You ever ask for a hand, then turn it down when it comes?
Worse yet, you don’t even ask yourself why.
Others sense it:
Are you worried? Fearing? Undeserving? Too prideful?
In 99% of circumstances, that’s probably true.
In my case?
You look down.
Great.
More shit.
I’m realizing I just wasn’t done wiping my ass.
Literally me for the last 2 months:
(1:12-1:31)
Crazy how that works.
So... have you ever turned down help?
Use your discernment:
- Has this person betrayed you before?
- What does your gut say?
And If you trust the helping hand and still turn it down....?
Congratulation's, you just fell back into an old cycle.
With TP in hand, first wipes on me.
The Story of the Young Man
There once was a young man.
Not weak.
Not stupid.
Just a man who believed love was enough.
He had heart. He had vision.
He said to a woman,
“I want to build a life with you.”
And he meant it. Every syllable. Every breath.
He listened when she spoke.
He softened when she cried.
He made space, even when it hollowed him out.
He held her storms, even when it drowned him.
But somewhere in that sacrifice...
He disappeared.
He gave all his love, but left none for himself.
And when it was his turn to be held,
He wouldn't accept it.
She betrayed him.
And the young man,
noble fool he was,
Did what good men do: Took responsibility.
Looked in the mirror and said:
“This must be my fault. I must have failed.”
So he went back and asked to try again.
Same face.
Same name.
Same damn dream.
Again, betrayal.
Again, heartbreak.
Again, the lie of responsibility.
Three times.
Four times.
Same cycle.
Same ending.
Covering a window in the lighthouse at each turn.
You're wired to neglect yourself through the system.
Taking responsibility is not working harder.
Taking responsibility is putting yourself first.
Learning to walk away from love is one thing.
Learning to accept new love is another.
Instead,
He killed the boy.
Not out of cruelty.
Not out of hate.
Out of necessity.
Because the boy was soft.
The boy believed in love.
The boy cried when it hurt.
The boy waited. Hoped. Trusted.
And every time he did, he was broken.
So the young man made a decision.
A quiet one.
Somewhere between the last betrayal and the next sleepless night.
He didn’t scream it.
He didn’t post about it.
He just... shut off the light.
When the smoke cleared,
He looked in the mirror and told himself:
"The boy was weak.
He had to die.
Now the man is born."
On the surface, it was true.
He became colder.
Sharper.
Untouchable.
He got results.
Respect.
Sex.
Silence.
People stopped messing with him.
Women leaned in.
Men leaned back.
But there was one thing he couldn’t admit:
He missed the light.
The softness.
The wonder.
The soul of him that still believed.
In beauty. In magic. In truth.
He told himself that light was weakness.
But the truth?
That light was his essence.
The boy wasn’t weak.
He was innocent.
He was whole.
He was honest.
What was weak was the belief that being real meant being destroyed entirely.
What was weak was abandoning himself so others wouldn’t.
The Cost of Burying the Boy
He stops by himself, only with others.
He stops crying.
He just… takes up space.
Walking shadow.
Functioning ghost.
Dying, one silent day at a time.
He wins, but never celebrates.
Feels the sun on his face, but no warmth in his bones.
Stares at beauty, but it doesn’t move him.
The world didn’t go dark.
He did.
Love touches his shoulder, and he flinches.
Trust knocks, and he bolts the door.
Intimacy dares to come close, he cracks a joke.
Because it’s easier to laugh
than to let her see that he’s still in there,
under all the ash.
When the Armor Cracks
One night, it hits.
Not like thunder—more like an echo.
He see's himself.
Not sexy.
Not flashy.
Just weathered fingers interlocked,
in a silence that spoke everything.
And for a moment,
he weeps inside his own chest.
Not out loud. Not yet.
But it stirs.
That ancient ache.
The boy he buried…
Still wants to be loved.
Still believes it’s possible.
The Fire to Become a King
You say king like it’s a crown.
But a real king doesn’t wear gold.
He wears scars.
He wears grief.
He wears responsibility for the light and the shadow.
To become that?
The whole mask must burn.
Every performative flex.
