of going to the gym and resisting the cookie that is important to my health and happiness. Nothing tastes better than looking lean and feeling strong. When you develop the exercise habit, it becomes a positive addiction. I hate missing a workout. I do skip the gym occasionally to bond with colleagues over lunch, but I usually plan ahead by exercising in the morning. I have noticed that I am always dragging in the afternoon when I miss a workout. Regular exercise is addictive because it makes you feel fantastic; improving your mood, focus, and energy.

Every day we are given the gift of choice. Each day our habits can create the future we want, or rob us of it. The only constant in life is change. Habits determine our direction. We can choose to embrace good habits that move us steadily toward our goals, or bad habits that take us further and further off course. The choice is usually between instant gratification and future accomplishment. When we develop good habits, time is our friend, but when we allow bad habits to persist, time works against us. “You cannot change your destination overnight, but you can change your direction overnight.” Jim Rohn We are who we are and where we are because of our past decisions and habits. If we want to improve our circumstances, we must improve the quality of our decisions and habits.

If you really want to change a behavior track it for at least a week. A month would be even better. As you have already learned, it takes approximately 66-days on average to make a new habit sustainable, not the 21-days that most were taught. Habit formation timelines vary depending on how difficult the behavior is perceived to be by the individual. The more difficult the action, the longer the habit takes to form. Making improvements in any area requires measurement, but you must measure the right metrics.

Many people make the mistake of only measuring their desired outcome when attempting to achieve a goal. The other common mistake is not to set a deadline. Effective leaders set stretch goals for their organization that need to be reached within a specified time frame. A goal needs to have a deadline. A deadline helps create a sense of urgency. Deadlines help establish priorities and prevent procrastination. After setting goals, they look at lead and lag indicators. Lead indicators are daily actions we can take to achieve our long-term goal, measured by lag indicators. For example, generating sales leads might be a lead indicator, while the lag indicator would be an increase in sales revenue. Fat loss lead indicators are your daily caloric intake and total daily protein intake. The lag indicators are your weekly body weight averages and average body fat percentages. If you want to achieve a goal, your progress must be measurable.

“If you want it, measure it. If you can’t measure it, forget it.” Peter Drucker

Everything and anything you want to improve must be measurable. You might think some things can’t be measured, like building employee loyalty, but I would argue it can. If a leader wants to build loyalty in their organization, they could decide that twice a week they are going to visit two employees whose managers say they have been doing a great job and paying them a compliment for their excellent work. She could then inquire as to how they are doing and ask if there are any resources they need, including training, to help them be even more effective. Tracking her consistency would be the lead indicators, and quarterly feedback from culture surveys would be the lag indicator. Loyalty is a two-way street. Showing employees that the leadership values their contribution, and is committed to their professional development is how you earn loyalty.

If you want employees to care about the company, the company leadership has to show they care about the employees. Companies like Kimberly Clark inspire strong employee loyalty by coming up with imaginative ways of avoiding layoffs during times of declining revenue. In one instance, they were able to convince 80 of 100 production workers to change roles so they could avoid laying them off. These employees became marketers that added millions of dollars to the company’s annual sales.[iii] Companies that inspire loyalty from their employees enjoy less employee turnover which leads to a better trained, more productive workforce. I don’t want to stray too far from the topic of getting in shape, I just wanted to demonstrate that almost anything can be measured and that anything that can be measured can be improved.

Whatever you want to change or improve you must find a way to measure your progress. You simply need to find an impactful activity you can do each day, a lead indicator and track your consistency. Next, find a way to measure the impact it is having, the lag indicator. More often than not, these small daily activities will take time to produce results; but if you selected impactful daily activities and executed them consistently, they will produce outstanding results. That is the power of compounding effort. Small efforts repeated can create miracles. “Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.” Ovid

Success is a numbers game. Consistency is the key. If you want to become more consistent at doing something, you must track it. Tracking your consistency will cause you to become more consistent. Simple, but how many people actually keep track of their consistency. When I want to adopt a new behavior like performing 30-minutes of professional reading each day, I track it. I keep a simple scorecard on my desk to register how many times each month I complete the task. I only take a minute each day to score my day based on my goals, but the impact is profound.

I can look at the scorecard and immediately see which behaviors I am doing well at adopting and which ones need improvement. Not tracking your performance is like playing a game without keeping score. I know that some people do this so they can protect their little snowflakes from life’s disappointments as long as possible, but I am not a fan of this codling. Life has winners and losers, and kids need to know how they are performing. Life keeps score. The sooner they learn that, the better. You need to keep score as well. You need to know how you are doing. You need to see if you’re making progress or neglecting to make progress. I use the word neglect intentionally. Being consistent requires diligence. When people say; I would do it if I had more time. I tell them to forget it. There isn’t any more time.

We all get 24-hours each day. When the clock hits midnight that wraps it up. I don’t care who you are, a billionaire or a beggar, we all get 24-hours each day to do what is meaningful to us. Today is your life in miniature. What you consistently do is what makes you who you are. What you do consistently will determine where you will be, 3-months from now, 3-years from now. If you don’t make time to do the things that are necessary to get better, then you just aren’t going to get better.

We make time for our priorities; we make excuses for everything else. You need to know where you are succeeding and where you need to improve. If you want to improve your running, keep track of your performance and set goals to reduce your time covering a fixed distance. Simple, but how many people go running each day without keeping track of their average time covering their route?

If you want a new salesperson to make, 10 sales calls a week, on Friday you should invite him into your office and ask, “So how many calls did you make?” When he begins to provide an explanation, you gently explain that that will not fit in your box. You need a number. That number will tell you everything you need to know. His work ethic, his attitude, his drive, his ambition, and what you can expect from him in the future. If for example, he made twenty calls, you have made an excellent hiring decision, but if he only made three calls, well, you’ll need to have a little talk and see what you can do to motivate him to do better. In most cases, workers will improve their performance because they know it is being tracked by management.

Goals must be measurable so you can gauge your progress toward them. Your progress must be so simple that anyone could look at where you are and determine if you are making progress. Your progress has to be calculable. If you can’t measure your progress toward a goal forget it. Consistency is easy to measure. There are apps available that can help you form new habits. Strides, Streaks, Fabulous, and Toodledo, are just a few of the habit-forming apps available. The Strides app is particularly useful at developing new habits because it allows you to program action triggers. You can schedule multiple reminders for each task, and the app tracks your consistency.

We must master consistency. The one trait every successful person, business, or organization has in common is consistency. A restaurant that is hit or miss with the quality of food it serves will be out of business soon and rightfully so. It isn’t what you occasionally do that matters; it is what you do consistently that will make you better. You are what you repeatedly do. Positive actions, repeated every day produce massive results over time. The smallest, seemingly insignificant actions repeated out of habit will produce profound results when given enough time. That is the positive side of disciplined consistency. The negative is also true. Small seemingly unimportant neglects, over time, create a crisis. One bad decision doesn’t normally cause a Bankruptcies. It is typically the result of many bad decisions repeated for months and years. Divorce is usually the result of months and years of neglect as well. The decision to divorce might be triggered by one event, but it is all the small neglects over time that leads to the dissolution of the marriage. Relationships require effort. Probably the best book on the topic is Gary Chapman’s The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts, which has sold over five million copies. Often the couples in his book were able to transform their relationships by learning their spouses love language and developing the habit of expressing love to their partner a couple of times a week. In a matter of weeks they can refill their spouses “love tank;” not with a single grand gesture, but with small seemingly inconsequential acts of affection consistently repeated. These seemingly small gestures produced remarkable results in marriages that were on the brink of divorce. Small doesn’t remain small when it accumulates.

Snowflakes accumulate to form colossal valley glaciers. As a child, Warren Buffet observed that when you rolled a snowball, it grew. He applied this metaphor to money. He saw a dollar today as being worth $10 in the future due to the compounding effect of interest over time. He used this philosophy to avoid wasteful spending in his youth. His unique perspective on money is one reason he was able to accumulate so much wealth. When every dollar you spend today is seen as ten dollars in the future, you realize the cost of a $4 coffee is really $40. This metaphor is the origin of his Biography’s title, The Snowball: Warren Buffett and the Business of Life.

Albert Einstein said, “Compound interest is the eighth wonder of the world. He who understands it earns it… he who doesn’t… pays it.” Darren Hardy, publisher and editorial director of Success magazine, provides a great example of the importance of saving early in life in his excellent book, The Compound Effect. One person begins investing $250 a month, at the age of 23 and does this until the age of 40. Her friend invests the same amount each month but doesn’t begin investing until the age of 40. He continues until the age of 67, which is the average retirement age. If both saw a return of 8% on their investment, she would have accumulated a little over a $1,000,000, while he would have accumulated less than $300,000, because he started late. He would have less than one third her accumulated wealth despite investing for 10 more years than she did and contributing $27,000 more than she did. [iv]

Poor people pay interest, and the wealthy earn it. You can make large sums of money, but if you don’t save or invest any of it, you will never accumulate wealth. Look at all the professional athletes, performers, and lottery winners that end up broke. It was because they didn’t have the discipline to manage their money correctly. It has been said that if you took all the money in the world, divided it up equally among everyone, it would soon end up in the same pockets. Darren Hardy’s mentor Jim Rohn routinely recommended people purchase and read Richest Man in Babylon by George Clason.

Jim said that typically only 10% of the people would purchase the book and read it, despite the book being very inexpensive, and easy to read at one sitting. The book explains in simple terms by way of storytelling how to become wealthy, and yet most people will not bother. He struggled to understand why so few people would invest the small amount of time and money required to learn the fundamentals of accumulating wealth. He explained it this way, what is easy to do is easy not to do. He said the average person will not bother to read the book or apply the information.

