(Don't care if it's cringe. Hail and kill m*ther fuckers)

It's interesting working alone. You have the ultimate power over a project riddled with infinite possibility. You can make lateral moves on the drop of a dime restructuring the entire course of your project. You can decide on a whim to scratch your entire design paradigm and migrate to pure randomization.

You're also prone to supreme fits of dumb f*ckery and poor practice unique to your insignificant island.

I just stumbled across the logic of "transform.root", which gives the topmost gameobject, incredibly useful for finding core components and restructuring your assets through script. I've been doing recursive if(transform.parent) type BS. Silly work arounds and so many problems i've run into over the years because I didn't know this one little thing. How many other huge workflow improvements could I implement? No point stewing on these things. It doesn't matter. Fancy tools? A designer toolbelt? A craftsmen cares not for these tivial bullshits. Calloused hands and hard earned wisdom, that's what builds splendorous works. 

Dive deep into your code, break your mind against frustrating complexities. Smash yourself against the debug logs, the error messages,  the bugs, the edge cases endlessly. Some day all those fancy nothings you desired to master will fade away, mere illusion and you will see clearly the core: hard work, repetition, pain tolerance, patience, mastery.

When you were young, maybe you wanted to grow up to be a writer, you fantasize about knowing all the big words, to flex your vocabulary and show to the world your massive diction.

Words are hollow, mantles are empty, our industries are husks. Do you have something to say? Are you compelled to fight against the madness? Do you believe in something? And does that passion burn with rage? Do you have the fire that presses you against the crushing wheels through the pain to grind , grind grind? That's the truth none dare gaze upon: that competency, talent, and glory are hidden behind years of untold failures, regrets and shame, often snuffed by the conniving and the weak. It's not comforting to know how the SeaCrit sauce is made, to know you the price of authenticity. 

We are the montage, we are the bits of the story fast forwarded to get to the good bits. Few can relate to the grind, the main chapters of the story are skimmed. Let's avert our gaze from the laden bodies that are broken so that we may enjoy the coosh comforts of their fruits.

We want to be renown writers, renown game maker. We want the toys, we want the glory, but woe be unto us should we ever seize it, to find our white whale, for we will not be prepared for the reckoning. 

You need the fire, you need something burning within that catapults you out the window. You need something raw clawing its way out out. Great works are not coaxed from incessant wants, selfish indulgences. They radiate from the rage against the dying of the light, a burning desire to set things to right, to cast off the horse sh*t raining from above. The time has come to be reckless, to be brash, to gather years of strength from laboring in the pits to hoist the harpoon and cut through the thickening pulp of the coddled mass. 

There is no value that is not earned. There is no prosperity that is not fostered. All is hollow, all is mantle, all are kings flaunting their prestigious nothing. The time has come to dev again, to fight again, to believe that what we do can sound through the halls, can matter. It must matter. Into the spinning wheels again, and again, and again...

What to work on? Torn between building up the levels more and adding more NPC armor mechanics. It doesn't matter, so just gearing up to get to whatever soon. The SeaCrit grows restless...