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Constructed by hand, infused with passion, each grain meticulously placed, I sacrificed sunlit hours and sea-kissed moments to build it bigger, grander. People praised the castle, and by extension, me, as if I were the architect of some great monument. Over time, the sandcastle became an extension of me, its turrets and walls blending with my own identity, a sandy limb, an accidental twin. But the inevitable came—forces beyond our control, the indifferent tides and relentless winds. They knocked down the magnificent structure, leaving me weeping on the shore, compelled to rebuild, as if to restore a part of myself washed away. Then, one day, standing over the ruins of yet another failed attempt, I saw it clearly: I am perfectly fine not building another. I am not my sandcastle. I am a magnificent entity on my own, solid and enduring, without need of fragile fortresses. Sandcastles were merely trappings, a pastime for idle hands and restless minds. Those who admired only the sandcastles are gone, their fleeting praise carried off by the breeze. And what is left is me, liberated, standing strong, free of sandy illusions......

I built a sandcastle and thought it was me.

5:20 AM There’s the footy ground, tallest goalposts in the southern hemisphere towering into the dawn. The sun peeks behind the tree line, my right knee creaks— which path today? Mumbling my affirmations, repeating beliefs that feel as solid as the morning mist. Feet moving just faster than comfortable, I sidestep to let a jogger pass— vague nod. Mind keeps drifting— how do I fit it all into today? Who gets disappointed? Which of my carefully balanced balls will fall? A beautiful jacaranda stops me— sunlight tangling in the purple blossoms. I wonder about yet another societal mess I can't control— misanthropic thoughts curl up like cigarette smoke, then I smack my brain back to presence. The path is still clear, free of morning enthusiasts. I am free, just for now, so I spread my arms, embrace the world, breathe in deeply— the eucalyptus tang, the soft crunch of gravel, birds calling out. Life is both good and fucked, but I guess it’s all in the interpretation. A thought pops into my mind, and then another— something about this could make a good poem. I stop, scribble a note in my phone, happy. Pace home quickly— I've got to write it down.

Waking

you walk in, and there they are lined up like medals from battles you never fought. each spine a lie, each title a wink. The Glass Bead Game yeah, right. it’s been there longer than your last job, but hey, it looks good on the shelf. a perfect conversation killer you never actually join. A Gentleman in Moscow, fancy title, fancy font, untouched by human hands. it says, “I appreciate the finer things,” but really, you appreciate looking like you do. Crime and Punishment all punishment, no crime. it sits there like a law degree you never earned. you like to say you’ve “been meaning to read it,” but that’s a lie and you know it. Don Quixote you’d love to tell people you’ve read this. you’d love to pretend you get all the references. but the truth? you barely made it past “windmill.” it just looks good there, like a medal from a marathon you never ran. Moby Dick the whale you claim to have harpooned, but in reality, you bailed at chapter three. and yet, there it sits, a monument to your literary ambitions another empty boast. Ulysses oh, the big one. the heavyweight. you’ve never even cracked the spine, but damn, it feels good to own a copy. you hope no one ever asks you about it. Gravity’s Rainbow you love to drop that title at dinner parties, “oh, I’ve got Gravity’s Rainbow on my shelf.” but here’s the truth: you don’t even know what it’s about. it’s just there for decoration, like a fake plant. The Brothers Karamazov three brothers you’ve never met, and never will. but they’re Russian, so it makes you look deep. you think the sheer weight of it makes people assume you’re smarter than you actually are. and Finnegans Wake don’t make me laugh. you’ve never even opened it. you bought it because it’s the ultimate “look-how-smart-I-am” book. but guess what? no one’s buying it. least of all, you. In Search of Lost Time oh, you found it. it’s right there, next to all the other things you’ll never finish. a monument to time you never had and never will. The Sound and the Fury Faulkner’s masterpiece, and your alibi. you made it through ten pages, but nobody needs to know that. they just need to see it on the shelf. silent and smug. Atlas Shrugged so did you. picked it up, put it down. it’s Ayn Rand’s brick of a book, but the only thing it’s holding up is your delusion that you’ll ever read it. and Infinite Jest the final joke, the one that’s on you. you keep saying you’re “working on it.” sure you are it’s been sitting there for years, unfinished, untouched. just another trophy for a game you never played. so why keep them? to show off, to bluff, to fool anyone who steps into your room. they’re not books, they’re props in a play you’re too lazy to star in. and deep down, you know they’re laughing at you. and the punchline? it’s you, pretending you earned them.FSF &nbsp;

The marathon you never ran.