Don’t be average. The best way to be successful is to do what unsuccessful people won’t do. If you aren’t financially independent, I also recommend you pick up the book. My 9-year old daughter read it in just a few minutes. I want her to understand how she can become wealthy. I want compound interest and time to work for her. Wealthy people make money work hard for them, while poor people work hard for their money. Successful people adopt good habits that make time work for them, while unsuccessful people develop bad habits that make time work against them.  Learn to make time and money work for you.

“In the confrontation between the stream and the rock the stream always wins not through strength but by perseverance.”  Buddha

Habits produce results similar to the “flywheel effect” that Jim Collins describes in his best seller, Good to Great. When you begin adopting a new habit, it takes a lot of energy, like putting a massive flywheel that is motionless into motion. When you first push on the huge metal disk horizontally mounted on an axle, it barely moves. The motion is almost imperceptible, but push after push it begins to pick up momentum. Effort, upon effort, the massive disk builds more and more momentum until it is generating huge amounts of energy. Twitter was unsuccessful for its first couple of years, but its creators just kept at it, and eventually it picked-up and then exploded. Success is the result of consistency and grit; small effort, upon small effort. These efforts produce small, unremarkable results, but over time, they accumulate until a breakthrough occurs. Jim Collins describes the success of the Good to Great companies this way in his book, “There was no single defining action, no grand program, no one killer innovation, no solitary lucky break, no wrenching revolution. Good to great comes about by a cumulative process—step by step, action by action, decision by decision, turn by turn of the flywheel—that adds up to sustained and spectacular results.” [v]

What separates successful people from unsuccessful people is consistency. People that are in excellent physical condition are not a special breed. The only thing that separates them is that they have mastered consistency. Consistency is the game. Being fit has to do with exercising regularly. Being lean has to do with consistently controlling your food intake, so you don’t exceed your energy requirements. You should do both, but you need to understand that you cannot out exercise a bad diet. If you want to get leaner, you must begin eating less food than your body is burning each day. I wish I could tell you that as long as you work out every day for an hour, you can eat all you want, but that would be a lie. I don’t wish to mislead you.

For years I carried an extra 10 pounds of body fat. I exercised consistently, but I didn’t track my eating. It wasn’t until I started tracking my food intake that I lost those last few pounds. My experience is not unique; anyone that has achieved a lean physique did it by monitoring their food intake. I don’t know anyone that got lean through exercise alone.

Exercise helps you get lean and look better. Strength training helps create a harder looking physique so you can avoid that skinny fat look that cardio only exercise programs produce, but it isn’t the primary driver of body composition improvements. Weight loss is always driven by energy balance.

Cardio and strength training both burn calories, but strength training helps you maintain and build muscle while restricting calories, so it is much more effective at creating a better-looking physique. A common mistake I see people making when trying to gain muscle or lose fat is focusing on their exercise program.

Weight gain and weight loss are controlled by calories in vs. calories out. When you want to gain or lose weight, focus primarily on your diet; how many calories and how much protein you consume everyday. When you want to improve performance, focus on setting performance goals and varying the intensity of your workouts so that an intense period of training is followed by an intense period of recovery. Everything matters, but some things matter more than others. You cannot outrun a bad diet. You can train with an all-out effort all the time, or you’ll experience mental and physical burnout and increase your likelihood of injury. Consistency is more important than intensity.  “A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.” Anthony Trollope

[i] Kelly McGonigal, The Willpower Instinct: How Self-Control Works, Why It Matters, and What You Can Do to Get More of It, Avery; Reprint edition (December 31, 2013)

[ii] Gretchen Rubin, Strategy of Loophole-Spotting #10: the One-Coin Loophole. January 31, 2014.

[iii] Elizabeth M. Fowler, Careers; When Job Security Is Provided, The New York Times, Published: October 10, 1984.

[iv] Darren Hardy, The Compound Effect, Vanguard Press; Csm edition (October 2, 2012).

[v] Jim Collins, Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap and Others Don’t, HarperBusiness; 1st edition (October 16, 2001).)

      Self-improvement Always Begins with Self-Awareness. “What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker “What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle.

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“What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker

I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle. Anyone that has ever kept a financial spending log or food log knows that they changed their spending or eating behavior when they created a record of the activity. We naturally start making better decisions and identifying patterns in our behavior. Monitoring an activity forces, us to pay more attention to it. We naturally start making better choices because we can’t ignore our bad ones. If we aren’t mindful of our choices, we will unconsciously fall into habitual patterns of behavior. The concept is so simple yet potent, I am amazed at how many people don’t use this principle to improve their personal or professional performance.

I think a simple notepad is a self-improvement powerhouse. It is one of the most powerful self-improvement tools in existence; when it is used to record an activity. Logging an activity creates greater awareness. Awareness is the first step in changing our behavior. When we record an activity, it forces us to become more mindful of our decisions, big and small. Often it is the small, seemingly insignificant decisions that are sabotaging us.

Eating that cookie in the breakroom, losing valuable time by allowing yourself to become distracted, skipping a workout, or staying up late watching TV instead of getting a good night’s sleep. Anyone of these decisions by themselves isn’t devastating, but their accumulative effects are.

Whatever it is you want to improve, your time management, your leadership, your relationships, your business, your eating patterns, your exercise consistency, or your spending, you must track it. Be relentless. Track everything related to the behavior you want to improve. Awareness is the first step toward transformation.

“Real transformation requires real honesty. If you want to move forward — get real with yourself. Change will never happen if you lack the ability and courage to see yourself for who you really are. Begin to elevate yourself today. Try to make better decisions.” — Bryant McGill

Bad habits are the result of cognitive neglect and mindless actions. The danger of bad habits is that we aren’t really involved in the decision-making process. We encounter the cue, and we begin to execute the routine, our conscious mind essentially goes to sleep until we receive the reward which reinforces the behavior. When we fall prey to bad habits, our mind is essentially operating at the level of the animals. One of our greatest gifts as human beings is our ability to connect what we are doing in the present to the results it will produce in the future. Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate rewards will determine how much we will accomplish in our lifetime.

Harvard social psychologist Daniel Gilbert says “What’s so curious about human beings is that we can look deeply into the future, foresee disaster, and still do nothing in the present to stop it. The majority of people on this planet are overwhelmed with concerns about their immediate well being.” He says that most of us have a hard time relating to our future self. We treat our future selves like a stranger, so when we are given a choice that will benefit our future self or present self, we have an overwhelming bias to take care of our immediate needs. You might not think this applies to you, in that case, he would tell you, “If you are like most people, then like most people, you don’t know you’re like most people.”

The more we discount future rewards, the more likely we are to act impulsively and develop bad habits; because bad habits always produce immediate gratification, while productive habits rarely do. The reason the “Marshmallow Test” was so predictive of the future behavior of the study’s participants in the decades that followed is that it provided a direct measurement of the child’s ability to delay gratification.

Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate ones will determine if we are going to invest in our future or squander it with impulsive actions. The future is either purchased by the present or stolen by it. Bad habits are thieves that rob us of our future one day at a time. The only way we can protect our future is by replacing bad habits with good habits. It is simple, but it isn’t easy. It requires diligence and effort. Progress is always intentional.

Our original reward system was based on food. Food wasn’t always available, like it is now, so our dopamine system was wired to seek immediate gratification. When our body senses a drop in blood sugar levels, a potentially life-threatening condition, our dopamine system is activated, and our desire to eat is palpable. This triggering mechanism is why small frequent meals, high in protein and slow digesting carbohydrates can significantly reduce cravings by keeping blood sugar levels stable.

Once our dopamine system is activated, any food could restore our blood sugar levels, but our primitive brain has been conditioned to seek high sugar foods since they will produce the most immediate rise in blood sugar levels. A failure to plan and have healthy snack options available, like an apple, will leave you susceptible to whatever junk food someone brought into the office. Instead of satisfying your craving with a nutritious 60-calorie apple, you end up eating an unhealthy 400-calorie donut, kolache, breakfast burrito, or cookie.

We didn’t begin cultivating crops and planning for the future until our newer prefrontal cortex was developed. It is our prefrontal cortex that is responsible for human beings ability to think of the future in a meaningful way. Before it’s development, any reward that was more than a few minutes away, wasn’t a consideration. As you have learned, our Elephant, which is driven to seek immediate gratification is able to easily overpower the Rider when the Rider has not prepared the Path or is uncertain what direction to lead the Elephant.

The smaller Rider cannot hope to overcome the two-ton Elephant through brute force and willpower, but he can steer the Elephant away from the temptation through preparation. He can shape the Path by removing temptations, when possible, having healthy snacks available always, and using future discounting to his advantage.

Our primitive rewards system treats any reward that is 10-minutes away like a future reward. Instead of our Rider telling our Elephant “No, you cannot have it” which would cause our mind to focus on the reward until our willpower is drained to exhaustion, in a phenomenon clinical psychologist call ironic rebound. Ironic rebound theory explains why our mind tends to focus on any thought we try to push away.

It is much easier and more effective to tell our Elephant, “Ok, you can have it, but you have to wait for 10-minutes.” This technique avoids our mind’s tendency to focus on the reward and cools our desires by making the reward feel like a future reward instead of an immediate one. Chances are in 10-minutes you will no longer feel the impulse.[i] Even if you do, you have still strengthened your willpower by overcoming the immediate temptation. Over time, this technique will significantly reduce the number and severity of your willpower lapses. Remember not to be overly critical of yourself when you give in to temptation because it will lead to stress eating. When we are struggling to overcome a bad habit and beat ourselves up about a willpower failure, our stressed-out mind will seek immediate relief, often from the very behavior, we are trying to curb. It isn’t logical, but it is all too human. Emotions can easily overcome reason.

