You can’t control your thoughts or fears. You can’t control your actions, so you see a therapist and take their prescribed advice and pharmaceuticals, because you believe without their perspective on you, you’re just a lump of clay in the corner.
No wheel.
No drivetrain.
Waiting for someone to tell you what to do, what to take, what to say, to rewire your brain by example, until you become nothing but a blob, dependent on the hands that shape you.
But your mind is like your skin, full of pores. Whatever touches it, soaks in.
Be careful what you put on it, because what seeps in becomes part of you. Good and bad.
The thoughts, the noise, the media and medicine, the bad advice, all enter the bloodstream of your being.
And be careful of those opinions of others, who use the opinions of others, who used the opinions of failed others, to guide your hand.
This is the problem with society: the weak don’t fight to stand upright. They follow the gravy train of kibble.
They’d rather fly a kite than face the weight of gravity.
But nothing worth anything comes easily.
You can’t wake up and say, “Ice cream for breakfast, cake for lunch.” When even the simplest forms of life know it’s bad.
You have to master your own domain, your body, your mind, your emotions: anger and tenderness, integrity and empathy, envy, jealousy, and hierarchy.
Because the battle isn’t out there.
It’s in you.
In the clay before the wheel turns, in the mind before the thought forms.
Guard what enters.
Shape what remains.
And when you finally take form, let it be by your own hands. For impatience comes at an expense.
When you see the barbed wire, trust your gut and don’t talk yourself out of what it is.
Imagine living a life so empty you spend it listening for a slip, a stutter, a pause, a mispronounced breath from someone you claim to despise without properly vetting.
Waiting for that gotcha moment to post, to prove, to perform your hypocritical outrage for an audience of Pavlov dogs, salivating at the sound of another’s mistake.
Imagine needing someone else’s imperfection to feel your own reflection still matters.
Steel, grease, and human touch, not software updates and warning lights.
If something broke, it was because a bolt stripped or a gasket failed, not because a line of code forgot its purpose.
Back then, a recall meant something mechanical, tangible, a brake line, a seatbelt, a tank that leaked or exploded. You could see the flaw, feel it, fix it with your hands.
The danger was real, but so was the solution. Then came the circuitry.
We traded simplicity for sophistication, and the garage for the update.
Now recalls arrive by the millions, invisible ghosts hidden in the silicon veins of our so-called smart machines.
We were promised progress, and we got recall notices.
Cars that can park themselves, but can’t remember how to stay safe. Engines that whisper in algorithms, but forget the rhythm of combustion.
Every recall is a confession, that our cleverness outran our craftsmanship, that the human touch was more reliable than the human code.
And yet, we still line up for the next model, the next download, the next fix. Because progress, like everything else these days, comes with a warranty and an expiration date.
And so once again, we trade simplicity for complexity, with a side of complication disguised as convenience.
As I approach the midpoint of my life, I find myself trying to balance the pull between machismo and compassion. It’s a quiet fight, but not without passion.
Letting go of the toughness that once defined me as a younger man isn’t easy. The old self resists, clinging to the pride and armor of youth, while the new self whispers of grace and restraint.
Yet, as knowledge and experience accumulate, I realize compassion, just as powerful offers a calmer strength. Forgiveness steadies the waters where pride once stirred them. Maybe that’s why societies have always looked to their elders, they’ve learned that wisdom isn’t loud, and true power isn’t forceful.
Time does not weaken the warrior, it teaches him where the battle truly lies.
I’ve recently had the urge to go to the theater again. My first choice was Frankenstein, but it wasn’t showing anywhere nearby, and the few places that did have it only offered one evening show around 6:30 or 7:30. So I looked up the latest Leonardo DiCaprio film, which also wasn’t playing close by.
Instead, I chose a movie based purely on its poster: Truth in Treason, by a company called Angel Studios. I went in knowing only that it was based on a true story from World War II, a time in history that has always fascinated me.
The film follows a 16-year-old boy in Germany who initially believes in the “motherland prophecy.” A friend secretly gives him an illegal radio, and through BBC broadcasts, his view of Hitler and the war begins to change. He later gets a job as a writer and gains access to banned books locked away in the basement.
Inspired by their ideas, he starts crafting anti-Hitler messages, written in a similar literary style, and types them on small red cards that he and his two friends distribute in mailboxes and on car windshields.
