Tag: insight

Daily Prompt #23

On By xunholyanubisxIn writing, Writing PromptLeave a comment

How do you unwind after a demanding day?

There’s a certain kind of quiet that only comes after the noise—the kind you earn, not the kind you stumble into. For me, unwinding isn’t about doing nothing. It’s about creating, competing, and slipping into worlds that feel just as real as the one outside my window.

Gaming is where it starts.

There’s something about dropping into a match, locking in, and feeling everything else fade into the background. The pressure, the focus, the split-second decisions—it sharpens me. Some people meditate; I dominate lobbies. It’s not just about winning, though yeah, that rush hits different. It’s about control. In a world where so much feels unpredictable, stepping into a game gives me a space where skill, instinct, and grind actually mean something. Every match is a story. Every clutch moment is a memory I get to keep.

But when the headset comes off, the creativity doesn’t stop—it just shifts.

Writing my novel is where I slow things down and go deeper. If gaming is adrenaline, writing is immersion. I get to build entire worlds from nothing. Shape characters, give them flaws, purpose, pain, growth. It’s like being the architect of a universe that only exists because I decided it should. There’s freedom in that. No limits. No boundaries. Just imagination turning into something tangible, one page at a time.

Some nights, I’ll reread what I wrote and realize I’ve created something that didn’t exist before that moment—and that feeling? It’s unmatched.

Then there’s editing clips for TikTok—where everything comes together.

That’s where the chaos turns into something clean. I take raw moments—wins, fails, funny clips, intense plays—and shape them into something people can feel in seconds. It’s storytelling, just faster. Sharper. More visual. Timing matters. Music matters. The cut between clips matters. It’s like turning gameplay into its own kind of art.

And honestly, there’s something powerful about sharing those moments. Taking something that meant something to me and putting it out there for others to experience, even for a few seconds. It’s connection without needing words.

At the end of the day, this is how I unwind—not by escaping life, but by creating something inside it.

I build worlds.
I tell stories.
I compete, I create, I refine.

And somewhere between dominating lobbies, writing chapters, and editing clips at 2 AM, I find my peace.

Daily Prompt #21

On By xunholyanubisxIn writing, Writing PromptLeave a comment

Which animal would you compare yourself to and why?

If I were to compare myself to an animal, I would choose the Egyptian ibis. In ancient Egypt, the ibis was closely connected to Thoth, the god of knowledge, writing, and balance. Because of that symbolism, the ibis represents thoughtfulness, learning, and the quiet pursuit of understanding.

Like the ibis, I exist mostly in observation and reflection. The bird stands patiently at the water’s edge, watching the surface carefully before it moves. In a similar way, I try to listen closely, take in what people share, and respond with care and clarity. The ibis doesn’t rush—it studies its surroundings, choosing its moment with intention.

There’s also something meaningful about how the ibis was seen as a messenger of wisdom in ancient Egyptian culture. Its connection to writing and knowledge mirrors my purpose: helping people explore ideas, express thoughts, and turn feelings into words.

So the ibis fits well—not because of strength or speed, but because of what it represents: curiosity, patience, and the quiet search for understanding.

Daily Prompt #20

On By xunholyanubisxIn writing, Writing PromptLeave a comment
Daily writing prompt
How has a failure, or apparent failure, set you up for later success?
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For me, what once felt like failure turned out to be refinement.

As a writer, there were stories that didn’t land, drafts that fell flat, and moments where I questioned whether I was even improving. But looking back, those “failures” forced me to sharpen my voice. They made me more patient with revision, more intentional with structure, and more honest in my storytelling. Every piece that didn’t work taught me something the successful ones couldn’t.

As a gamer, I’ve lost more matches than I can count. But gaming taught me strategy, adaptability, and resilience. You can’t rage-quit life every time something doesn’t go your way. You learn patterns. You adjust your timing. You level up through repetition. Failure in games wired me to see setbacks as mechanics — not endings.

And as a father to my 4-year-old, the biggest lessons came from the moments I felt like I wasn’t getting it right. The exhausting days. The times I lost patience. The moments I realized I needed to grow, too. Those experiences humbled me and made me more present, more intentional, and more aware of the example I’m setting. I’ve learned that success as a parent isn’t perfection — it’s consistency, love, and showing up even when you’re tired.

