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Once upon a time, I was the CEO of a cloud company. This title didn’t stop me from occasionally fat-fingering the phone and picking up calls meant for the help desk. In good spirits, I did my best to play the role of FSF, the Help Desk guy. I remember one particular day and time vividly: 7:37 AM on a Tuesday. I mispicked a call, and without any introduction, a gentleman bellowed, "Your bloody system doesn't work!" "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. How can I help you?" I replied. He proceeded to tell me that he was the Deputy Director General of [Extremely Redacted] Department. He was trying to use the system our company sold to the government, but it wasn’t working. Clearly, it wasn’t working, as he couldn’t log in. Like a good trooper, I jumped in with the usual let-me-help-you platitudes. “I’m very, very sorry, Mr. Deputy, Deputy General General General dude of some important place. Let’s work through this together. Okay, let me just log in. What’s your login credential? How about I change your password and we’ll try that? Give me a word, and I’ll put that in. We’ll do it together, and then I’ll reset it for you at the end. Let’s see if we can get you into the system.” “No problem,” he said. “I want the password to be personal1.” “Okay,” I confirmed. “Like ‘personal’ and then the numeral 1?” “Yep, yep,” he replied. So, I made an easy backend change to password = Personal1. I logged in, and it worked perfectly. The system fired up. Isn’t that great? I then said, “Mr. Deputy General, General Deputy of whatever important department you’re from, I’ve just tried it. It seemed to work quite well. How about you have a crack? Here’s your login. For now, your password is ‘personal’ followed by the number 1, as you told me, and we’ll go from there.” Click, click, click on the keyboard. “Your bloody system still doesn’t work. It just doesn’t work.” “Oh, okay.” We checked the caps lock and the usual muppetry, like if the power was actually on…. Then I said, “Okay, let’s do it together. We’ll spell it out. I start typing and verbalizing, ‘P-E-R-S-O-N-A-L-1.’” I got to the "P-E-R-S-O" part when the man with the many letters in his title loudly stopped me. “That’s the problem. You’re illiterate!! It’s spelled P-U-R-S-E-A-O-N-L-1.” “Oh, I’m so sorry. Let me check that again.” Back into the backend, I changed it to Purseanol1. “Can you try again, please, Mr. Deputy Deputy General Head of Some Large Department?” “Yep. Oh, it’s logged in. It’s perfect. No problem.” “I’ll send you a link right now so you can reset the password to whatever you’d like. Have a wonderful day.” “Oh, thank you……. And a suggestion to you, Mr. IT Man, …. you youth really must work on your literacy.”………. &nbsp;

The literacy of today’s youth

In the stillness of the afternoon, the cat, white as a page unwritten, watches the final breakdance of the world. There’s no stopping the slow slide forward, no pausing the inevitable march of change. Inside the cocoon, a caterpillar dreams of the air beyond, of the wings it doesn’t yet know it will have. This is the secret: to change with grace, to stay fluid, like water finding its way, curious as the cat’s unblinking eyes. It’s best, I think, to shift before the snap, to bend before the break. But if the breaking comes— and it will— let it be a doorway, a delicate hinge that swings you into the light. There are no shortcuts here. You are nothing but your habits, each one a brushstroke on the canvas of your life. The better the stroke, the clearer the picture, the more vivid the wings you’ll wear. Step by step, you move forward, emerging from the quiet dark, from the self-imposed silence of the cocoon. What do you do when there’s nothing to be done? You do what you can—you grow wings. FSF

Butterfly

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.

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

The literacy of today’s youth

Butterfly

I built a sandcastle and thought it was me.

Waking

The marathon you never ran.

Blame the Challenger