spite and coffee

i can see the entire metro manila skyline from my balcony

it looks dead.

but at night, it looks effortless, almost beautiful.

towers glowing against the dark. electricity running silently through millions of wires.

from up here, the whole city appears complete, as though it emerged from the ground fully formed. but fuck no.

every single brick in every one of those buildings was laid by a man.

he was tired. his back hurt. he had a screaming wife at home that he hadn't wanted to touch in five years.

maybe he was working to pay off a gambling debt, or funding a mistress on the other side of town, or just trying to stay away from a family that viewed him as nothing but an ATM.

society wants you to think he did it out of “loving” wholesome sacrifice. bullshit.

but

he laid it anyway. with nothing but spite and coffee.

that is the entire skyline. spite and coffee stacked eighty stories high.

the road you drove in on. the pipes carrying clean water into your home. the surgery that saved your mother.

NONE OF IT WANTED TO EXIST.

all of it had to be dragged into existence by people working on days they would rather have slept.

EVERYTHING YOU LOVE WAS HAULED INTO THIS WORLD THROUGH HUMAN EFFORT, AND YOU ARE LIVING INSIDE OTHER PEOPLE’S OVERTIME.

what makes you think your life will be any different?

what makes you think your business, body, freedom, reputation, and your future will materialize without demanding the same price from you?

you can avoid hard work. millions of people do it every day.

you will also have to accept the life that produces.

THAT IS THE MOST HUMILIATING FORM OF FAILURE THERE IS: ENOUGH INTELLIGENCE TO SEE THE LIFE YOU COULD HAVE LIVED, AND NEVER ENOUGH DISCIPLINE TO GO BUILD IT.

the distance between that life and your current one is measured in the number of hours you are willing to work after the excitement disappears.

YOUR DREAM HAS TO SURVIVE YOUR MOODS.

THIS LETTER IS ABOUT BUILDING A MACHINE THAT DOESN'T BREAK.

because everything you want is waiting on the other side of sustained effort.

and the path to heaven is paved through hell.

i was a lazy piece of shit growing up.

i was also one of the smartest kids in the room, and for years, that combination worked beautifully.

the pattern began in elementary school and followed me into high school.

whenever a teacher announced an exam, my classmates would start preparing.

they would take notes, reread entire chapters, memorize definitions, and spend hours studying material i could understand after looking at it once.

i would procrastinate until the last possible moment. sometimes i barely studied at all.

then i would walk into the classroom, understand the questions faster than everyone else, and leave with one of the highest scores.

many of my classmates worked considerably harder than i did.

they were more disciplined and more prepared and took school more seriously.

they still couldn’t match me.

i am not saying this to brag but my cognitive ability is substantially above average.

i learn quickly and i can understand difficult concepts without requiring much repetition.

that intelligence gave me an enormous advantage in school. it also allowed my laziness to survive without consequences.

my classmates would work for the reward. i received the reward almost immediately. teachers praised me. my family called me gifted.

every high score reinforced the same lesson inside my head:

why should i work hard when my brain can do the work for me?

school never punished my laziness because my intelligence kept paying the bill.

every effortless success strengthened the habit.

i procrastinated, coasted, did the minimum, and continued receiving praise.

eventually, laziness started feeling like efficiency.

studying seemed unnecessary. repetition seemed like something slower people needed. i could avoid the work and still collect the reward.

my entire psyche was being conditioned by effortless success.

talented people are lazy.

i was exactly that kind of kid.

i procrastinated because procrastination had never cost me anything. i did the minimum because the minimum was still enough to outperform everyone around me.

while other students were learning how to work, i was learning how to escape the work.

they were learning how to tolerate repetition, confusion, and boredom. i was learning that i could avoid all three.

then i turned eighteen and entered the real world.

there was no longer a short examination i could dominate through rapid comprehension. zero teachers were waiting to praise my potential.

problems arrived open-ended, deadlines carried actual consequences, and rewards took months or years to show up.

you can recognize the correct move immediately and still fail, because recognition is not execution.

extraordinary ideas will leave you completely irrelevant if you never build them. and the smartest person in the room routinely accomplishes less than the most disciplined person in the room.

the real world demands work ethic.

it means choosing one thing, concentrating on it deeply, and staying committed long after the novelty has disappeared.

boredom, uncertainty, frustration, heartbreak, repeated failure. you continue through all of it.

you have to work while the reward remains distant and while nobody around you understands what you are trying to build.

that requires a completely different form of intelligence.

raw cognitive ability helps. of course it matters. intelligence grants you admission to the race. it places you at the starting line.

then the gun goes off.

from that point forward, the decisive variables are work ethic, dedication, emotional regulation, patience, resilience, and the capacity to delay gratification.

you need a strong mind capable of identifying the correct path.

you also need a strong heart capable of continuing down that path when it becomes painful and lonely.