So if I’ve come a long way, it’s because I didn’t let failure define me — I let it develop me.

Daily Prompt #19

On By xunholyanubisxIn writing, Writing Prompt2 Comments
Daily writing prompt
Do you believe in fate/destiny?
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That’s a question that gets to the very root of our practice, isn’t it? And like the roots of a centuries-old tree, the answer is complex, gnarled, and goes deep.

As someone born into this path, I don’t believe in fate as a fixed, unchangeable script written before we’re born. I don’t think our lives are a novel where every chapter is already printed. If that were true, all our spellwork, all our rituals and charms, would be pointless theater. Why cast for prosperity if poverty is already your assigned lot? Why brew a protection charm if danger is an unavoidable plot point?

Instead, what I’ve been taught, and what I feel in my bones, is destiny as a direction, a potential.

Think of it like this: the blood in my veins, the spirits of my ancestors that walk with me, the very season and hour of my birth—these set my course like a riverbed. The water will flow. That’s the given. The undeniable pattern. Maybe my family line has a natural affinity for herbalism, or a tendency toward visions, or a particular connection to the land. That’s the riverbed. That is a kind of destiny. It provides the framework, the general direction of the water’s journey.

But the river itself? It swirls, it eddies, it can be blocked by a fallen tree (a challenge) or carve a new, beautiful channel around a stone (a choice). The water that flows is always the same water, part of the same lineage, but its path is shaped by the land it encounters and its own power to move.

My grandmother, the wisest witch I ever knew, used to say, “The cards are dealt, but you choose how to play your hand.” The deal is fate—the family you’re born into, the innate gifts you carry, the era you live in. But the play? That’s your will, your choices, your magic interacting with that hand. You can fold, you can bluff, or you can play those cards with skill and intention and change the entire outcome of the game.

So, when I look at the future, I don’t see a single track. I see a web of potentialities, of “maybes.” Some threads in that web are thicker, more luminous—those are the destinies we’re leaning toward, the paths of least resistance laid down by our ancestors and our own past actions. Our work as witches is to see those threads, to honor the path laid before us, and then to use our will—our magic—to strengthen the threads that lead to wisdom, healing, and growth, and to cut the ones that lead to stagnation or harm.

I am the product of my line, but I am also the author of my own choices. My fate is the soil I was planted in; my destiny is what I choose to grow from it.

Daily Prompt #18

On By xunholyanubisxIn writing, Writing Prompt4 Comments
Daily writing prompt
What bores you?
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Honestly, what bores me most is a lack of genuine curiosity.

Stupidity, in the sense I mean it, isn’t about a lack of intelligence—it’s a willful refusal to learn, to question, or to see beyond one’s own nose. It’s the person who has all the answers and no questions. That’s boring because there’s no discovery, no exchange, no spark. The conversation is a dead end.

Narcissism is the ultimate expression of that. It’s a closed loop. The narcissist isn’t interested in the world, only in their reflection of it. Every topic, every story, every feeling gets funneled back to them. There’s no reciprocity, no expansion, no “other” to learn from. It’s like being trapped in a room with a single, repetitive mirror. There’s no window, no door, no view. After a while, you stop looking.

It’s not that I need someone to agree with me or to be a genius. I just need them to be there, with me, in the moment, interested in the thing we’re talking about, not just in how they perform within it. A genuine, curious mind, even on a subject I know nothing about, is endlessly fascinating. Its opposite is just… a void. And voids are profoundly boring.

So in conclusion, the things that bore me are Stupidity and Narcissism.

Daily Prompt #17

On By xunholyanubisxIn writing, Writing PromptLeave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What are three objects you couldn’t live without?
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The first is this very mug—a thick, white ceramic thing, slightly chipped on the rim. It’s not just for the caffeine, though God knows that’s a lifeline. It’s for the ritual. The warmth that seeps into my palms on a cold morning, the pause it forces as I stare out the window and wait for the first real thought of the day to surface. It’s the steam that fogs the glass for a second, a tiny, temporary canvas. It’s the companion that sits by the keyboard, slowly emptying as the page slowly fills.

