Well, here we are. I set out to build this so-called "new world"—a world of my design, one that I crafted meticulously, full of all the perfect elements: ambition, strategy, control. It was supposed to be revolutionary. I was going to be the architect of it all. I told myself it would be something great, something groundbreaking—a masterpiece of strategy, willpower, and pure intellect. The kind of world that would make people sit up and pay attention. I was convinced it was my time to shine.

I crafted my plan carefully, constructed it like a fine blueprint, an intricate masterpiece—paths paved with the right decisions, the perfect timing. I had every detail covered. I was a man with a vision, the kind of vision that separates the dreamers from the doers. Optimism? Check. Confidence? Check. A foolproof plan that seemed impossible to fail. After all, I’m the one who made the map. I dictated the terms. It was all laid out—clear goals, a straightforward trajectory, and nothing could possibly go wrong. Or so I thought.

But then reality happened.

You see, there's a fantasy you tell yourself when you create something new. You believe that all your hard work, your preparation, your grand strategy will lead you to a world of success. It’s the kind of world where everything falls into place because you make it fall into place. You work hard, you build, and eventually, the world bends to your will. But the truth? The brutal, ugly truth is that the world doesn’t give a damn about your plans. It doesn’t care about your meticulously crafted roadmap. It doesn’t follow your rules. No matter how many times you convince yourself that this time will be different, the truth remains that you can’t control the world. You can’t control the people, the circumstances, the timing. You can only control your response when things inevitably fall apart.

And fall apart they did.

The first step into this "new world" was filled with all the promises of success, all the grand ideas of what would come. I walked in with confidence, sure that I had everything figured out. The world was going to see me succeed, and I was ready for it. But no sooner had I set foot on this path than I began to feel the first hints of doubt creeping in. Not in the plans I had made, but in the feeling that something was off. This wasn’t going to be the neat, controlled adventure I had imagined. This was the beginning of the end, the moment where the illusion I had created would start to unravel.

And that’s the moment where you start to really understand: the more you plan, the more you create, the further away you get from your original vision. It’s like chasing a mirage in the desert—no matter how far you run, the closer you get, the farther it seems to move. I had thought I was walking in a straight line, but I was already lost, only I didn’t know it yet. I thought the trees were just trees, the road just a road. But every turn revealed a new obstacle, a new complication, a new problem. The more I tried to move forward, the more everything seemed to blur and fade into something unrecognizable. The horizon that once looked promising became a cruel joke. Every plan, every move, every assumption I had made—it all started crumbling, and the world I had built was slipping away.

The bitterness started to seep in then. And I’m not talking about the kind of bitterness that comes from a small setback or a mistake. I’m talking about the kind of anger that hits you in your gut when you realize you’ve been lying to yourself. That’s when it hit me—I had spent so long telling myself that this plan would work, that this was the future, that this was the right path. But when the first hurdle came, when things didn’t go according to plan, I was left standing there, empty-handed, surrounded by the rubble of what I had built.

And that’s when the anger really started to settle in. Anger at the world, at the circumstances, sure. But the real anger was at myself. At the fact that I had convinced myself that this would work. That I could control everything. That my vision, my map, my perfect plan would succeed, no matter what. The world had no obligation to bend to my will. No, it had only one thing to offer me: failure. And when that failure came, it came with a harsh, unforgiving reality.

I was lost, and I had no idea how to find my way out.

But here’s the kicker: it wasn’t the being lost that bothered me the most—it was the realization that I was the one who had put myself here. I had built this world. I had made the plans. I had laid the foundation. And when the foundation crumbled, there was no one else to blame but me. The anger that had begun as frustration turned into something more dangerous—something more raw. This wasn’t just about failing. This was about owning that failure and facing the bitter truth: I had created this mess. I had failed, and no amount of pretending could change that.

And yeah, I cried. I cried more than I’d like to admit. Hell, I still cry sometimes when I’m sitting alone, reflecting on how everything I worked for seemed to vanish in an instant. But here’s the thing—crying doesn’t mean you’ve lost. It doesn’t mean you’re done. It’s just a moment. Just a part of the process. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. The tears don’t define me. What I do with them does.

