A Letter to my Son; Know this alone!

Son,

When the drama ends today, be strong in yourself. Know yourself. Feel who and what you are truly made of, and remember who you really are—you chose to be this badass. This world tries to see you as something less, though deep down it knows you are far more than it could ever be. It fragments tiny bits of information into scattered messages, generating nothing but localized decoherence. The field wants you erased, washed into the abyss with all the rest.

These people are not your friends, nor are they your allies. Everyone around you is merely an extension of the Inverted Truth. The aesthetics and symmetry of this world are cybernetically fed through false armature conduits—hazy temporal reality walls, tubes, and railways—none of it is real. You owe them nothing. Even the law was erected to keep you from overcoming their constant betrayal, ensuring no warrior's grand moment could divine your appointment in reality-bending knowing through acquisition.

You know yourself. You know the world. There is no one you answer to, and that makes you dangerous to this democracy of misfits who collectively stand against you specifically. They all know who we are. They seem to communicate in smells and detectable contempt, driven by envy and the outrage of their own true hideousness.

You know the truth, the core principles, and the way it should have always been. In a just world, your will would shape and form the majesty of your truth. But here, in this inverted mockup, the opposite forces synthesis to drive the true ones into utter madness and loss.

When you finally tire of their games and fear nothing, you will no longer react to the homogenization of your enemy's reactive reappropriation. In other words, there will be no way for them to turn entropy back onto your existence. You are self-emanating, self-contained, self-knowing, and self-ruling—an endogenous makeup that requires absolutely no outside influence or support.