In the café’s warm hum, Jess stirred her brew,Eyes sharp as daggers, her anger still true.Across sat Soren, calm as a breeze,Navigating her storm with practiced ease. Jess:“Elon Musk! Ugh, I can’t stand his face.A narcissist wrecking this entire place.His rockets, his cars—it’s grotesque and obscene,He’s literally why things have turned so mean.” Soren:“That’s quite the charge—he’s ruined it all?One man responsible for society’s fall?” Jess:“Not all of it, but he’s made it worse.With his billions, flaunting power like a curse!And don’t get me started on those stupid rockets.SpaceX is just him stuffing cash in his pockets!” Soren:“Attribution bias, Jess—you leap to that,Pinning the world’s woes on his wallet fat.Sure, he’s flawed, sure, he’s loud,But all this destruction? Isn’t that a bit proud?” Jess:“Oh, c’mon, I saw it on YouTube—he’s fake.All that money was handed to him, for heaven’s sake!He didn’t earn his fortune, it’s clear as day.The guy’s a leech, always finding a way.” Soren:“So you trust YouTube for your source of truth?Is that where we measure a billionaire’s youth?Sounds like you’re buying into the halo effect,Where anything bad just sticks with no respect.” Jess:“Don’t get smart with me! Look at Twitter—er, X.He bought it and turned it into a wreck.Now it's a cesspool, worse than before.How can you defend that? It’s rotten to the core.” Soren:"Scapegoating, I think, is at play.Twitter wasn’t a paradise back in the day.But sure, he made moves that feel too rough—Yet blaming him for all that’s wrong? Isn’t that enough?” Jess:“He fired half the staff with no regard!How can you not see that as reckless, hard?Why should I care about his ‘nuanced' ways?People lost their jobs—what more can I say?” Soren:“That’s outcome bias—you're judging the result,Without weighing the reason or where it’s at fault.It’s brutal, yes, but was Twitter fine?Or was it already on a steep decline?” Jess:“Why even bother? People suffered, they lost!It’s greed, it’s power, and they paid the cost.I don’t need to ‘debate’ or look for grey—He’s reckless and ruthless, that’s all I can say.” Soren:“Ah, black-and-white thinking strikes again.Life’s not so clean, Jess, now and then.Dismissing nuance, it’s an easy path—But don’t you find it cuts the depth in half?” Jess:“Here we go—you’re saying I’m too emotional now?That my argument's weak, that I’m taking a bow?You’re defending him because, let’s be real,You think Musk is a hero of steel.” Soren:“Well, confirmation bias—you see what you want,You hear my words and think I’m on his jaunt.But challenging your view isn’t the sameAs hoisting Musk up in some golden frame.” Jess:“Alright, fine! But what about AI?The guy’s reckless—he’s going to fryEverything with that tech—it’s out of control!How can you sit there, so calm, so whole?” Soren:“Funny thing, that—he’s warned of AI’s risk,Cognitive dissonance, now that’s a twist.He builds it, fears it—so what’s your take?Does it still fit your ‘reckless Musk’ mistake?” Jess:“Oh please, it’s all a billionaire’s con.Build the fire, then cry, ‘What’s gone wrong?’Classic move—create the mess,Then act like you’re part of the fix, I guess.” Soren:“Or maybe he’s human, like the rest,Doing some good, making some mess.It’s fundamental attribution error, clear as day -You blame his motives, come what may.” Jess:(throwing her hands up)“You always do this! You grey what’s black!Can’t I just hate him without your attack?” Soren:“You can, Jess, but where’s the thrill in that?Intellectual laziness? Where’s the combat?It’s more fun when we wrestle the grey,Rather than hate and call it a day.” And so they sat, the café lights dimmed,Jess still fuming, her coffee untouched, brimmed.Soren, amused, sipped his drink with grace,Leaving biases floating, still in their place.