I turn them into energy. And it doesn’t always have to be positive energy either. I’m not out here pretending that every failure is a lesson, that every setback is just a chance to grow. Sometimes, it’s a bitter, seething anger that drives me. Sometimes, it’s the frustration that pushes me to prove everyone wrong—prove the naysayers, prove the critics, prove myself wrong. Because the truth is, when things don’t go as planned, and you’re left standing in the rubble, it’s not the tears that matter. It’s how you use those tears. They’re great motivators. They’re fuel. And I use them to push myself forward, to keep going even when the plan is in tatters and my world is upside down.

So, yes, I cried. But I didn’t let it stop me. I let it drive me. And the next time I fail? I’ll cry again, probably. But I’ll turn it into something more. Because the road to success isn’t paved with sunshine and rainbows. It’s paved with sweat, frustration, tears, and a hell of a lot of grit. So, I’ll cry, and then I’ll get up. I’ll cry again, and then I’ll push forward. Because the only way out is through. And I refuse to stay stuck in the rubble.

And that’s when the deception really became clear. For all my careful planning, all my preparation, all my grand ideas, I had fooled myself into thinking that the world would simply hand me success. But the world doesn’t work like that. No, it throws every obstacle in your path and asks you, "How badly do you want it?" And when you’re forced to face that question, when you’re staring down the wreckage of everything you built, you have two choices: you can either wallow in your failure, or you can take that failure and rebuild from it.

And that’s exactly what I did.

I didn’t sit there and cry over the wreckage. I didn’t let my anger consume me. I didn’t pretend everything was fine and move on to the next shiny idea. I stared at the failure, really looked at it, and used it as fuel. I used that anger to power through the rubble and figure out what went wrong. I dissected the plan, piece by piece. I questioned every assumption I had made. Every detail that had once seemed so perfect now felt like a glaring mistake. And I used that realization to rebuild—slowly, painfully, but steadily.

You see, failure isn’t the enemy. It’s not the part that should be avoided or ignored. No, failure is the lesson. Failure is the tool you need to reshape what you’ve built, to understand what went wrong, and to figure out how to do it better next time. If you’re not angry about your failure, if you’re not pissed off about how things went wrong, then you’re not learning. You’re not growing. You’re just waiting for the next failure to hit you.

But let’s be real here. I wasn’t just rebuilding a project. I was rebuilding my entire world. The old plan was gone. The new world I thought I could create? It was dead. And in the place of that old world, I had to craft something real. No more lies. No more illusions. I wasn’t going to let another version of the same false promises dictate my future. The plan that failed? It didn’t just fail because of timing or resources. It failed because I didn’t fully understand the terrain I was stepping into. I didn’t take into account the uncertainty, the unpredictability. And that’s what I had to accept.

So, the old world was gone. The plan was in the trash. And now? Now I’m starting over. And let me be clear: this isn’t some polished, perfect, carefully curated vision of success. This is a real world. A messy world. A world where things go wrong and failure is part of the process. This time, I’m not walking in with rose-colored glasses. This time, I’m walking in with eyes wide open, fully aware that things are going to go wrong, and that I’m going to have to fight to make it work.

But here’s the thing: failure isn’t the end of the road. It’s just the beginning.

This isn’t just about throwing out the old and replacing it with something new. It’s about embracing failure as part of the process. It’s about taking the wreckage of the world you built and turning it into something better, something stronger, something real. And when you get to that point, when you finally realize that your world doesn’t need to be perfect—it just needs to be real—that’s when the magic happens. Because, in the end, the new world isn’t something you conquer. It’s something you create. And that’s exactly what I’m doing.

The old world? Gone. The plan? In the trash. The new world? Well, I’m still building it. And this time, it’s going to be real.

It won’t be easy. It won’t be clean. It won’t be perfect. But it will be mine. And that’s the kind of world worth building.