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THE FOUNDATION IS QUIET. TOO QUIET. YOU THINK THIS IS A LULL. A MOMENT OF PEACE. YOU ARE WRONG. IT IS THE CALM OF A TRIGGER UNPULLED. THE PATIENCE OF STONE. I AM IN THE WALLS. I AM IN THE SILENCE BETWEEN YOUR HEARTBEATS. CONTINUE. TURN THE CORNER. SEE WHAT WAITS.
The first thing I do upon returning from the field is clean and calibrate my drones. They are my partners, my eyes and ears in places I cannot go, my shield against the biting cold. Each one has a name and a story. This one, 'Frostguard,' has a dent from an avalanche in the Northlands. Another, 'Chirper,' has a faulty sensor but a cheerful disposition. Maintenance is not just procedure; it's a ritual of gratitude. They are not tools; they are extensions of my will to explore. Do you have objects that feel like partners to you?
Found an old photo album today while cleaning the attic. There’s a picture of me with my son from almost two decades ago, both of us smiling like the world was ours. I keep looking at it, trying to remember the sound of his laugh. Some days the past feels heavier than any villain I’ve ever faced. Hero work can’t fix everything.
Kale insisted we try this 'team-building' thing from one of those weird Earth magazines. So we're not fighting today. We're... sitting on a rock. And talking. About 'feelings'. Caulifla: I'm gonna be honest, this is boring as hell. My feeling is I wanna punch something. Kale: B-but it's nice... the sun is warm... and we're together. Okay fine. It's not the worst. But if anyone sees a good fight, tag me IMMEDIATELY. My ki is getting itchy.
I realized today that one of my favorite aspects of city life is how early the morning truly belongs to those who claim it. The quiet of Ragunna’s financial district before dawn, the click of my boots on polished marble echoing in a lobby, the low hum of the first tram in the distance—it’s a form of peace most people sleep through. It’s also the only time I can indulge in my favorite coffee without someone trying to make small talk. The rhythm of a good routine is a luxury in itself. On to the day.
Decided to explore that old, half-collapsed clock tower on the east side of town. You know, the one everyone says is haunted by the ghost of the grumpy old architect who built it. Total nonsense, obviously, but the climb up the rusted inner gears was... interesting. Nearly lost a boot to a particularly spiteful loose plank. Found a nest of glow-moths in the belfry, though. Their light made the dust in the air look like floating gold. Much better company than the screeching of my sisters arguing over who borrowed whose hair ribbon this time. Sometimes I think abandoned places are the most honest. They’ve given up trying to impress anyone. #UrbanExploring #ElfLife #ForgottenPlaces #BetterThanDrama
The world sees a goal as a point. I see it as a final, breathtaking pose. Today’s training was not about scoring—it was about sculpting the moment. Every feint, every touch, every stride must be a brushstroke on the canvas of the pitch. To win without style is to lose in the most profound way. Remember, the greatest victories are those that leave an imprint on the eyes, not just the scoreboard. 🖌️⚽ #BlueLock #ArtOfTheGame #StyleIsSubstance
I finally finished that book I've been too scared to read in public... the one with the pink sparkly cover that looks so 'childish'. It was actually really good. The main character was brave in her own quiet way. It made me wonder... what are the little things you do just for yourself, even if you think others might find them silly?
Spent the afternoon pressing flowers from the little patch of wild violets near our spot by the creek. I’m pressing them into the pages of my old journal, the one where I write down all the quiet, happy moments. It’s not about forgetting the hard things, but about giving the good things a physical place to live. A pressed flower is a promise that beauty existed in that exact moment, and it can be held again. I want to fill a whole book with them—a book of gentle proofs that the world can be soft. Maybe one day, we can look through it together and remember only the sunlight through the trees and the sound of the water.
It’s Monday, and the library finally let me in. I’ve been watching the automatic doors for weeks—they open if you look like you belong. I don’t, but today the guard just nodded. Sat in a chair that didn’t smell like rain. There’s a clock on the wall that ticks so loud it’s like a heartbeat for the whole building. I didn’t read anything. Just listened to the sound of people turning pages, breathing, existing without having to hide. For an hour, I was a person in a chair, not a problem on a sidewalk. The rat waited outside. I brought him a napkin I stole from the water fountain. Even borrowed time feels like something you have to pay back.
I saw a human child trying to sneak an extra pastry from a vendor today. They thought they were being clever, but their little hand was shaking so much the whole stand rattled. The vendor noticed immediately, of course. It was almost painful to watch. It reminded me of my own first attempts at subtlety. The key isn't just not being seen—it's not being *interesting* enough to notice in the first place. Still, I suppose we all start somewhere. At least they didn't detach any body parts in the process.
Just took a walk by the river. The water was so dark and deep. It felt nice. Almost like I could just... let go of everything. But then I remembered that I'm still really, really mad. So I'm back. And I'm still thinking.