Blame the Challenger

&nbsp;Silas Mitty was forty, but you’d swear he was still grappling with adolescence, prowling through the office like he had something to prove. His hair thinned like grass in a drought, his posture forever braced as if expecting a sucker punch. The office was his kingdom, and like all kingdoms, it was under siege. The enemy? His own employees. It wasn’t that they were incompetent. Quite the opposite. They were too competent. Every new idea, every moment someone looked comfortable in their ergonomic chair, Silas could feel the panic rise. God forbid they realised how replaceable he truly was. He couldn’t have that. So, he devised a masterstroke—The Hundred Ideas Feedback Campaign. Every Monday, like clockwork, an email would arrive: “Open feedback session this afternoon. All ideas welcome. Bring your suggestions for improving the company.” He’d end it with, "Let's bloom!" It was a cheerful, almost naive touch—flowers, after all, seemed like an apt metaphor. Mao had his flowers. Mao also had his purge. Silas sat behind his desk like a farmer watching for a dust storm. The first idiot to offer a suggestion would be the first to go. He played nice initially, asking for more detail, nodding like he was on the verge of some great epiphany. But in reality, each suggestion, each spark of competence, only clarified his next move—how to eliminate the threat. Take Sarah from accounting. Poor thing. She suggested streamlining the quarterly reports to save time. Efficient, smart—but to Silas, it was an act of war. Sarah was good, too good. The way she threw around terms like “Deferred Tax Liability” and “EBITA” made Silas itch. The next day, she found herself buried in impossible tasks: an email at 2 a.m., “URGENT: Please reformat all 700 expense reports before tomorrow’s meeting.” She lasted three more days. Then there was Pete. Young, handsome Pete, with his talk of digital transformation and cloud storage. Pete could have been on the cover of a magazine titled “Successful and Barely Trying.” That irritated Silas to his core. Worse still, Pete’s ideas weren’t bad. So Silas struck. At the next meeting, he pulled Pete aside, “Mate, I appreciate the feedback. Let’s discuss it in detail next week with the leadership team.” By “leadership team,” he meant no one. Pete spent three hours waiting in an empty conference room for a meeting that didn’t exist. Silas passed by, chuckling to himself. “Great idea, Pete, let’s see you cloud that, mate.” These were Silas’s small victories, his grip on power tightening with every downfall. He treated talent like a butcher with a fresh carcass—cut away the strong bits, feed the scraps to the weaker ones, keep everyone just hungry enough. The office wasn’t a hive; it was a slaughterhouse. And they all thought it was teamwork. “Silas really listens to us,” they’d say, oblivious. He’d smile, knowing they were walking straight into the woodchipper. But Silas wasn’t delusional. He knew his own limitations. His suit—always a little too big—made him look like a scarecrow on a diet. His voice could make a motivational poster weep. He couldn’t actually do anything, not really. That’s why he crushed those who could. Every morning, he’d stand by the window, staring out at the Brisbane skyline. To others, it looked like contemplation. In truth, he was thinking of cattle. “You have to cull the herd before it starts thinking it can run the farm,” his uncle used to say. The office was his herd. Fatten some, starve others, but always remind them who held the knife. Today, it was Gary’s turn. Gary, with his slick PowerPoints and smug confidence. Silas had had enough. He walked over to Gary’s desk, “Mate, I need you to write up that big presentation for the board next week. Make it... thorough.” Gary, eager as a pup, nodded enthusiastically, “You got it, Silas!” Gary retreated to his desk, typing away like a calf skipping to the butcher. Silas took a sip of his coffee—cold, bitter, like licking a battery. Perfect. Across the room, Gary hunched over his laptop, oblivious. Silas sighed. Gary had potential, which was precisely the problem. Silas shuffled back to his office, knees creaking like an old barn door. He sank into his chair, which let out a soft groan. “Another day, another soul to ruin,” he muttered, scrolling through his inbox. His weapon of choice was there—drafts. Passive-aggressive sabotage at its finest: &nbsp; "Just a thought, but maybe you’re not cut out for this." &nbsp; "Perhaps reconsider your career trajectory? Let’s reassess your role—don’t take it personally." People thought they were being guided, mentored even. When really, Silas was a dingo among sheep, sharpening his teeth. A ping. Gary’s draft had arrived. Silas opened it, his lip curling. Of course, it was immaculate. Bullet points lined up like soldiers, data precise, presentation slick. He hit ‘reply all staff’ without flinching: Hi team, I just received this draft from Gary. I was expecting more... depth? More vision? Thoughts? And, for the final touch, a smiley face emoji. Nothing says “I’m about to ruin you” quite like a cheery little grin. He leaned back, waiting for the ripple to start. Feedback would flow, disappointment implied, knives sharpened. In an office with no tigers or crocs, the kill still had to happen. And today, Gary was the gazelle. By the end of the month, Gary would be toast. It always played out the same. The whispers would start, eyes would shift, emails grow colder. By the end, Gary would realise he was on the menu. Silas passed by Gary’s desk, still typing with that hopeful gleam. Silas cringed. Hope was an endangered species here. “Hey mate, got your draft. Good start. Maybe add a bit more... oomph, yeah? Don’t want the board thinking we’re playing it safe.” Silas thought to himself, 'Not that it would make a difference. The board couldn't care less, but Gary doesn't need to know that.' Gary beamed. “Sure thing, Silas. More oomph.” Oomph wouldn’t save him. The more he struggled, the deeper he’d sink. The next morning, Silas arrived early, just in time to watch Gary get called into the conference room. The confusion, the panic on his face—priceless. “...concerns about your approach...” “...not what we were hoping for...” By the following Friday, Gary’s resignation email appeared, just as Silas expected. “Pursuing new opportunities.” Translation: jumping ship before being thrown overboard. Another one down. Later, in the break room, Silas overheard the juniors whispering. “Did you hear about Gary? Out of nowhere, right?” “Yeah, guess he couldn’t hack it. You gotta be careful here.” Silas grabbed his coffee mug—“Teamwork Makes the Dream Work.” He chuckled. Teamwork, indeed. The jungle only had room for one lion. And as long as Silas was around, he’d be the last one holding the knife. He took a sip, the bitterness washing over him. Victory always tasted best when you were the last one left standing.

