The Mind of Mr. Mak

what really is the struggle? coach sets the play in the huddle, but i offer rebuttal — ’cause you don’t know about the muscle when ambition touches the hustle. you and i both struggle, and you know damn well we know about the hustle. struggle is struggle, regardless of circumstance, but i still picture my art next to the mona lisa in france. that vision makes circumstance irrelevant. we know what living in hell looks like — an endless loop. i created multiple exits. i remain with the flame. i look ahead of the pain. pedal to the metal on the road to the riches. — Mr. Mak

time and time again i’ve fallen flat on my face. time and time again i’ve picked myself up. no applause. no rescue. no rewrite. just me and the ground that’s learned my name. fuck dependency. my efficiency is in my resiliency. — Mr. Mak

i’m trying to understand this and my brain doesn’t like it. because if outcomes aren’t proof, then what is? my parents bought houses. rates went up. they lost money. i called it stupid. but now i’m reading this and it’s saying maybe it wasn’t stupidity. maybe it was risk meeting bad timing. and i hate that idea. because that means you can do something reasonable and still lose. that means effort isn’t a guarantee. that means the world isn’t clean. i always thought if you’re smart enough disciplined enough aware enough you win. but what if you just increase your odds? what if you can’t eliminate randomness? what if i’ve been judging outcomes like they’re moral verdicts? and if that’s true— what happens when i lose? am i stupid? or just exposed? what happens when i win? am i brilliant? or just aligned with the wind? risk is chosen. luck is not. but once you choose risk, you invite luck to the table. and that’s what’s messing wi...

i  don’t picture my life moving forward. i see it ending first. the moment everything i carried finally makes sense to someone else. hands that look like mine holding my name like it weighs something. worth. the room is quiet now. no applause left to impress. no witnesses left to convince. just evidence. then the film rewinds. chairs slide back under tables. rooms that once clapped empty themselves. i walk backward through years where vision outpaced income and belief had to cover the gap. i watch myself choose the long road before it looked noble. watch myself disappoint people who only loved me when i was smaller. the rewind slows. nights pass where nothing changes externally, but something sets internally— structure. posture. spine. change isn’t loud. it never was. it’s a slow burn. the residue of visions passed down by minds who never met but spoke the same language across centuries. they saw further than their era and paid for it in isolation. that’s the lineage i recognize. n...