Awareness prevents us from mindlessly falling into bad habits. The problem with most bad habits is that their negative consequences aren’t immediate. If you took one bite from a cookie and immediately gained 5-pounds, you wouldn’t take another bite. If you took one puff from a cigarette and instantly experienced health problems, you would put it down, but of course, these bad habits only produce immediate pleasure without any immediate consequences. If we aren’t mindful of their long-term cumulative effects, it is easy to convince ourselves it is just one cookie, one cigarette.

The self-deceit is especially insidious because there is a basis of truth and logic to the argument. One isolated indiscretion is negligible, it is what we do habitually that matters, but of course, in this case, the behavior is a bad habit, so it does matter. Gretchen Rubin, calls this excuse “the one-coin loophole.” In Erasmus’s Praise of Folly, the argument of the growing heap is made, “If ten coins are not enough to make a man rich, what if you add one coin? What if you add another? Finally, you will have to say that no one can be rich unless one coin can make him so.” What is implied is that while a single coin cannot make one rich, the accumulation of many coins is the only way to become rich.[ii]

Our actions are like the coins in Erasmus’s essay. One visit to the gym or sticking to our meal plan for a single day is inconsequential to our health, but the habit of going to the gym and controlling our food intake is invaluable. I’ll start logging my food intake tomorrow. It’s Sarah’s birthday, I’ll enjoy a piece of cake and start recording my food again next week. It’s just one workout. A year from now, what I did today won’t matter. It’s only one piece of cake. One beer won’t make a difference. Why work on that report today, when the deadline is three weeks away?

People enjoy using the one-coin excuse so often on themselves, that they will use it on other people. Numerous times people have told me that I could skip my lunch hour workout or eat a cookie in the breakroom. They are correct. I could skip the gym or eat the cookie, but I know that it is the habit of going to the gym and resisting the cookie that is important to my health and happiness. Nothing tastes better than looking lean and feeling strong. When you develop the exercise habit, it becomes a positive addiction. I hate missing a workout. I do skip the gym occasionally to bond with colleagues over lunch, but I usually plan ahead by exercising in the morning. I have noticed that I am always dragging in the afternoon when I miss a workout. Regular exercise is addictive because it makes you feel fantastic; improving your mood, focus, and energy.

Every day we are given the gift of choice. Each day our habits can create the future we want, or rob us of it. The only constant in life is change. Habits determine our direction. We can choose to embrace good habits that move us steadily toward our goals, or bad habits that take us further and further off course. The choice is usually between instant gratification and future accomplishment. When we develop good habits, time is our friend, but when we allow bad habits to persist, time works against us. “You cannot change your destination overnight, but you can change your direction overnight.” Jim Rohn We are who we are and where we are because of our past decisions and habits. If we want to improve our circumstances, we must improve the quality of our decisions and habits.

If you really want to change a behavior track it for at least a week. A month would be even better. As you have already learned, it takes approximately 66-days on average to make a new habit sustainable, not the 21-days that most were taught. Habit formation timelines vary depending on how difficult the behavior is perceived to be by the individual. The more difficult the action, the longer the habit takes to form. Making improvements in any area requires measurement, but you must measure the right metrics.

Many people make the mistake of only measuring their desired outcome when attempting to achieve a goal. The other common mistake is not to set a deadline. Effective leaders set stretch goals for their organization that need to be reached within a specified time frame. A goal needs to have a deadline. A deadline helps create a sense of urgency. Deadlines help establish priorities and prevent procrastination. After setting goals, they look at lead and lag indicators. Lead indicators are daily actions we can take to achieve our long-term goal, measured by lag indicators. For example, generating sales leads might be a lead indicator, while the lag indicator would be an increase in sales revenue. Fat loss lead indicators are your daily caloric intake and total daily protein intake. The lag indicators are your weekly body weight averages and average body fat percentages. If you want to achieve a goal, your progress must be measurable.

“If you want it, measure it. If you can’t measure it, forget it.” Peter Drucker

Everything and anything you want to improve must be measurable. You might think some things can’t be measured, like building employee loyalty, but I would argue it can. If a leader wants to build loyalty in their organization, they could decide that twice a week they are going to visit two employees whose managers say they have been doing a great job and paying them a compliment for their excellent work. She could then inquire as to how they are doing and ask if there are any resources they need, including training, to help them be even more effective. Tracking her consistency would be the lead indicators, and quarterly feedback from culture surveys would be the lag indicator. Loyalty is a two-way street. Showing employees that the leadership values their contribution, and is committed to their professional development is how you earn loyalty.

If you want employees to care about the company, the company leadership has to show they care about the employees. Companies like Kimberly Clark inspire strong employee loyalty by coming up with imaginative ways of avoiding layoffs during times of declining revenue. In one instance, they were able to convince 80 of 100 production workers to change roles so they could avoid laying them off. These employees became marketers that added millions of dollars to the company’s annual sales.[iii] Companies that inspire loyalty from their employees enjoy less employee turnover which leads to a better trained, more productive workforce. I don’t want to stray too far from the topic of getting in shape, I just wanted to demonstrate that almost anything can be measured and that anything that can be measured can be improved.

Whatever you want to change or improve you must find a way to measure your progress. You simply need to find an impactful activity you can do each day, a lead indicator and track your consistency. Next, find a way to measure the impact it is having, the lag indicator. More often than not, these small daily activities will take time to produce results; but if you selected impactful daily activities and executed them consistently, they will produce outstanding results. That is the power of compounding effort. Small efforts repeated can create miracles. “Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.” Ovid

Success is a numbers game. Consistency is the key. If you want to become more consistent at doing something, you must track it. Tracking your consistency will cause you to become more consistent. Simple, but how many people actually keep track of their consistency. When I want to adopt a new behavior like performing 30-minutes of professional reading each day, I track it. I keep a simple scorecard on my desk to register how many times each month I complete the task. I only take a minute each day to score my day based on my goals, but the impact is profound.

I can look at the scorecard and immediately see which behaviors I am doing well at adopting and which ones need improvement. Not tracking your performance is like playing a game without keeping score. I know that some people do this so they can protect their little snowflakes from life’s disappointments as long as possible, but I am not a fan of this codling. Life has winners and losers, and kids need to know how they are performing. Life keeps score. The sooner they learn that, the better. You need to keep score as well. You need to know how you are doing. You need to see if you’re making progress or neglecting to make progress. I use the word neglect intentionally. Being consistent requires diligence. When people say; I would do it if I had more time. I tell them to forget it. There isn’t any more time.

We all get 24-hours each day. When the clock hits midnight that wraps it up. I don’t care who you are, a billionaire or a beggar, we all get 24-hours each day to do what is meaningful to us. Today is your life in miniature. What you consistently do is what makes you who you are. What you do consistently will determine where you will be, 3-months from now, 3-years from now. If you don’t make time to do the things that are necessary to get better, then you just aren’t going to get better.

We make time for our priorities; we make excuses for everything else. You need to know where you are succeeding and where you need to improve. If you want to improve your running, keep track of your performance and set goals to reduce your time covering a fixed distance. Simple, but how many people go running each day without keeping track of their average time covering their route?

If you want a new salesperson to make, 10 sales calls a week, on Friday you should invite him into your office and ask, “So how many calls did you make?” When he begins to provide an explanation, you gently explain that that will not fit in your box. You need a number. That number will tell you everything you need to know. His work ethic, his attitude, his drive, his ambition, and what you can expect from him in the future. If for example, he made twenty calls, you have made an excellent hiring decision, but if he only made three calls, well, you’ll need to have a little talk and see what you can do to motivate him to do better. In most cases, workers will improve their performance because they know it is being tracked by management.

Goals must be measurable so you can gauge your progress toward them. Your progress must be so simple that anyone could look at where you are and determine if you are making progress. Your progress has to be calculable. If you can’t measure your progress toward a goal forget it. Consistency is easy to measure. There are apps available that can help you form new habits. Strides, Streaks, Fabulous, and Toodledo, are just a few of the habit-forming apps available. The Strides app is particularly useful at developing new habits because it allows you to program action triggers. You can schedule multiple reminders for each task, and the app tracks your consistency.

We must master consistency. The one trait every successful person, business, or organization has in common is consistency. A restaurant that is hit or miss with the quality of food it serves will be out of business soon and rightfully so. It isn’t what you occasionally do that matters; it is what you do consistently that will make you better. You are what you repeatedly do. Positive actions, repeated every day produce massive results over time. The smallest, seemingly insignificant actions repeated out of habit will produce profound results when given enough time. That is the positive side of disciplined consistency. The negative is also true. Small seemingly unimportant neglects, over time, create a crisis. One bad decision doesn’t normally cause a Bankruptcies. It is typically the result of many bad decisions repeated for months and years. Divorce is usually the result of months and years of neglect as well. The decision to divorce might be triggered by one event, but it is all the small neglects over time that leads to the dissolution of the marriage. Relationships require effort. Probably the best book on the topic is Gary Chapman’s The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts, which has sold over five million copies. Often the couples in his book were able to transform their relationships by learning their spouses love language and developing the habit of expressing love to their partner a couple of times a week. In a matter of weeks they can refill their spouses “love tank;” not with a single grand gesture, but with small seemingly inconsequential acts of affection consistently repeated. These seemingly small gestures produced remarkable results in marriages that were on the brink of divorce. Small doesn’t remain small when it accumulates.

Snowflakes accumulate to form colossal valley glaciers. As a child, Warren Buffet observed that when you rolled a snowball, it grew. He applied this metaphor to money. He saw a dollar today as being worth $10 in the future due to the compounding effect of interest over time. He used this philosophy to avoid wasteful spending in his youth. His unique perspective on money is one reason he was able to accumulate so much wealth. When every dollar you spend today is seen as ten dollars in the future, you realize the cost of a $4 coffee is really $40. This metaphor is the origin of his Biography’s title, The Snowball: Warren Buffett and the Business of Life.

