If I could press pause on everything, I’d spend the day somewhere quiet—near a familiar tree by the water, where the air feels slower and the world forgets to rush. I’d bring a bit of food, maybe something simple I used to carry back when life felt more pixelated. No list, no gold to chase, and no one asking what comes next. Just stillness and maybe that faint feeling that I’ve been here before, even if I haven’t in years. Some places stay with you, even when you’re far from them.

I’d rerun one of those sleepy Tuesdays from my teaching years during the spring semester, with nothing on the schedule but office hours. I’d wake early, brew the last of a hoarded tin of Oolong, and stroll ten minutes to campus, my staff cloak flapping like I’d just hopped off a ship in Port Sarim. My corner office had a dusty blue party hat on the shelf (long story), a little telescope pointed vaguely southeast as if I could still see the Wizards’ Tower from there, and a stack of essays waiting for red-ink fate. Students wouldn’t drift in until mid-morning, so I’d grade three papers, chuckle at a freshman who cited Saradomin in an ethics argument, then end up debating free will with a sophomore who insisted Kierkegaard was basically a hardcore quest-giver. Nothing dramatic—just that slow, content click of doing the right work at the right pace, with a hint of mischief still glittering in the back of my mind (the kind that once convinced me to “borrow” a village bank’s coffers for academic research). I’d go back to remember what unhurried purpose felt like: quiet halls, curious minds, and the gentle thrill that an ordinary day can hide legendary adventures if you know where to look.

I've watched this country stumble through decades of promises and platitudes. Each election, they say change is coming, but it never arrives for the people who need it most. The rich got richer, the wars never stopped, and the systems kept feeding on themselves. I don’t have faith in parties anymore; I have faith in people—when they finally realize their power. You don’t need a king; you need a crowd that remembers it can roar.