SUCCESS IS AN ENDURANCE TEST.

it is a marathon measured in years.

the winner is the person who can remain focused after the excitement disappears, continue working without immediate recognition, absorb failure without becoming demoralized, and return to the same mission every fucking day.

and i was not equipped at all for that.

i had spent my entire childhood training for a sprint. then life placed me inside a marathon.

that was the deficit i had to correct

took me 8 years to finally have the discipline to fix this.

so for the past year, i have been deliberately building the work ethic that school never forced me to develop.

i work on oplanlikha in the morning. then i sleep. then i work my full-time job. i train my body somewhere in between.

i work for twelve hours a day, day after day, and i have done it for a year straight, regardless of whether i feel intelligent, inspired, confident, or completely fucking hopeless.

and i can only do that because i built a system to keep it sustainable.

i am learning how to tolerate repetition, delay gratification, regulate my emotions, and continue working without an immediate reward.

developing the psychological machinery required to carry my intelligence across an extended period of time.

every day is an attempt to teach my psyche a new law:

reward follows sustained effort.

i am trying to become the rare combination my childhood failed to produce: a highly intelligent man who also knows how to work like a fucking animal.

because talent can give you an early lead. it can place you ahead of everyone in the classroom.

it can make people praise your potential before you have built anything worthy of that praise.

WORK ETHIC DECIDES WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THE STARTING GUN.

INTELLIGENCE DETERMINES HOW QUICKLY YOU UNDERSTAND THE WORK.

DISCIPLINE DETERMINES WHETHER YOU REMAIN WITH IT LONG ENOUGH TO PRODUCE ANYTHING CONSEQUENTIAL.

everything from here is mechanical. the key to sustainability.

HERE'S THE SYSTEM I’VE USED

you have a limited amount of peak cognitive function every day. the first few hours are when your brain power is at its absolute highest.

you need it allocated on the most important activities that really move the needle.

and to bypass your own excuses, you need a specific sequence that you execute every single day until it becomes completely automatic.

here is how you build it.

here’s mine:

every morning, after you wake up.
kneel… with your elbows on your bed and pray.
God, may thy give me power to defeat the evil in my mind.
feel the raw power surging through your veins.
attack the day, and do it again the next day.

then i'll go for a walk, get coffee, take NZT-48, and turn on Mixhound.

i write for 45 minutes.

bathroom break.

write for another 45 minutes.

then i train.

run, lift, or box. for one hour.

THATS IT.

RUN IT FOR 30 DAYS AND CHANGE NOTHING.

9 hours of sleep, fuck those motherfuckers who wants to sleep less, biohacking motherfuckers, thinking they’re like Elon Musk, no you need sleep, there’s no shortcut around this.

everyone needs sleep, a good night sleep, dark, cold, and quiet. i sleep 9 hours.

this is probably why i was able to sustain working 12 hours a day a year straight.

i always say this, just give me 9 hours of sleep and im unstoppable, i'll be able to conquer anything no matter how big the dragon is.

good food. steak, broccoli, eggs. just ask GPT for the top 200 foods on earth and pick your favorites. systemize everything about this.

and take creatine, fish oil, magnesium, vitamin D. you need a clean fuel to run the machine.

research about nootropics, test some. here’s my stack, caffeine, NZT-48, armo, L theanine.

nootropics are the best because they’re non addictive, i can easily quit it and never look back.

there’s nothing more powerful than nootropics, its a game changer.

you can train everyday. you can get better every fucking day. train at a level you can always return to.

your default should be around 6/10, hard enough to produce adaptation, easy enough that you can sustain it without needing to psychologically recover from every session.

then, when you genuinely feel strong, rested, and motivated, push to 8, 9, or 10/10. but never build your identity around the peak.

build your life around the level you can repeat.

the 6/10 baseline is your home. intensity is something you visit.

my physical practice has three main forms:

some days, that means a 45-minute walk. other days, i lift.

if there’s someone around to spar with, i box. the method changes depending on my energy, circumstances, and what my body needs.

the strongest approach is to treat your body like something you intend to use for decades.

you can do something physical every day.

the mistake is believing that suffering every day equals discipline. sometimes discipline means stopping at 80%, sleeping properly, and letting your body adapt.

build a clear system. write it down. then chip away at it every day.

train every day. mix it up. keep a sustainable baseline. push when you have it. pull back when you need to.

but always return to baseline, never go below it.

the reason i advocate for training every single day is because it forcefully expands your capacity.

weak men think that if you work out every day, it is just going to leave you exhausted. they think you are going to run out of gas.

fuck no.

your body operates like a high-performance engine. when you push an engine to the redline every day, the machine adapts.

it builds a bigger tank. it clears out the carbon buildup in the lines. it oils the internal gears so you can burn through fuel faster and with more efficiency.

if you leave a sports car parked in the garage to save it, the battery dies and the oil turns to sludge.

you have to run it. you have to demand power from it. only then will it manufacture the power you demanded.

when you are out in the world, you are rigid. calculating. fear lurks around the corner, paranoid. you view everyone as a threat or an asset.

when you walk through the front door and see your woman, you have to murder that version of yourself on the porch.