Albert Einstein said, “Compound interest is the eighth wonder of the world. He who understands it earns it… he who doesn’t… pays it.” Darren Hardy, publisher and editorial director of Success magazine, provides a great example of the importance of saving early in life in his excellent book, The Compound Effect. One person begins investing $250 a month, at the age of 23 and does this until the age of 40. Her friend invests the same amount each month but doesn’t begin investing until the age of 40. He continues until the age of 67, which is the average retirement age. If both saw a return of 8% on their investment, she would have accumulated a little over a $1,000,000, while he would have accumulated less than $300,000, because he started late. He would have less than one third her accumulated wealth despite investing for 10 more years than she did and contributing $27,000 more than she did. [iv]

Poor people pay interest, and the wealthy earn it. You can make large sums of money, but if you don’t save or invest any of it, you will never accumulate wealth. Look at all the professional athletes, performers, and lottery winners that end up broke. It was because they didn’t have the discipline to manage their money correctly. It has been said that if you took all the money in the world, divided it up equally among everyone, it would soon end up in the same pockets. Darren Hardy’s mentor Jim Rohn routinely recommended people purchase and read Richest Man in Babylon by George Clason.

Jim said that typically only 10% of the people would purchase the book and read it, despite the book being very inexpensive, and easy to read at one sitting. The book explains in simple terms by way of storytelling how to become wealthy, and yet most people will not bother. He struggled to understand why so few people would invest the small amount of time and money required to learn the fundamentals of accumulating wealth. He explained it this way, what is easy to do is easy not to do. He said the average person will not bother to read the book or apply the information.

Don’t be average. The best way to be successful is to do what unsuccessful people won’t do. If you aren’t financially independent, I also recommend you pick up the book. My 9-year old daughter read it in just a few minutes. I want her to understand how she can become wealthy. I want compound interest and time to work for her. Wealthy people make money work hard for them, while poor people work hard for their money. Successful people adopt good habits that make time work for them, while unsuccessful people develop bad habits that make time work against them.  Learn to make time and money work for you.

“In the confrontation between the stream and the rock the stream always wins not through strength but by perseverance.”  Buddha

Habits produce results similar to the “flywheel effect” that Jim Collins describes in his best seller, Good to Great. When you begin adopting a new habit, it takes a lot of energy, like putting a massive flywheel that is motionless into motion. When you first push on the huge metal disk horizontally mounted on an axle, it barely moves. The motion is almost imperceptible, but push after push it begins to pick up momentum. Effort, upon effort, the massive disk builds more and more momentum until it is generating huge amounts of energy. Twitter was unsuccessful for its first couple of years, but its creators just kept at it, and eventually it picked-up and then exploded. Success is the result of consistency and grit; small effort, upon small effort. These efforts produce small, unremarkable results, but over time, they accumulate until a breakthrough occurs. Jim Collins describes the success of the Good to Great companies this way in his book, “There was no single defining action, no grand program, no one killer innovation, no solitary lucky break, no wrenching revolution. Good to great comes about by a cumulative process—step by step, action by action, decision by decision, turn by turn of the flywheel—that adds up to sustained and spectacular results.” [v]

What separates successful people from unsuccessful people is consistency. People that are in excellent physical condition are not a special breed. The only thing that separates them is that they have mastered consistency. Consistency is the game. Being fit has to do with exercising regularly. Being lean has to do with consistently controlling your food intake, so you don’t exceed your energy requirements. You should do both, but you need to understand that you cannot out exercise a bad diet. If you want to get leaner, you must begin eating less food than your body is burning each day. I wish I could tell you that as long as you work out every day for an hour, you can eat all you want, but that would be a lie. I don’t wish to mislead you.

For years I carried an extra 10 pounds of body fat. I exercised consistently, but I didn’t track my eating. It wasn’t until I started tracking my food intake that I lost those last few pounds. My experience is not unique; anyone that has achieved a lean physique did it by monitoring their food intake. I don’t know anyone that got lean through exercise alone.

Exercise helps you get lean and look better. Strength training helps create a harder looking physique so you can avoid that skinny fat look that cardio only exercise programs produce, but it isn’t the primary driver of body composition improvements. Weight loss is always driven by energy balance.

Cardio and strength training both burn calories, but strength training helps you maintain and build muscle while restricting calories, so it is much more effective at creating a better-looking physique. A common mistake I see people making when trying to gain muscle or lose fat is focusing on their exercise program.

Weight gain and weight loss are controlled by calories in vs. calories out. When you want to gain or lose weight, focus primarily on your diet; how many calories and how much protein you consume everyday. When you want to improve performance, focus on setting performance goals and varying the intensity of your workouts so that an intense period of training is followed by an intense period of recovery. Everything matters, but some things matter more than others. You cannot outrun a bad diet. You can train with an all-out effort all the time, or you’ll experience mental and physical burnout and increase your likelihood of injury. Consistency is more important than intensity.  “A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.” Anthony Trollope

[i] Kelly McGonigal, The Willpower Instinct: How Self-Control Works, Why It Matters, and What You Can Do to Get More of It, Avery; Reprint edition (December 31, 2013)

[ii] Gretchen Rubin, Strategy of Loophole-Spotting #10: the One-Coin Loophole. January 31, 2014.

[iii] Elizabeth M. Fowler, Careers; When Job Security Is Provided, The New York Times, Published: October 10, 1984.

[iv] Darren Hardy, The Compound Effect, Vanguard Press; Csm edition (October 2, 2012).

[v] Jim Collins, Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap and Others Don’t, HarperBusiness; 1st edition (October 16, 2001).)

      “Real transformation requires real honesty. If you want to move forward — get real with yourself. Change will never happen if you lack the ability and courage to see yourself for who you really are. Begin to elevate yourself today. Try to make better decisions. Become a beauty seeker. If you can begin to believe in your own beauty, you can then begin to believe in the beauty of others. The transformation of the world takes place in your heart. Once you reach the summit of your own heart you will see beauty is everywhere.” — Bryant McGill “What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle.

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“What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker

I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle. Anyone that has ever kept a financial spending log or food log knows that they changed their spending or eating behavior when they created a record of the activity. We naturally start making better decisions and identifying patterns in our behavior. Monitoring an activity forces, us to pay more attention to it. We naturally start making better choices because we can’t ignore our bad ones. If we aren’t mindful of our choices, we will unconsciously fall into habitual patterns of behavior. The concept is so simple yet potent, I am amazed at how many people don’t use this principle to improve their personal or professional performance.

I think a simple notepad is a self-improvement powerhouse. It is one of the most powerful self-improvement tools in existence; when it is used to record an activity. Logging an activity creates greater awareness. Awareness is the first step in changing our behavior. When we record an activity, it forces us to become more mindful of our decisions, big and small. Often it is the small, seemingly insignificant decisions that are sabotaging us.

Eating that cookie in the breakroom, losing valuable time by allowing yourself to become distracted, skipping a workout, or staying up late watching TV instead of getting a good night’s sleep. Anyone of these decisions by themselves isn’t devastating, but their accumulative effects are.

Whatever it is you want to improve, your time management, your leadership, your relationships, your business, your eating patterns, your exercise consistency, or your spending, you must track it. Be relentless. Track everything related to the behavior you want to improve. Awareness is the first step toward transformation.

“Real transformation requires real honesty. If you want to move forward — get real with yourself. Change will never happen if you lack the ability and courage to see yourself for who you really are. Begin to elevate yourself today. Try to make better decisions.” — Bryant McGill

Bad habits are the result of cognitive neglect and mindless actions. The danger of bad habits is that we aren’t really involved in the decision-making process. We encounter the cue, and we begin to execute the routine, our conscious mind essentially goes to sleep until we receive the reward which reinforces the behavior. When we fall prey to bad habits, our mind is essentially operating at the level of the animals. One of our greatest gifts as human beings is our ability to connect what we are doing in the present to the results it will produce in the future. Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate rewards will determine how much we will accomplish in our lifetime.

Harvard social psychologist Daniel Gilbert says “What’s so curious about human beings is that we can look deeply into the future, foresee disaster, and still do nothing in the present to stop it. The majority of people on this planet are overwhelmed with concerns about their immediate well being.” He says that most of us have a hard time relating to our future self. We treat our future selves like a stranger, so when we are given a choice that will benefit our future self or present self, we have an overwhelming bias to take care of our immediate needs. You might not think this applies to you, in that case, he would tell you, “If you are like most people, then like most people, you don’t know you’re like most people.”

The more we discount future rewards, the more likely we are to act impulsively and develop bad habits; because bad habits always produce immediate gratification, while productive habits rarely do. The reason the “Marshmallow Test” was so predictive of the future behavior of the study’s participants in the decades that followed is that it provided a direct measurement of the child’s ability to delay gratification.

Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate ones will determine if we are going to invest in our future or squander it with impulsive actions. The future is either purchased by the present or stolen by it. Bad habits are thieves that rob us of our future one day at a time. The only way we can protect our future is by replacing bad habits with good habits. It is simple, but it isn’t easy. It requires diligence and effort. Progress is always intentional.

Our original reward system was based on food. Food wasn’t always available, like it is now, so our dopamine system was wired to seek immediate gratification. When our body senses a drop in blood sugar levels, a potentially life-threatening condition, our dopamine system is activated, and our desire to eat is palpable. This triggering mechanism is why small frequent meals, high in protein and slow digesting carbohydrates can significantly reduce cravings by keeping blood sugar levels stable.

Once our dopamine system is activated, any food could restore our blood sugar levels, but our primitive brain has been conditioned to seek high sugar foods since they will produce the most immediate rise in blood sugar levels. A failure to plan and have healthy snack options available, like an apple, will leave you susceptible to whatever junk food someone brought into the office. Instead of satisfying your craving with a nutritious 60-calorie apple, you end up eating an unhealthy 400-calorie donut, kolache, breakfast burrito, or cookie.