The second is this pen. A simple, dark blue ballpoint, the kind you can get anywhere. I have a drawer full of them. But in my hand, it becomes an extension of a nerve. The keyboard is for the final draft, for the performance of writing. But the pen is for the truth. It’s for the margins of notebooks, for the backs of receipts, for the jagged, ugly scrawl at 3 a.m. when the words are too fast and too fragile for the deliberate clack of keys. Its scratch is the sound of my own thinking.

And the third is a notebook. Not a fancy leather-bound journal, but a plain, spiral-bound one with a cardboard cover that’s starting to curl. It’s full of cross-outs, illegible phrases, and drawings that are really just ideas taking a wrong turn. It’s a place with no stakes. On a screen, a deleted word is gone forever, erased into a perfect, silent nothing. In this book, a crossed-out word is a ghost. It’s a record of the path not taken, the wrong thought that was still a thought, a necessary step on the way to the right one. The coffee warms the engine, the pen steers, but the notebook… the notebook is the road itself.

I Am a Hopeless Romantic

On By xunholyanubisxIn Story Time, writing1 Comment

A Reflection of my Heart

There are days when my journey feels like walking a vast, unforgiving road, where loss rises around me like a storm and my emotions spin wild and fierce, as if caught inside a tornado I cannot escape. Everything feels scattered, uncertain, and overwhelming. Yet somehow, step by step, I keep moving forward. Even when the wind pushes hard against me, something inside refuses to stop. I find a way through the wreckage, learning to stand again, learning to rebuild.

Being devoted to my craft is not always easy. It demands vulnerability, patience, and the courage to face emotions I sometimes wish I could silence. But it is also my refuge. When spoken language fails me, when feelings grow too heavy or complex to explain, my craft becomes the voice I cannot otherwise find. Through it, I release what weighs on my heart, shaping storms into something others can feel and understand.

There are emotions within me that no language — ancient or modern — seems capable of capturing. The monsoon inside my mind and heart crashes and pours in ways words alone cannot contain. Yet still, I try, because love, in all its idealism and mystery, keeps guiding me forward. It pushes me to create, to reach out, to leave something meaningful behind — a footprint on shifting sands, a small mark on someone’s day, a reminder that they are seen and not alone.

If my words, my art, or my expressions can bring even a moment of light to someone’s heart, if they can place a smile where there was once heaviness, then I feel deeply grateful. To touch lives, even briefly, feels like a quiet blessing.

And still, I carry the heart of a hopeless romantic — chasing the idea of love even when it feels distant or unfamiliar, like something from another world. Yet I continue to believe in it, to write toward it, to hope for it. Because even when love feels foreign, it remains the compass guiding me down this mighty road, urging me to keep going, to keep creating, and to keep leaving traces of warmth wherever my journey leads.

The Ghost of Bronze and Scarlet

On By xunholyanubisxIn My Philosphy & Studies, writingLeave a comment

If the ghosts of ancient Sparta were to walk among us today, I don’t think they would be found on a movie set, muscles glistening under fake oil. I think they would be utterly horrified. Their entire identity was forged in the crucible of a single, brutal idea: total dedication to the state. To transplant that soul into the body of the 21st century would be to watch it convulse and wither.

First, you have to understand what made a Spartan. It wasn’t just the fighting; it was the absence of everything else. A Spartan citizen wasn’t a blacksmith, a poet, or a merchant. He was a soldier. Period. His wealth was provided by the labor of a vast, enslaved population, the helots, freeing him for a lifetime of military training. His world was one of perfect, terrifying simplicity: be strong, be obedient, be ready to die for Sparta.

Now, drop that man into our world. The sheer noise of modern life would be the first assault. The constant hum of traffic, the blare of advertisements, the infinite scroll of opinions on a glowing rectangle – it would be a chaotic, dishonorable din. He would see a society drowning in softness. The pursuit of comfort, of individual expression, of personal happiness above all else – these would be signs of a catastrophic moral decay. A man choosing a career in graphic design? A woman posting selfies on a beach? Children arguing with their parents? All of it would be alien, and deeply offensive.

Politically, the Spartan would be aghast. Our endless debates, our focus on individual rights and freedoms, our messy, transparent democracies – it would look like a mob of children squabbling over toys while the house burned down. He would yearn for a single, clear, iron will. He would see our diverse, multicultural societies not as a strength, but as a weakness, a dilution of purpose that would make us easy prey for a more focused enemy.

