I fight the urge to post things that do not correlate to the development of SeaCrit. It's not safe, it's not prudent, it's weird. Don't be weird, don't rock the boat. Brush the right elbows, put out the generic press kit. Smile, Nod.

What do opinions matter if they're maligned and mundane? What purpose is this song and dance in this stupefied side-show?  Align yourself with the safest bet: tell your white lies for the back scratchers, scratch the liar's back, break bread with the endless waves of do-nothing schmoozers. A silly game of house. Hand puppets muttering sterile, preapproved blathers for the chance to sacrifice themselves to the meat grinder, in the hopes of rebirthing long dead nostalgias.

...It's all so f*cked. 

So be it, I'll be the disgruntled monkey smashing the typewriter in the dark recesses, rolling the dice that some day the excressions of these keys can stunt the ever-encroaching malaise. What else is new!? I have no backing, no line of sight to the finish, no safety net, no basic cush comforts afforded the average ape in its cage. But this I do have: the freedom to butcher as I see fit, no crushing weight suppressing developmental spasms.

It's maddening to fixate the odds, does no good, but one can't help themselves. This gamble MUST break through. This sacrifice MUST not be for naught!  But reality asserts itself, all will be squandered, you WILL lose, swallowed in the endless seas of the nothings or a catalyst for scorn in the rabid machine. There is a melancholy glimmer as the blood spray swirls to grey and the rats bustle. 

All we have is to scavenge our best chances in this race to the bottom, to push ourselves to our limits with ambitions hobbled. Pray when failure finds us a gasping dignity can be heard over the uneven grindings. 

We nurture our creations, as they spawn into an unjust world. We fortify them with hard earned wisdoms so they might not suffer harsh paths endured, we feed them hopes and dreams so they grow healthy with purpose, so as our fires diminish we might catch a flicker as we fade to black. 

But some day our efforts will be abandoned, they will have only their own devices as they are set upon by the machines of madness. Will our futures be snatched by fang and claw? Ravaged by the blood crazed stalking about? Or will they be reunited in slow, drawn suffering in dark?

Perhaps we meet fortune when right place intersects right time. Maybe we catch the eye of those with matching, foolhardy ambition as we sound through the mad chambers, our works burning so bright as to cinder through in flashes of wildfire. Or are we caste to this cave eternal? Riddled by delusion in an impossible struggle, comatose to an infinite loop of awkward failing. If these modest prints are ever seen, are they merely judged? 

Are these dwindled strands of hope lifeline or noose? 

Pandora's box: Extremes, uncertain. Should these rambles drop eternal to the dark depths, all memory of these rambles will be inconsequential blots in memory, a blemish in an infinite nothing. But what can be made of that nothing if one can endure? If we're able to lean into the machine just a bit longer and reformat these disjointed allocations?

If you recalibrate your perspective, if you sweat day after day, bleed week after week, and persevere year after year through what anyone else would consider endless failings and dead ends, weaknesses can be inverted. 

There is no misfortune, there is no suffering, only a building redemption. 

Hope and stubbornness. That's what has been hobbled in this cave. Through all the madness, through all the hardship, I'm still neckbearding my @ss off to push something of value out dis' sumb@tch. Outrageous fortunes be damned! 

I have long internalized that the shortcomings that compel us to chase the white whale will never qualm, success will only bring new ridicules and judgements from those who know only the low hanging fruits of the path easily traveled, comfortably rocking to the madness. But the glimmers dancing at the shoreline, framed through the maw of the cave still beckon through the burnout. The SeaCrit remains safe, down in the dark and deep.

Here's something to ruminate on: how THE S#{T DID SUCH GOD DAMNED GOOD MUSIC COME FROM ROB SCHNIDER'S B@LLSACK?

We've got ambitions, we've got fuel in the tank, we've got coffee, we've got our health and we've got a game that's fast not becoming dicklet dog droppings.  Nothing more more you can ask for in gamedev.  LFG, OMGWTFBBQB.