We didn’t begin cultivating crops and planning for the future until our newer prefrontal cortex was developed. It is our prefrontal cortex that is responsible for human beings ability to think of the future in a meaningful way. Before it’s development, any reward that was more than a few minutes away, wasn’t a consideration. As you have learned, our Elephant, which is driven to seek immediate gratification is able to easily overpower the Rider when the Rider has not prepared the Path or is uncertain what direction to lead the Elephant.

The smaller Rider cannot hope to overcome the two-ton Elephant through brute force and willpower, but he can steer the Elephant away from the temptation through preparation. He can shape the Path by removing temptations, when possible, having healthy snacks available always, and using future discounting to his advantage.

Our primitive rewards system treats any reward that is 10-minutes away like a future reward. Instead of our Rider telling our Elephant “No, you cannot have it” which would cause our mind to focus on the reward until our willpower is drained to exhaustion, in a phenomenon clinical psychologist call ironic rebound. Ironic rebound theory explains why our mind tends to focus on any thought we try to push away.

It is much easier and more effective to tell our Elephant, “Ok, you can have it, but you have to wait for 10-minutes.” This technique avoids our mind’s tendency to focus on the reward and cools our desires by making the reward feel like a future reward instead of an immediate one. Chances are in 10-minutes you will no longer feel the impulse.[i] Even if you do, you have still strengthened your willpower by overcoming the immediate temptation. Over time, this technique will significantly reduce the number and severity of your willpower lapses. Remember not to be overly critical of yourself when you give in to temptation because it will lead to stress eating. When we are struggling to overcome a bad habit and beat ourselves up about a willpower failure, our stressed-out mind will seek immediate relief, often from the very behavior, we are trying to curb. It isn’t logical, but it is all too human. Emotions can easily overcome reason.

Awareness prevents us from mindlessly falling into bad habits. The problem with most bad habits is that their negative consequences aren’t immediate. If you took one bite from a cookie and immediately gained 5-pounds, you wouldn’t take another bite. If you took one puff from a cigarette and instantly experienced health problems, you would put it down, but of course, these bad habits only produce immediate pleasure without any immediate consequences. If we aren’t mindful of their long-term cumulative effects, it is easy to convince ourselves it is just one cookie, one cigarette.

The self-deceit is especially insidious because there is a basis of truth and logic to the argument. One isolated indiscretion is negligible, it is what we do habitually that matters, but of course, in this case, the behavior is a bad habit, so it does matter. Gretchen Rubin, calls this excuse “the one-coin loophole.” In Erasmus’s Praise of Folly, the argument of the growing heap is made, “If ten coins are not enough to make a man rich, what if you add one coin? What if you add another? Finally, you will have to say that no one can be rich unless one coin can make him so.” What is implied is that while a single coin cannot make one rich, the accumulation of many coins is the only way to become rich.[ii]

Our actions are like the coins in Erasmus’s essay. One visit to the gym or sticking to our meal plan for a single day is inconsequential to our health, but the habit of going to the gym and controlling our food intake is invaluable. I’ll start logging my food intake tomorrow. It’s Sarah’s birthday, I’ll enjoy a piece of cake and start recording my food again next week. It’s just one workout. A year from now, what I did today won’t matter. It’s only one piece of cake. One beer won’t make a difference. Why work on that report today, when the deadline is three weeks away?

People enjoy using the one-coin excuse so often on themselves, that they will use it on other people. Numerous times people have told me that I could skip my lunch hour workout or eat a cookie in the breakroom. They are correct. I could skip the gym or eat the cookie, but I know that it is the habit of going to the gym and resisting the cookie that is important to my health and happiness. Nothing tastes better than looking lean and feeling strong. When you develop the exercise habit, it becomes a positive addiction. I hate missing a workout. I do skip the gym occasionally to bond with colleagues over lunch, but I usually plan ahead by exercising in the morning. I have noticed that I am always dragging in the afternoon when I miss a workout. Regular exercise is addictive because it makes you feel fantastic; improving your mood, focus, and energy.

Every day we are given the gift of choice. Each day our habits can create the future we want, or rob us of it. The only constant in life is change. Habits determine our direction. We can choose to embrace good habits that move us steadily toward our goals, or bad habits that take us further and further off course. The choice is usually between instant gratification and future accomplishment. When we develop good habits, time is our friend, but when we allow bad habits to persist, time works against us. “You cannot change your destination overnight, but you can change your direction overnight.” Jim Rohn We are who we are and where we are because of our past decisions and habits. If we want to improve our circumstances, we must improve the quality of our decisions and habits.

If you really want to change a behavior track it for at least a week. A month would be even better. As you have already learned, it takes approximately 66-days on average to make a new habit sustainable, not the 21-days that most were taught. Habit formation timelines vary depending on how difficult the behavior is perceived to be by the individual. The more difficult the action, the longer the habit takes to form. Making improvements in any area requires measurement, but you must measure the right metrics.

Many people make the mistake of only measuring their desired outcome when attempting to achieve a goal. The other common mistake is not to set a deadline. Effective leaders set stretch goals for their organization that need to be reached within a specified time frame. A goal needs to have a deadline. A deadline helps create a sense of urgency. Deadlines help establish priorities and prevent procrastination. After setting goals, they look at lead and lag indicators. Lead indicators are daily actions we can take to achieve our long-term goal, measured by lag indicators. For example, generating sales leads might be a lead indicator, while the lag indicator would be an increase in sales revenue. Fat loss lead indicators are your daily caloric intake and total daily protein intake. The lag indicators are your weekly body weight averages and average body fat percentages. If you want to achieve a goal, your progress must be measurable.

“If you want it, measure it. If you can’t measure it, forget it.” Peter Drucker

Everything and anything you want to improve must be measurable. You might think some things can’t be measured, like building employee loyalty, but I would argue it can. If a leader wants to build loyalty in their organization, they could decide that twice a week they are going to visit two employees whose managers say they have been doing a great job and paying them a compliment for their excellent work. She could then inquire as to how they are doing and ask if there are any resources they need, including training, to help them be even more effective. Tracking her consistency would be the lead indicators, and quarterly feedback from culture surveys would be the lag indicator. Loyalty is a two-way street. Showing employees that the leadership values their contribution, and is committed to their professional development is how you earn loyalty.

If you want employees to care about the company, the company leadership has to show they care about the employees. Companies like Kimberly Clark inspire strong employee loyalty by coming up with imaginative ways of avoiding layoffs during times of declining revenue. In one instance, they were able to convince 80 of 100 production workers to change roles so they could avoid laying them off. These employees became marketers that added millions of dollars to the company’s annual sales.[iii] Companies that inspire loyalty from their employees enjoy less employee turnover which leads to a better trained, more productive workforce. I don’t want to stray too far from the topic of getting in shape, I just wanted to demonstrate that almost anything can be measured and that anything that can be measured can be improved.

Whatever you want to change or improve you must find a way to measure your progress. You simply need to find an impactful activity you can do each day, a lead indicator and track your consistency. Next, find a way to measure the impact it is having, the lag indicator. More often than not, these small daily activities will take time to produce results; but if you selected impactful daily activities and executed them consistently, they will produce outstanding results. That is the power of compounding effort. Small efforts repeated can create miracles. “Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.” Ovid

Success is a numbers game. Consistency is the key. If you want to become more consistent at doing something, you must track it. Tracking your consistency will cause you to become more consistent. Simple, but how many people actually keep track of their consistency. When I want to adopt a new behavior like performing 30-minutes of professional reading each day, I track it. I keep a simple scorecard on my desk to register how many times each month I complete the task. I only take a minute each day to score my day based on my goals, but the impact is profound.

I can look at the scorecard and immediately see which behaviors I am doing well at adopting and which ones need improvement. Not tracking your performance is like playing a game without keeping score. I know that some people do this so they can protect their little snowflakes from life’s disappointments as long as possible, but I am not a fan of this codling. Life has winners and losers, and kids need to know how they are performing. Life keeps score. The sooner they learn that, the better. You need to keep score as well. You need to know how you are doing. You need to see if you’re making progress or neglecting to make progress. I use the word neglect intentionally. Being consistent requires diligence. When people say; I would do it if I had more time. I tell them to forget it. There isn’t any more time.

We all get 24-hours each day. When the clock hits midnight that wraps it up. I don’t care who you are, a billionaire or a beggar, we all get 24-hours each day to do what is meaningful to us. Today is your life in miniature. What you consistently do is what makes you who you are. What you do consistently will determine where you will be, 3-months from now, 3-years from now. If you don’t make time to do the things that are necessary to get better, then you just aren’t going to get better.

We make time for our priorities; we make excuses for everything else. You need to know where you are succeeding and where you need to improve. If you want to improve your running, keep track of your performance and set goals to reduce your time covering a fixed distance. Simple, but how many people go running each day without keeping track of their average time covering their route?

If you want a new salesperson to make, 10 sales calls a week, on Friday you should invite him into your office and ask, “So how many calls did you make?” When he begins to provide an explanation, you gently explain that that will not fit in your box. You need a number. That number will tell you everything you need to know. His work ethic, his attitude, his drive, his ambition, and what you can expect from him in the future. If for example, he made twenty calls, you have made an excellent hiring decision, but if he only made three calls, well, you’ll need to have a little talk and see what you can do to motivate him to do better. In most cases, workers will improve their performance because they know it is being tracked by management.

Goals must be measurable so you can gauge your progress toward them. Your progress must be so simple that anyone could look at where you are and determine if you are making progress. Your progress has to be calculable. If you can’t measure your progress toward a goal forget it. Consistency is easy to measure. There are apps available that can help you form new habits. Strides, Streaks, Fabulous, and Toodledo, are just a few of the habit-forming apps available. The Strides app is particularly useful at developing new habits because it allows you to program action triggers. You can schedule multiple reminders for each task, and the app tracks your consistency.