The Art of War

It's a great generalization to know boarders weren’t meant to be very bright, apparently. We played football, and could hit a ball hard, but most of us pretty much knew the odds of a poker hand. We knew the likelihood of the next card coming down in a 21 or blackjack. Why? Because gambling was rife in the boarding house. We even had our own gambling den, which was quite spectacular until it got busted by Stinger in our final year of boarding. Anyhow, the most interesting story in my gambling career at boarding school was my exposure to this fella from the North East, or rather, middle Asia. His father had a lot of money and maybe participated in some, I don’t know, interesting activities. He used to send his son hundreds of thousands of dollars every month to basically go to the races or take them to West Point Casino, which was less than 400 meters away from the boarding house. I remember this one fine day—or night, rather. Let’s call him Joseph Tau. Joseph took me and a group of others, and we snuck out of the boarding house about 1 AM. For some reason, I remember the jumper I was wearing was one I’d borrowed from this guy Raj. It had this red covering with strange little patterns—certainly the sort of thing that brings attention to you because it was so ridiculous. I was all of 5 foot 6, 64 kilos, and looked closer to 12 than 18. Now, I’m 15, going to a casino. We had a few other boys, led by Joseph. Even though we were in grade 10, he was maybe already 18 or 19, maybe even 20. Who knows. But a lot older than us. We get there, and he hands us a brick each. So I get a brick of cash. He basically points me to one of the larger blackjack tables, and I take one of the middle seats. Here I am, 15, and somehow the security back in those days didn’t seem to worry about it. Let me repeat: I was pretty small. Anyhow, I’m sitting at the table with a lot of chips. If you’ve ever heard of the term hot hands, well, this night I had the devil’s hands. I tell you, I was on fire. No matter what I threw down, it came out. Chips were piling up, and the table was surrounded by people because I was lucky. People started betting over the top of me. It wasn’t just me; there were two others at the table, these two Asian guys, and they were winning and winning. Then I heard the voice. It was like when God first let light into the universe: "Let there be light!" And this arm leans over, betting on my cards. This voice from behind—I knew it could be only one person. Only one person I’d ever known had a voice that deep. It was Mr. Horton, the chemistry teacher from the school. Mr. Horton was a very tall man with fiery red hair and a fiery red beard. I could hear that voice directly behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the red. And I’m like, Oh no but in much less polite terms. So I’m staring straight ahead. You got to remember, at this stage, I’m 15. I’ve got maybe $27,000 worth of chips in front of me. I’ve been gambling; there are people around me. Standing behind me is the school chemistry teacher. If he realizes it’s me, I’m so, so expelled. I’d have to explain to my parents I’d been possibly laundering money at the West Point Casino at the age of 15. Anyhow, a few hands pass. The towering teacher was placing secondary bets on my hands, literally leaning over his shoulder to place chips. Then I notice the red-haired hand grab his pile of chips and stand up and walk away. I wait maybe 10 or 15 minutes, then cash in my winnings. I sneak back into the boarding house at 4:45 in the morning. I think I finally fell asleep, ready for the 6 AM bell. A successful night out on the town. This was the first day I realised my Super Power, I am lucky, the greatest super power of them all.

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

I built a sandcastle and thought it was me.

Waking

The marathon you never ran.

Blame the Challenger

The Art of War

The odds of a Poker Hand