My sister texted me recently.

Just a little check-in.

Light, breezy. The kind of text that says,

“Hey, I care about you... but also, I have time to kill and TikTok’s not hitting.”

She told me my blogs were

King shit.

Her words. Most definitely not mine.

Direct quote.

Naturally, I replied with,

“Stop, you’re making me blush”

But...SHE KEPT GOING.

Full hype-mode.

No brakes.

So I did what any emotionally overwhelmed younger brother does.

I deflected.

“If you had a pet dragon,”

I asked,

“what color would it be?”

No hesitation.

“Purple.”

Regal.

Mysterious.

Queen energy.

The Beyoncé of dragon colors.

Then she got spicy, flipped it on me.

“WHAT ABOUT YOUR DRAGON, DALTON?!”

All caps.

No mercy.

Like I’d forgotten her birthday or borrowed money I never paid back.

I took a breath.

Real slow.

Real deep.

Like I was about to give a TED Talk. Channeling my inner Marcus energy.

You already know where my head went.

How to Train Your Dragon.

Night Fury. Shadow with wings. The light one and the dark one

You feel me?

“Ong I feel you lil bro. Fr fr,”

she said.

“Why black and white? Reminds me of Yin and Yang.”

That’s when it hit me.

You remember my blog A Walk to Remember?

That was the prelude. How a simple text "Yin & Yang" led me all this entire post.

This right here, this is the deeper layer.

The other side of the coin.

The inhale to the exhale.

So now we’re here.

Talking about ancient Chinese cosmology.

Through dragons.

Through siblings.

Through sword fights and satire.

Stick with me.

First: What is Yin and Yang?

Or

Who gives a shit?

Excellent question. Only you can answer that.

Make up your own damn mind.

But here’s what I'm learning:

Yin & Yang 101

Yin is stillness. Moonlight. The “idc” text at 3am that somehow wrecks your whole day. (It shouldn't though) Here's a sound bite from Brian Tracy.

Now, I would say go watch the hours of his material out there if that's you, but I get it. It's sooooo much easier to blame and stay angry. Not that I care, its your happiness, not mine.

Yang is motion. Fire. The guy who double-texts and shows up at your house with a plan and a protein shake. Action.

They’re not enemies.

They’re dance partners.

They flirt, fight, shapeshift, and balance each other out like divorced parents who still co-parent the universe.

The whole point?

You’re both.

We all are.

And when you lean too far into one, the other comes knocking.

Usually during a breakdown or a Mercury retrograde.

Yin and Yang aren’t good vs evil.

That’s too flat.

Too Western.

They’re not enemies.

They’re lovers in disguise.

Rivals on a first-name basis.

They’re the tension before the kiss.

The silence before the storm.

Yin is the pause, the deep breath, the moonlit room.

Yang is the strike, the leap, the sun at full blaze.

One is receptive.

One is assertive.

But get this: each contains the seed of the other.

Getting it?

That’s what the symbol means — the swirl, the black with a white dot, the white with a black dot.

Because nothing’s ever pure.

And everything’s always changing.

Still reading?

Good.

Because now I want to show you what this actually looks like.

Not in a scroll.

Not in a quote.

But in a story.

Yin and Yang: The Princess Bride as a Tale of Sacred Opposites

In a land where giants roam and swords flash under moonlight, The Princess Bride spins more than a fairy tale — it weaves a sacred dance of opposites. This is not just a love story, or a satire. This is a myth cloaked in humor, a Taoist parable dressed in tights and tiaras. It is Yin and Yang on full display — not in abstract philosophy, but in steel, sweat, and softly spoken promises.

We begin in stillness — Yin. A quiet farm. A girl named Buttercup, a boy named Westley. She gives commands, he obeys. “As you wish,” he says, again and again, and something stirs between them. Not passion yet, but potential — the seed of fire within the soil. Yin is the receptive, the waiting — but it holds all possibility. And then, action: Westley leaves, seeking fortune across the sea. Yang awakens. The still becomes motion.

But motion leads to chaos. Westley is taken by the Dread Pirate Roberts. Presumed dead, he vanishes into myth — as Yin often does. Buttercup, left behind, becomes betrothed to Prince Humperdinck — all control, power, calculation. A man made of sharp lines and stiff collars, a Yang force without love, hollow in its assertiveness. He commands armies, builds torture chambers, and schemes for war. He moves the world, but has no soul in it.

Then, from shadow, comes the black-masked stranger. He moves like fire through the forest, outwits, out-duels, out-climbs. He is Yang at its finest — precise, powerful, active. But beneath that mask is not domination — it’s devotion. It’s Westley, reborn not just as a fighter, but as a man who has integrated the storm. He did not become a killer. He became the wind — swift, elusive, but guided by love.