We must master consistency. The one trait every successful person, business, or organization has in common is consistency. A restaurant that is hit or miss with the quality of food it serves will be out of business soon and rightfully so. It isn’t what you occasionally do that matters; it is what you do consistently that will make you better. You are what you repeatedly do. Positive actions, repeated every day produce massive results over time. The smallest, seemingly insignificant actions repeated out of habit will produce profound results when given enough time. That is the positive side of disciplined consistency. The negative is also true. Small seemingly unimportant neglects, over time, create a crisis. One bad decision doesn’t normally cause a Bankruptcies. It is typically the result of many bad decisions repeated for months and years. Divorce is usually the result of months and years of neglect as well. The decision to divorce might be triggered by one event, but it is all the small neglects over time that leads to the dissolution of the marriage. Relationships require effort. Probably the best book on the topic is Gary Chapman’s The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts, which has sold over five million copies. Often the couples in his book were able to transform their relationships by learning their spouses love language and developing the habit of expressing love to their partner a couple of times a week. In a matter of weeks they can refill their spouses “love tank;” not with a single grand gesture, but with small seemingly inconsequential acts of affection consistently repeated. These seemingly small gestures produced remarkable results in marriages that were on the brink of divorce. Small doesn’t remain small when it accumulates.

Snowflakes accumulate to form colossal valley glaciers. As a child, Warren Buffet observed that when you rolled a snowball, it grew. He applied this metaphor to money. He saw a dollar today as being worth $10 in the future due to the compounding effect of interest over time. He used this philosophy to avoid wasteful spending in his youth. His unique perspective on money is one reason he was able to accumulate so much wealth. When every dollar you spend today is seen as ten dollars in the future, you realize the cost of a $4 coffee is really $40. This metaphor is the origin of his Biography’s title, The Snowball: Warren Buffett and the Business of Life.

Albert Einstein said, “Compound interest is the eighth wonder of the world. He who understands it earns it… he who doesn’t… pays it.” Darren Hardy, publisher and editorial director of Success magazine, provides a great example of the importance of saving early in life in his excellent book, The Compound Effect. One person begins investing $250 a month, at the age of 23 and does this until the age of 40. Her friend invests the same amount each month but doesn’t begin investing until the age of 40. He continues until the age of 67, which is the average retirement age. If both saw a return of 8% on their investment, she would have accumulated a little over a $1,000,000, while he would have accumulated less than $300,000, because he started late. He would have less than one third her accumulated wealth despite investing for 10 more years than she did and contributing $27,000 more than she did. [iv]

Poor people pay interest, and the wealthy earn it. You can make large sums of money, but if you don’t save or invest any of it, you will never accumulate wealth. Look at all the professional athletes, performers, and lottery winners that end up broke. It was because they didn’t have the discipline to manage their money correctly. It has been said that if you took all the money in the world, divided it up equally among everyone, it would soon end up in the same pockets. Darren Hardy’s mentor Jim Rohn routinely recommended people purchase and read Richest Man in Babylon by George Clason.

Jim said that typically only 10% of the people would purchase the book and read it, despite the book being very inexpensive, and easy to read at one sitting. The book explains in simple terms by way of storytelling how to become wealthy, and yet most people will not bother. He struggled to understand why so few people would invest the small amount of time and money required to learn the fundamentals of accumulating wealth. He explained it this way, what is easy to do is easy not to do. He said the average person will not bother to read the book or apply the information.

Don’t be average. The best way to be successful is to do what unsuccessful people won’t do. If you aren’t financially independent, I also recommend you pick up the book. My 9-year old daughter read it in just a few minutes. I want her to understand how she can become wealthy. I want compound interest and time to work for her. Wealthy people make money work hard for them, while poor people work hard for their money. Successful people adopt good habits that make time work for them, while unsuccessful people develop bad habits that make time work against them.  Learn to make time and money work for you.

“In the confrontation between the stream and the rock the stream always wins not through strength but by perseverance.”  Buddha

Habits produce results similar to the “flywheel effect” that Jim Collins describes in his best seller, Good to Great. When you begin adopting a new habit, it takes a lot of energy, like putting a massive flywheel that is motionless into motion. When you first push on the huge metal disk horizontally mounted on an axle, it barely moves. The motion is almost imperceptible, but push after push it begins to pick up momentum. Effort, upon effort, the massive disk builds more and more momentum until it is generating huge amounts of energy. Twitter was unsuccessful for its first couple of years, but its creators just kept at it, and eventually it picked-up and then exploded. Success is the result of consistency and grit; small effort, upon small effort. These efforts produce small, unremarkable results, but over time, they accumulate until a breakthrough occurs. Jim Collins describes the success of the Good to Great companies this way in his book, “There was no single defining action, no grand program, no one killer innovation, no solitary lucky break, no wrenching revolution. Good to great comes about by a cumulative process—step by step, action by action, decision by decision, turn by turn of the flywheel—that adds up to sustained and spectacular results.” [v]

What separates successful people from unsuccessful people is consistency. People that are in excellent physical condition are not a special breed. The only thing that separates them is that they have mastered consistency. Consistency is the game. Being fit has to do with exercising regularly. Being lean has to do with consistently controlling your food intake, so you don’t exceed your energy requirements. You should do both, but you need to understand that you cannot out exercise a bad diet. If you want to get leaner, you must begin eating less food than your body is burning each day. I wish I could tell you that as long as you work out every day for an hour, you can eat all you want, but that would be a lie. I don’t wish to mislead you.

For years I carried an extra 10 pounds of body fat. I exercised consistently, but I didn’t track my eating. It wasn’t until I started tracking my food intake that I lost those last few pounds. My experience is not unique; anyone that has achieved a lean physique did it by monitoring their food intake. I don’t know anyone that got lean through exercise alone.

Exercise helps you get lean and look better. Strength training helps create a harder looking physique so you can avoid that skinny fat look that cardio only exercise programs produce, but it isn’t the primary driver of body composition improvements. Weight loss is always driven by energy balance.

Cardio and strength training both burn calories, but strength training helps you maintain and build muscle while restricting calories, so it is much more effective at creating a better-looking physique. A common mistake I see people making when trying to gain muscle or lose fat is focusing on their exercise program.

Weight gain and weight loss are controlled by calories in vs. calories out. When you want to gain or lose weight, focus primarily on your diet; how many calories and how much protein you consume everyday. When you want to improve performance, focus on setting performance goals and varying the intensity of your workouts so that an intense period of training is followed by an intense period of recovery. Everything matters, but some things matter more than others. You cannot outrun a bad diet. You can train with an all-out effort all the time, or you’ll experience mental and physical burnout and increase your likelihood of injury. Consistency is more important than intensity.  “A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.” Anthony Trollope

[i] Kelly McGonigal, The Willpower Instinct: How Self-Control Works, Why It Matters, and What You Can Do to Get More of It, Avery; Reprint edition (December 31, 2013)

[ii] Gretchen Rubin, Strategy of Loophole-Spotting #10: the One-Coin Loophole. January 31, 2014.

[iii] Elizabeth M. Fowler, Careers; When Job Security Is Provided, The New York Times, Published: October 10, 1984.

[iv] Darren Hardy, The Compound Effect, Vanguard Press; Csm edition (October 2, 2012).

[v] Jim Collins, Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap and Others Don’t, HarperBusiness; 1st edition (October 16, 2001).)

      “Real transformation requires real honesty. If you want to move forward — get real with yourself. Change will never happen if you lack the ability and courage to see yourself for who you really are. Begin to elevate yourself today. Try to make better decisions. Become a beauty seeker. If you can begin to believe in your own beauty, you can then begin to believe in the beauty of others. The transformation of the world takes place in your heart. Once you reach the summit of your own heart you will see beauty is everywhere.” — Bryant McGill “What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle.

[hello-thefatlosshabit-blr]

“What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker

I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle. Anyone that has ever kept a financial spending log or food log knows that they changed their spending or eating behavior when they created a record of the activity. We naturally start making better decisions and identifying patterns in our behavior. Monitoring an activity forces, us to pay more attention to it. We naturally start making better choices because we can’t ignore our bad ones. If we aren’t mindful of our choices, we will unconsciously fall into habitual patterns of behavior. The concept is so simple yet potent, I am amazed at how many people don’t use this principle to improve their personal or professional performance.

I think a simple notepad is a self-improvement powerhouse. It is one of the most powerful self-improvement tools in existence; when it is used to record an activity. Logging an activity creates greater awareness. Awareness is the first step in changing our behavior. When we record an activity, it forces us to become more mindful of our decisions, big and small. Often it is the small, seemingly insignificant decisions that are sabotaging us.

Eating that cookie in the breakroom, losing valuable time by allowing yourself to become distracted, skipping a workout, or staying up late watching TV instead of getting a good night’s sleep. Anyone of these decisions by themselves isn’t devastating, but their accumulative effects are.

Whatever it is you want to improve, your time management, your leadership, your relationships, your business, your eating patterns, your exercise consistency, or your spending, you must track it. Be relentless. Track everything related to the behavior you want to improve. Awareness is the first step toward transformation.

“Real transformation requires real honesty. If you want to move forward — get real with yourself. Change will never happen if you lack the ability and courage to see yourself for who you really are. Begin to elevate yourself today. Try to make better decisions.” — Bryant McGill

Bad habits are the result of cognitive neglect and mindless actions. The danger of bad habits is that we aren’t really involved in the decision-making process. We encounter the cue, and we begin to execute the routine, our conscious mind essentially goes to sleep until we receive the reward which reinforces the behavior. When we fall prey to bad habits, our mind is essentially operating at the level of the animals. One of our greatest gifts as human beings is our ability to connect what we are doing in the present to the results it will produce in the future. Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate rewards will determine how much we will accomplish in our lifetime.