Every carefully crafted stoic line.
Every seductive whisper that says, “You’re safer alone.”
Burn it.
Not for the crowd.
Not for the woman.
For the boy.
Because kings don’t kill their innocence.
They protect it.
They build thrones where wonder still lives.
But to sit on that throne,
You have to get real about one thing:
The Shit—The Final Metaphor
You have to wipe.
Wipe away the pain.
The bullshit.
The performative masculinity.
The pride.
The coping mechanisms that stink of survival.
Layers and Layers and Layers
Years.
Thick, crusted delusion.
And as Chris Pratt so eloquently put it:
“I’ll wipe, and I’ll wipe, and I’ll wipe...”
Still poop.
But here’s the kicker:
That’s the work.
That’s the path.
That’s the price.
The Return: Reclaiming the Boy and the Man
So he wipes.
And wipes.
And wipes.
Layer after layer of pride, projection, and performance.
False flexes.
Old betrayals.
Childhood echoes.
Pain he thought he outran.
Shame he thought he buried.
All of it—scraped raw.
He wipes until there’s nothing left but… him.
The truth.
The silence that doesn’t feel empty—just still.
And in that stillness?
He hears a sound he hasn’t heard in years.
Laughter.
His own.
Not the laugh he used to deflect.
Not the one he gave to make others feel safe.
The real laugh.
The boy’s laugh.
The one that came before the world taught him he had to earn love.
Before he learned softness gets punished.
Before heartbreak turned him into stone.
And in that laugh, he realizes:
He was never supposed to kill the boy.
He was supposed to raise him.
Because the boy knew how to feel.
The man knows how to choose.
The boy had wonder.
The man brings wisdom.
The boy loved openly.
The man loves with boundaries.
Together?
They are unstoppable.
Together?
They become the king.
Not the tyrant.
Not the boy-pretending-to-be-a-man.
Not the man-hiding-his-heart-behind-control.
A king.
One who rules from wholeness, not fear.
Because a real king protects his kingdom—
But he also protects his inner child.
The part of him that still wants to dance.
Still wants to love.
Still believes in magic.
Still reaches out a hand...
Even after it’s been slapped away.
Wait, Is this the Father and the Son?
You bet your fucking ass it is.
You’re not praying to two different gods.
You’re praying to a relationship.
The king within.
A lineage.
A becoming.
The Son is who you were.
Raw. Open. Innocent. Hurting.
Still learning. Still trusting. Still hoping someone would come save you.
The Father?
That’s who you’re becoming.
Not just older.
Not just stronger.
Wiser. Safer. Still.
The one who can hold space instead of taking it.
The one who no longer seeks the hand—because he is the hand.
So when you say,
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son...”
You’re not invoking some divine hierarchy in the clouds.
You’re calling on a sacred pattern built into your very soul:
- The son seeks.
- The father holds.
- The son feels.
- The father guides.
- The son is vulnerable.
- The father brings structure.
Together, they form a wholeness.
Not perfection.
Integration.
Jesus was Karl Jung before Karl Jung was was cool.
But, our dialect changes over time, and with it, the message.
That prayer isn’t outside of you.
It’s inside you.
It always has been.
Every time you broke and didn’t quit—
Every time you felt too much but didn’t numb out—
Every time you stood in the fire and chose love again—
You were praying.
You were becoming.
The Father guiding you.
The Son rising in you.
So Now What?
He’s done wiping.
Not because it’s over.
But because he’s finally clean enough
to sit with himself—fully.
And from that place?
He builds.
He doesn’t beg for love—he offers it.
He doesn’t prove his worth—he embodies it.
He doesn’t protect his heart by locking it away—he guards it by using it wisely.
And if he ever needs help again?
He asks.
And accepts.
Not because he’s weak.
But because he knows—
No king rules alone.
And no man becomes whole without first wiping away the shit.
So here’s your throne.
Worn. Weathered. Waiting.
The boy walks beside you.
The man walks within you.
Now go rule—with spine and soul.
Sword in one hand.
Charmin Ultra Soft in the other.
You’ve earned it.
All of it.
Every. Last. Wipe.