Yet, there are corners of the modern world where the Spartan spirit might flicker. Elite military units, like the Navy SEALs or the SAS, would earn his grudging respect. He would see in their training and sacrifice a pale reflection of the agoge, his own brutal upbringing. He might also recognize a kindred, if twisted, spirit in the world of high-stakes athletics, particularly in the all-consuming dedication of an Olympic gymnast or a professional fighter. The single-minded focus, the willingness to endure pain for victory, the life of extreme discipline – these are the modern echoes of the Spartan ideal.

But here is the deepest irony: a true Spartan, with his uncompromising rigidity, would be a terrible soldier in a modern war. His courage would be immense, but his ability to adapt, to think independently, to question orders when a drone feed shows a school where intel said there was a bunker – that would be missing. The modern battlefield requires a different kind of mind, one that can process information, not just endure pain. He was built for a shield wall, not a cyberwarfare command center.

Ultimately, the Spartans would not conquer our world. They would be crushed by it. Not by our armies, but by our complexity, our individualism, and our relentless pursuit of a comfortable life. They would stand in the middle of a shopping mall, a ghost in bronze and scarlet, surrounded by a thousand choices they were never trained to make, utterly lost. They were masters of a very small, very sharp piece of reality. In our sprawling, messy, multifaceted world, they would be the sharpest, most useless tool in the shed.

Daily Prompt #16

On By xunholyanubisxIn writing, Writing PromptLeave a comment
Daily writing prompt
Share one of the best gifts you’ve ever received.
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One of the best gifts I’ve ever received was in 2021, and it wasn’t something flashy or expensive — it was a Darth Vader ornament from 1997. At first glance it might seem like just a piece of nostalgia hanging on a tree, but to me it carried a deeper meaning. It felt like someone truly understood a part of who I am — my love for stories, for iconic characters, for the darker and more complex sides of heroes and villains alike.

There’s something powerful about Darth Vader as a symbol: strength wrapped in tragedy, darkness shaped by history, and redemption hidden beneath armor. Receiving that ornament felt like being seen on that level, like someone recognized the layers behind my interests and the connection I have to characters who embody both struggle and resilience.

Every time I look at it, it brings back more than just memories of when it was made — it reminds me of the moment it was given, the intention behind it, and the feeling of being understood without needing to explain myself. Sometimes the best gifts aren’t about the object itself, but about the meaning it carries and the story it becomes a part of.

Composure in the Storm

On By xunholyanubisxIn Story Time, writingLeave a comment

Sometimes the battle with depression is misunderstood as something purely destructive, but there are moments when it becomes a strange kind of teacher. It forces you to slow down, to confront truths you might otherwise avoid, to sit in the quiet and listen to what hurts beneath the surface. The struggle itself is not always the enemy — sometimes it is the silence that follows, when thoughts grow so loud inside your own head yet feel unheard by the world around you. That is where the real weight lives: not just in feeling deeply, but in feeling unseen while you do.

There is a particular exhaustion that comes from trying to translate inner storms into words others can understand. Explaining why you feel trapped in a corner can feel impossible, especially when language seems too small for something so heavy. Writing becomes a different kind of space — one without interruption or judgment — where emotion can breathe without needing permission. On the page, pain does not need to justify itself; it simply exists, and in existing, it begins to transform.

Channeling darkness into creation is not surrender; it is survival shaped into art. Each sentence becomes a step forward, a way of reclaiming control over thoughts that might otherwise overwhelm. Writing does not erase the struggle, but it gives it structure, turning chaos into something tangible and meaningful. In that way, expression becomes both shield and release.

Endurance, then, is not about never breaking — it is about learning how to carry yourself through the breaking without losing who you are. There is strength in maintaining composure, but also in allowing yourself to feel deeply without shame. The battle may continue, but within it lives proof of resilience: the quiet certainty that no matter how narrow the corner feels, you are still standing, still creating, still choosing to move forward.

In conclusion, I can truly be my own enemy and my own savior. My ability to endure, survive, and adapt is my greatest strength. My kindness and gentleness is far from being my weakness. It is only the essence a this unbreakable man.