As expected, the authorities soon begin hunting for the author. His writing is so articulate and informed that they assume it must be the work of a university professor. They analyze each typewritten letter, launching a desperate search for the typewriter itself. I’ll leave it there, but it was well done.
It was refreshing to finally see a new film that wasn’t trash. My only complaint, and I realize this is a stylistic choice, is that it’s shot dark with dark tones: browns, tans, and grays. Maybe it’s just age catching up with my eyes, but I found it hard to see at times.
I took my 21-year-old son with me, and he was told me he was tired during the trailers. A dark drama has to be exceptional to keep a tired viewer awake, and this one did. By the end, he told me he really liked the film and told me about the scenes stuck with him.
It’s expensive to go out to the movies these days, and most of the time you leave feeling robbed. Not this time. I felt I got my money’s worth.
What we need more movies like this in today’s film world, more stories like this, well written, well acted, and meaningful. Sometimes having unfamiliar actors in roles helps suspend disbelief and truly sink into the story.
We always had the pop flicks and silly comedies for the teenagers, but at least back in the day, even those were well done.
Somewhere between the paycheck and the bill, a nation exhales. You can almost hear it, the quiet sigh that comes when the math doesn’t work anymore. It’s the sound of exhaustion disguised as normalcy, of people holding up the sky with maxed-out credit cards and second jobs that still don’t pay enough.
It starts with the dollar you earn. Before you even touch it, taxes take their share, federal, state, Social Security, Medicare, leaving you with roughly seventy-five cents on the dollar. Then comes survival: rent, food, gas, insurance, utilities. Every one of them taxed again. By the time you’ve paid for the basics, you’re lucky to have a penny left, and even luckier not to be in debt by the end of the day.
Now, even paying your bills costs money. With auto-pay and online payments, companies charge “convenience fees” for the privilege of paying them, a quiet irony that turns obligation into profit. Every transaction, every necessity, carries its own hidden toll. It’s no wonder so many Americans live in debt, the system is designed to keep it that way.
The pressure today is relentless. Rent, medical insurance, car insurance, groceries, utilities, credit cards, and fuel, each one takes a larger bite out of the average paycheck than the year before. For millions of families, it’s no longer about getting ahead; it’s about keeping the lights on and the balance barely above zero.
Every year, the essentials of life grow more expensive, while pay scales remain frozen in time, lagging behind the real cost of living. Car insurance premiums have jumped by double digits nationwide, groceries have risen over 25% since 2020, and rent in many cities now consumes half or more of a household’s income. Add in medical insurance averaging $1,600 a month for a family, and even a modest lifestyle starts to feel like a luxury.
The cost-of-living crisis isn’t new, but it’s metastasizing. Wages inch forward while inflation, taxes, and corporate margins sprint ahead. Credit card debt just hit a record high, and interest rates ensure it stays there. Families are cutting corners, skipping savings, delaying care, and stretching every dollar until it frays.
And while the working class struggles, the conversation above and below them never changes.
Playing the blame game.
One group’s narrative placing blame on the others instantly without any explanation. Just propaganda.
Meanwhile, every politician enjoys a full ride for life, guaranteed health care, pensions, and perks, all funded by the very taxpayers who can barely afford their own. Somewhere along the line, they forgot who they were supposed to represent.
“They throw pennies at you and take dollars in return,” one economist said of the modern economy, an environment where each minor raise is swallowed by higher premiums, service fees, and taxes disguised as progress. It’s a cycle that rewards compliance, not contribution; endurance, not advancement.
So what is the answer?
Do we have one? Or have we simply accepted this as the price of participation in a system that promises stability but delivers exhaustion?
Perhaps the first step isn’t another patchwork policy or tax credit, but a collective reckoning, a demand that work, dignity, and fairness reconnect.
Until then, Americans will keep working harder to stand still, paying more for less, and wondering how much longer survival can pass for prosperity.
The great irony is that survival has become the new American dream. Not prosperity, not freedom, not even fairness, just survival. The ability to stay one step ahead of collapse.
The absurdity is the USA is still a better place to reside than most countries in the world.
But that doesn’t take away that there is something constantly stirring underneath.
Chu The Cud 