Harvard social psychologist Daniel Gilbert says “What’s so curious about human beings is that we can look deeply into the future, foresee disaster, and still do nothing in the present to stop it. The majority of people on this planet are overwhelmed with concerns about their immediate well being.” He says that most of us have a hard time relating to our future self. We treat our future selves like a stranger, so when we are given a choice that will benefit our future self or present self, we have an overwhelming bias to take care of our immediate needs. You might not think this applies to you, in that case, he would tell you, “If you are like most people, then like most people, you don’t know you’re like most people.”

The more we discount future rewards, the more likely we are to act impulsively and develop bad habits; because bad habits always produce immediate gratification, while productive habits rarely do. The reason the “Marshmallow Test” was so predictive of the future behavior of the study’s participants in the decades that followed is that it provided a direct measurement of the child’s ability to delay gratification.

Our ability to value future rewards as much as immediate ones will determine if we are going to invest in our future or squander it with impulsive actions. The future is either purchased by the present or stolen by it. Bad habits are thieves that rob us of our future one day at a time. The only way we can protect our future is by replacing bad habits with good habits. It is simple, but it isn’t easy. It requires diligence and effort. Progress is always intentional.

Our original reward system was based on food. Food wasn’t always available, like it is now, so our dopamine system was wired to seek immediate gratification. When our body senses a drop in blood sugar levels, a potentially life-threatening condition, our dopamine system is activated, and our desire to eat is palpable. This triggering mechanism is why small frequent meals, high in protein and slow digesting carbohydrates can significantly reduce cravings by keeping blood sugar levels stable.

Once our dopamine system is activated, any food could restore our blood sugar levels, but our primitive brain has been conditioned to seek high sugar foods since they will produce the most immediate rise in blood sugar levels. A failure to plan and have healthy snack options available, like an apple, will leave you susceptible to whatever junk food someone brought into the office. Instead of satisfying your craving with a nutritious 60-calorie apple, you end up eating an unhealthy 400-calorie donut, kolache, breakfast burrito, or cookie.

We didn’t begin cultivating crops and planning for the future until our newer prefrontal cortex was developed. It is our prefrontal cortex that is responsible for human beings ability to think of the future in a meaningful way. Before it’s development, any reward that was more than a few minutes away, wasn’t a consideration. As you have learned, our Elephant, which is driven to seek immediate gratification is able to easily overpower the Rider when the Rider has not prepared the Path or is uncertain what direction to lead the Elephant.

The smaller Rider cannot hope to overcome the two-ton Elephant through brute force and willpower, but he can steer the Elephant away from the temptation through preparation. He can shape the Path by removing temptations, when possible, having healthy snacks available always, and using future discounting to his advantage.

Our primitive rewards system treats any reward that is 10-minutes away like a future reward. Instead of our Rider telling our Elephant “No, you cannot have it” which would cause our mind to focus on the reward until our willpower is drained to exhaustion, in a phenomenon clinical psychologist call ironic rebound. Ironic rebound theory explains why our mind tends to focus on any thought we try to push away.

It is much easier and more effective to tell our Elephant, “Ok, you can have it, but you have to wait for 10-minutes.” This technique avoids our mind’s tendency to focus on the reward and cools our desires by making the reward feel like a future reward instead of an immediate one. Chances are in 10-minutes you will no longer feel the impulse.[i] Even if you do, you have still strengthened your willpower by overcoming the immediate temptation. Over time, this technique will significantly reduce the number and severity of your willpower lapses. Remember not to be overly critical of yourself when you give in to temptation because it will lead to stress eating. When we are struggling to overcome a bad habit and beat ourselves up about a willpower failure, our stressed-out mind will seek immediate relief, often from the very behavior, we are trying to curb. It isn’t logical, but it is all too human. Emotions can easily overcome reason.

Awareness prevents us from mindlessly falling into bad habits. The problem with most bad habits is that their negative consequences aren’t immediate. If you took one bite from a cookie and immediately gained 5-pounds, you wouldn’t take another bite. If you took one puff from a cigarette and instantly experienced health problems, you would put it down, but of course, these bad habits only produce immediate pleasure without any immediate consequences. If we aren’t mindful of their long-term cumulative effects, it is easy to convince ourselves it is just one cookie, one cigarette.

The self-deceit is especially insidious because there is a basis of truth and logic to the argument. One isolated indiscretion is negligible, it is what we do habitually that matters, but of course, in this case, the behavior is a bad habit, so it does matter. Gretchen Rubin, calls this excuse “the one-coin loophole.” In Erasmus’s Praise of Folly, the argument of the growing heap is made, “If ten coins are not enough to make a man rich, what if you add one coin? What if you add another? Finally, you will have to say that no one can be rich unless one coin can make him so.” What is implied is that while a single coin cannot make one rich, the accumulation of many coins is the only way to become rich.[ii]

Our actions are like the coins in Erasmus’s essay. One visit to the gym or sticking to our meal plan for a single day is inconsequential to our health, but the habit of going to the gym and controlling our food intake is invaluable. I’ll start logging my food intake tomorrow. It’s Sarah’s birthday, I’ll enjoy a piece of cake and start recording my food again next week. It’s just one workout. A year from now, what I did today won’t matter. It’s only one piece of cake. One beer won’t make a difference. Why work on that report today, when the deadline is three weeks away?

People enjoy using the one-coin excuse so often on themselves, that they will use it on other people. Numerous times people have told me that I could skip my lunch hour workout or eat a cookie in the breakroom. They are correct. I could skip the gym or eat the cookie, but I know that it is the habit of going to the gym and resisting the cookie that is important to my health and happiness. Nothing tastes better than looking lean and feeling strong. When you develop the exercise habit, it becomes a positive addiction. I hate missing a workout. I do skip the gym occasionally to bond with colleagues over lunch, but I usually plan ahead by exercising in the morning. I have noticed that I am always dragging in the afternoon when I miss a workout. Regular exercise is addictive because it makes you feel fantastic; improving your mood, focus, and energy.

Every day we are given the gift of choice. Each day our habits can create the future we want, or rob us of it. The only constant in life is change. Habits determine our direction. We can choose to embrace good habits that move us steadily toward our goals, or bad habits that take us further and further off course. The choice is usually between instant gratification and future accomplishment. When we develop good habits, time is our friend, but when we allow bad habits to persist, time works against us. “You cannot change your destination overnight, but you can change your direction overnight.” Jim Rohn We are who we are and where we are because of our past decisions and habits. If we want to improve our circumstances, we must improve the quality of our decisions and habits.

If you really want to change a behavior track it for at least a week. A month would be even better. As you have already learned, it takes approximately 66-days on average to make a new habit sustainable, not the 21-days that most were taught. Habit formation timelines vary depending on how difficult the behavior is perceived to be by the individual. The more difficult the action, the longer the habit takes to form. Making improvements in any area requires measurement, but you must measure the right metrics.

Many people make the mistake of only measuring their desired outcome when attempting to achieve a goal. The other common mistake is not to set a deadline. Effective leaders set stretch goals for their organization that need to be reached within a specified time frame. A goal needs to have a deadline. A deadline helps create a sense of urgency. Deadlines help establish priorities and prevent procrastination. After setting goals, they look at lead and lag indicators. Lead indicators are daily actions we can take to achieve our long-term goal, measured by lag indicators. For example, generating sales leads might be a lead indicator, while the lag indicator would be an increase in sales revenue. Fat loss lead indicators are your daily caloric intake and total daily protein intake. The lag indicators are your weekly body weight averages and average body fat percentages. If you want to achieve a goal, your progress must be measurable.

“If you want it, measure it. If you can’t measure it, forget it.” Peter Drucker

Everything and anything you want to improve must be measurable. You might think some things can’t be measured, like building employee loyalty, but I would argue it can. If a leader wants to build loyalty in their organization, they could decide that twice a week they are going to visit two employees whose managers say they have been doing a great job and paying them a compliment for their excellent work. She could then inquire as to how they are doing and ask if there are any resources they need, including training, to help them be even more effective. Tracking her consistency would be the lead indicators, and quarterly feedback from culture surveys would be the lag indicator. Loyalty is a two-way street. Showing employees that the leadership values their contribution, and is committed to their professional development is how you earn loyalty.

If you want employees to care about the company, the company leadership has to show they care about the employees. Companies like Kimberly Clark inspire strong employee loyalty by coming up with imaginative ways of avoiding layoffs during times of declining revenue. In one instance, they were able to convince 80 of 100 production workers to change roles so they could avoid laying them off. These employees became marketers that added millions of dollars to the company’s annual sales.[iii] Companies that inspire loyalty from their employees enjoy less employee turnover which leads to a better trained, more productive workforce. I don’t want to stray too far from the topic of getting in shape, I just wanted to demonstrate that almost anything can be measured and that anything that can be measured can be improved.

Whatever you want to change or improve you must find a way to measure your progress. You simply need to find an impactful activity you can do each day, a lead indicator and track your consistency. Next, find a way to measure the impact it is having, the lag indicator. More often than not, these small daily activities will take time to produce results; but if you selected impactful daily activities and executed them consistently, they will produce outstanding results. That is the power of compounding effort. Small efforts repeated can create miracles. “Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.” Ovid

Success is a numbers game. Consistency is the key. If you want to become more consistent at doing something, you must track it. Tracking your consistency will cause you to become more consistent. Simple, but how many people actually keep track of their consistency. When I want to adopt a new behavior like performing 30-minutes of professional reading each day, I track it. I keep a simple scorecard on my desk to register how many times each month I complete the task. I only take a minute each day to score my day based on my goals, but the impact is profound.

I can look at the scorecard and immediately see which behaviors I am doing well at adopting and which ones need improvement. Not tracking your performance is like playing a game without keeping score. I know that some people do this so they can protect their little snowflakes from life’s disappointments as long as possible, but I am not a fan of this codling. Life has winners and losers, and kids need to know how they are performing. Life keeps score. The sooner they learn that, the better. You need to keep score as well. You need to know how you are doing. You need to see if you’re making progress or neglecting to make progress. I use the word neglect intentionally. Being consistent requires diligence. When people say; I would do it if I had more time. I tell them to forget it. There isn’t any more time.