Notice the duel atop the Cliffs of Insanity. Westley faces Inigo Montoya, who lives for vengeance — a Yang obsession, burning bright and rigid. They clash swords, sparks flying. But they both smile. Why? Because their fight is not just battle — it is respect, form, rhythm. The fight is a dance. And in the end, Westley does not kill Inigo. He honors him.

One Yang bows to another, not in defeat, but in unity.

The Fire Swamp is pure Yin — shadowed, foggy, full of unseen dangers. The Rodents of Unusual Size strike from the dark. The flame spouts and quicksand test their patience, their presence. This is not a battle of muscle — it is survival by trust, timing, intuition. And Westley’s strength here is not in his sword, but in his ability to listen. Yin teaches him not to fight the swamp, but to move with it.

Then, Westley is broken — tortured in the Pit of Despair. The mighty Yang force, silenced. Dead, or “mostly dead.” Now, we return fully to Yin. Stillness. Waiting. Humility. Fezzik and Inigo — the brute and the swordsman — carry him like sacred cargo to Miracle Max. And it is in the act of surrender that hope returns. The miracle does not come through war, but through belief. Yin rebirths Yang.

The climax isn’t a blazing final fight. It’s not a slaughter of villains. It’s a bluff — Westley, too weak to stand, threatens Prince Humperdinck with such calm, such still fire, that the tyrant folds. The true victory? Yang power rooted in Yin clarity. Action without ego. Movement without noise.

Buttercup never saves herself through swordplay — but don’t mistake her stillness for weakness. Her devotion to love is her resistance. Her refusal to surrender to Humperdinck is not passivity — it is defiance in the deepest Yin-lith form. She holds the emotional center of the story.

She believes even when it’s foolish. And that belief, invisible, quiet, unwavering..

bends the world.

This is the essence of the Tao: opposites flowing into each other, never static, always shifting.

Westley is not the hero because he fights. He’s the hero because he knows when to fight, and when to wait.

Inigo is not complete until he lets go of revenge.

Buttercup is not powerless — she is the still axis around which the storm turns.

The Princess Bride is more than romance.

It’s a blueprint for harmony.

It’s what happens when sword and silence fall in love.

When will and surrender learn to share the same body.

When dark and light, rage and grace, stop battling, and start dancing.

Or maybe because your sister texted you.

So why am I still reading?

Why are you?

Only you can answer that.

But maybe it’s because

You, too, are looking for your dragon.

Black and white.

Night Fury.

Built from opposites.

Or...

maybe.....

You’re just nosy.

Maybe.....

Judging this makes you feel superior.

Maybe when I said that, it made you

Hold you're breath,

tilt your head,

tense up

Or adjust yourself a slightly.

Exhale.

Or maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe you're not judgmental.

Or maybe, you're sitting there questioning how I just did that.

Maybe it’s easier to roll your eyes than roll with the tension of not having it all figured out.

No no, that can't be it.

I don’t really care.

I’m not here to convert you.

So What’s the Point?

Still not sorry I forgot to text back.

Sister, I was philosophically busy.

But thank you for the inspiration.

For asking about dragons and triggering an existential spiral.

You reminded me that belief is power.

That words matter.

That sometimes, a casual “fr fr” is actually a spiritual awakening in disguise.

Now go bend the world.

With your purple dragon and your savage intuition.

Because somewhere out there,

a man’s about to become a legend

and he doesn’t even know it yet.

You just need to believe.

In him.

Hopefully it's my brother in law.

Lois Lane didn’t lift buildings.

She just believed in a man before he remembered he could fly.

So go be that.

Ong.

Fr fr.

Translator Guide™

“What THE HELL Are They Saying?”

“Ong”

• Gen Z Says: “Ong I’m not even playing rn.”
• Translation: “On God. I am dead serious. No jokes. This is sacred scripture to me.”
• Boomer Equivalent: “I swear to God.”

Spiritual Tone: 6/10 (Used casually to describe memes and existential crises alike.)

“Fr fr”

• Gen Z Says: “That movie changed my life fr fr.”
• Translation: “For real, for real. This is not sarcasm. This is a core memory now.”
• Boomer Equivalent: “No, seriously. I mean it.”

Usage Note: Often follows something emotionally charged, a life-changing burrito, or a devastating breakup.

Oh, and If you're ever confused, respond with:

“That’s wild.”

It works in 94% of conversations.

You're welcome.

I swear to God.

No, seriously, I mean it.