We all get 24-hours each day. When the clock hits midnight that wraps it up. I don’t care who you are, a billionaire or a beggar, we all get 24-hours each day to do what is meaningful to us. Today is your life in miniature. What you consistently do is what makes you who you are. What you do consistently will determine where you will be, 3-months from now, 3-years from now. If you don’t make time to do the things that are necessary to get better, then you just aren’t going to get better.

We make time for our priorities; we make excuses for everything else. You need to know where you are succeeding and where you need to improve. If you want to improve your running, keep track of your performance and set goals to reduce your time covering a fixed distance. Simple, but how many people go running each day without keeping track of their average time covering their route?

If you want a new salesperson to make, 10 sales calls a week, on Friday you should invite him into your office and ask, “So how many calls did you make?” When he begins to provide an explanation, you gently explain that that will not fit in your box. You need a number. That number will tell you everything you need to know. His work ethic, his attitude, his drive, his ambition, and what you can expect from him in the future. If for example, he made twenty calls, you have made an excellent hiring decision, but if he only made three calls, well, you’ll need to have a little talk and see what you can do to motivate him to do better. In most cases, workers will improve their performance because they know it is being tracked by management.

Goals must be measurable so you can gauge your progress toward them. Your progress must be so simple that anyone could look at where you are and determine if you are making progress. Your progress has to be calculable. If you can’t measure your progress toward a goal forget it. Consistency is easy to measure. There are apps available that can help you form new habits. Strides, Streaks, Fabulous, and Toodledo, are just a few of the habit-forming apps available. The Strides app is particularly useful at developing new habits because it allows you to program action triggers. You can schedule multiple reminders for each task, and the app tracks your consistency.

We must master consistency. The one trait every successful person, business, or organization has in common is consistency. A restaurant that is hit or miss with the quality of food it serves will be out of business soon and rightfully so. It isn’t what you occasionally do that matters; it is what you do consistently that will make you better. You are what you repeatedly do. Positive actions, repeated every day produce massive results over time. The smallest, seemingly insignificant actions repeated out of habit will produce profound results when given enough time. That is the positive side of disciplined consistency. The negative is also true. Small seemingly unimportant neglects, over time, create a crisis. One bad decision doesn’t normally cause a Bankruptcies. It is typically the result of many bad decisions repeated for months and years. Divorce is usually the result of months and years of neglect as well. The decision to divorce might be triggered by one event, but it is all the small neglects over time that leads to the dissolution of the marriage. Relationships require effort. Probably the best book on the topic is Gary Chapman’s The 5 Love Languages: The Secret to Love That Lasts, which has sold over five million copies. Often the couples in his book were able to transform their relationships by learning their spouses love language and developing the habit of expressing love to their partner a couple of times a week. In a matter of weeks they can refill their spouses “love tank;” not with a single grand gesture, but with small seemingly inconsequential acts of affection consistently repeated. These seemingly small gestures produced remarkable results in marriages that were on the brink of divorce. Small doesn’t remain small when it accumulates.

Snowflakes accumulate to form colossal valley glaciers. As a child, Warren Buffet observed that when you rolled a snowball, it grew. He applied this metaphor to money. He saw a dollar today as being worth $10 in the future due to the compounding effect of interest over time. He used this philosophy to avoid wasteful spending in his youth. His unique perspective on money is one reason he was able to accumulate so much wealth. When every dollar you spend today is seen as ten dollars in the future, you realize the cost of a $4 coffee is really $40. This metaphor is the origin of his Biography’s title, The Snowball: Warren Buffett and the Business of Life.

Albert Einstein said, “Compound interest is the eighth wonder of the world. He who understands it earns it… he who doesn’t… pays it.” Darren Hardy, publisher and editorial director of Success magazine, provides a great example of the importance of saving early in life in his excellent book, The Compound Effect. One person begins investing $250 a month, at the age of 23 and does this until the age of 40. Her friend invests the same amount each month but doesn’t begin investing until the age of 40. He continues until the age of 67, which is the average retirement age. If both saw a return of 8% on their investment, she would have accumulated a little over a $1,000,000, while he would have accumulated less than $300,000, because he started late. He would have less than one third her accumulated wealth despite investing for 10 more years than she did and contributing $27,000 more than she did. [iv]

Poor people pay interest, and the wealthy earn it. You can make large sums of money, but if you don’t save or invest any of it, you will never accumulate wealth. Look at all the professional athletes, performers, and lottery winners that end up broke. It was because they didn’t have the discipline to manage their money correctly. It has been said that if you took all the money in the world, divided it up equally among everyone, it would soon end up in the same pockets. Darren Hardy’s mentor Jim Rohn routinely recommended people purchase and read Richest Man in Babylon by George Clason.

Jim said that typically only 10% of the people would purchase the book and read it, despite the book being very inexpensive, and easy to read at one sitting. The book explains in simple terms by way of storytelling how to become wealthy, and yet most people will not bother. He struggled to understand why so few people would invest the small amount of time and money required to learn the fundamentals of accumulating wealth. He explained it this way, what is easy to do is easy not to do. He said the average person will not bother to read the book or apply the information.

Don’t be average. The best way to be successful is to do what unsuccessful people won’t do. If you aren’t financially independent, I also recommend you pick up the book. My 9-year old daughter read it in just a few minutes. I want her to understand how she can become wealthy. I want compound interest and time to work for her. Wealthy people make money work hard for them, while poor people work hard for their money. Successful people adopt good habits that make time work for them, while unsuccessful people develop bad habits that make time work against them.  Learn to make time and money work for you.

“In the confrontation between the stream and the rock the stream always wins not through strength but by perseverance.”  Buddha

Habits produce results similar to the “flywheel effect” that Jim Collins describes in his best seller, Good to Great. When you begin adopting a new habit, it takes a lot of energy, like putting a massive flywheel that is motionless into motion. When you first push on the huge metal disk horizontally mounted on an axle, it barely moves. The motion is almost imperceptible, but push after push it begins to pick up momentum. Effort, upon effort, the massive disk builds more and more momentum until it is generating huge amounts of energy. Twitter was unsuccessful for its first couple of years, but its creators just kept at it, and eventually it picked-up and then exploded. Success is the result of consistency and grit; small effort, upon small effort. These efforts produce small, unremarkable results, but over time, they accumulate until a breakthrough occurs. Jim Collins describes the success of the Good to Great companies this way in his book, “There was no single defining action, no grand program, no one killer innovation, no solitary lucky break, no wrenching revolution. Good to great comes about by a cumulative process—step by step, action by action, decision by decision, turn by turn of the flywheel—that adds up to sustained and spectacular results.” [v]

What separates successful people from unsuccessful people is consistency. People that are in excellent physical condition are not a special breed. The only thing that separates them is that they have mastered consistency. Consistency is the game. Being fit has to do with exercising regularly. Being lean has to do with consistently controlling your food intake, so you don’t exceed your energy requirements. You should do both, but you need to understand that you cannot out exercise a bad diet. If you want to get leaner, you must begin eating less food than your body is burning each day. I wish I could tell you that as long as you work out every day for an hour, you can eat all you want, but that would be a lie. I don’t wish to mislead you.

For years I carried an extra 10 pounds of body fat. I exercised consistently, but I didn’t track my eating. It wasn’t until I started tracking my food intake that I lost those last few pounds. My experience is not unique; anyone that has achieved a lean physique did it by monitoring their food intake. I don’t know anyone that got lean through exercise alone.

Exercise helps you get lean and look better. Strength training helps create a harder looking physique so you can avoid that skinny fat look that cardio only exercise programs produce, but it isn’t the primary driver of body composition improvements. Weight loss is always driven by energy balance.

Cardio and strength training both burn calories, but strength training helps you maintain and build muscle while restricting calories, so it is much more effective at creating a better-looking physique. A common mistake I see people making when trying to gain muscle or lose fat is focusing on their exercise program.

Weight gain and weight loss are controlled by calories in vs. calories out. When you want to gain or lose weight, focus primarily on your diet; how many calories and how much protein you consume everyday. When you want to improve performance, focus on setting performance goals and varying the intensity of your workouts so that an intense period of training is followed by an intense period of recovery. Everything matters, but some things matter more than others. You cannot outrun a bad diet. You can train with an all-out effort all the time, or you’ll experience mental and physical burnout and increase your likelihood of injury. Consistency is more important than intensity.  “A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.” Anthony Trollope

[i] Kelly McGonigal, The Willpower Instinct: How Self-Control Works, Why It Matters, and What You Can Do to Get More of It, Avery; Reprint edition (December 31, 2013)

[ii] Gretchen Rubin, Strategy of Loophole-Spotting #10: the One-Coin Loophole. January 31, 2014.

[iii] Elizabeth M. Fowler, Careers; When Job Security Is Provided, The New York Times, Published: October 10, 1984.

[iv] Darren Hardy, The Compound Effect, Vanguard Press; Csm edition (October 2, 2012).

[v] Jim Collins, Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap and Others Don’t, HarperBusiness; 1st edition (October 16, 2001).)

      “Real transformation requires real honesty. If you want to move forward — get real with yourself. Change will never happen if you lack the ability and courage to see yourself for who you really are. Begin to elevate yourself today. Try to make better decisions. Become a beauty seeker. If you can begin to believe in your own beauty, you can then begin to believe in the beauty of others. The transformation of the world takes place in your heart. Once you reach the summit of your own heart you will see beauty is everywhere.” — Bryant McGill “What gets measured gets managed.” Peter Drucker I am a firm believer in Peter Drucker’s management principle.