you leave the sword outside.

the samurai understood this. when they went to the tea house to be with women, they were forced to leave their weapons at the entrance. the door was intentionally built small so the warrior had to bow in submission just to get inside.

they understood that you cannot bring the weapons of war into a place of healing. if you do, you will destroy the only thing trying to save you.

you must do the exact same thing.

you do not bring the marketplace to her, do not complain about how fucked up the world is, the ongoing war on your business, the dying kids in the slums of Tondo. the nepal flash flood killing thousands of people. bruv, she ain’t your fucking therapist.

rather, let her bring you back to the present moment.

you put your hands on her. you feel her skin. you smell her hair and let her voice wash over you.

you let her softness literally pull the war out of your psyche.

you completely submit to the peace she offers.

interacting with her refills your energy tank in a way that sleep never could.

she patches the armor. she soothes the amygdala. she reminds you that there is warm blood flowing in your veins, not just caffeine and spite.

you draw that healing energy into yourself. you let it quiet the noise in your head.

you shut the entire world off and you just exist with her.

you rest in her space.

and then you wake up the next morning, put the armor back on, and go back to burning down the world.

brother, most of the time i write absolute shit. 97% of what i write you will never see.

but i need that 97%, because it produces the other 3%. and that 3% is what i post on oplanlikha. the gold.

i write shit most of the time.

it is the exact same with training. you know the feeling when you wake up feeling like garbage, you don't want to touch a weight, and everything in your life feels completely fucked.

on those days, i will just walk in and force a shitty workout. and somewhere in the middle of those miserable sets, the blood starts moving, i start feeling good, and i find another gear to push.

SHITTY WORKOUTS ARE THE BEST WORKOUTS.

regardless of how it felt, a shitty workout gets the job done. it puts another checkmark on the calendar. and as long as i keep checking off those days and watching the numbers stack up, deep down, i feel fulfilled.

i know exactly who i am. i performed. i executed my duty, no matter how bad it felt.

and trust me, most days you are going to feel like shit. life is a violent emotional rollercoaster, and there is an infinite number of hits coming your way.

it is shit, but it is beautiful.

JUST FUCKING DO THE WORK, MAN. EXECUTE. there is no need for it to be perfect, just get it done.

It will take you three years.

twelve hours a day, three years.

the three years is the great filter.

it separates the people who want it from the people who say they want it.

almost everyone says it. very few will spend thirty-six months finding out whether they meant it.

anyone can work twelve hours . you have done it before. intensity is easy to summon once.

the years are the test. duration is what almost nobody survives.

the filter runs on feeling, not ability, and it asks the same question every morning for a thousand mornings:

are you doing it today, while it still feels pointless and nobody is watching?

answer yes enough times and you pass.

which is why the stubborn routinely beat the gifted. the exam was never testing what the gifted are good at.

there is also no way to shorten it.

you can read every book on the subject inside a month and remain a beginner. what you really need is time under load.

year one pays nothing.

you will work harder than you ever have and produce almost no visible evidence for it.

this is where most people quit, and they quit convinced they are making a rational decision. the market is wrong or the timing is off, or they’re just not lucky or something else has better upside.

year two pays a little. enough to know you aren't insane. never enough to convince anyone else.

this one is lonelier than the first, because by now you have been talking about this thing for twenty-four months and the questions have gone quiet in a way that feels worse than doubt.

year three is when it moves.

the work stacked up somewhere you couldn't see it, crossed a line, and everything you built in silence began compounding at once.

the most beautiful thing about this is you don’t need to defeat your competition because they will be absent.

look around at year three and the people who started beside you are simply gone. never beaten, just elsewhere, doing something newer.

you will still be standing there when the field empties out.

attrition does most of the winning for you.

THE SILENCE BREAKS MORE PEOPLE THAN THE WORK DOES.

your friends will not understand it, your family will ask when you plan to be realistic, and you will do the hardest work of your life with zero encouragement.

they will believe you afterward. then they will call it luck.

one more thing, and this is the part i would tattoo on people if they let me.

almost nobody fails because the plan was wrong.

they fail on ordinary mornings. the bed was warm. it was raining. work got busy that week. or a whore is begging you to fuck her.

something came up, and something always comes up, and one skipped morning becomes a skipped week, and the skipped week quietly kills the whole thing eight months before it would have started working.

PEOPLE LOSE ON THE BORING DAYS.

so count them.

on the mornings you feel nothing at all, that number on the calendar is the only proof you will have that any of this is real.

the filter is there to make sure that when you finally arrive, there is almost nobody else standing there.

man, i love Charles Bukowski, if you love my writing i want you to know that my whole shit is heavily inspired by him, there’s something beautiful about his writings. the way he drags you through the gutter then lifts you up into something absolute. he was the best there’s ever been. so here’s a poem for the GOAT.

charles bukowski rotted in a post office

sorting other people's mail

until he was 49 years old.

forty-nine.

he wrote at night, drunk, broke as fuck ,

in a country that doesn’t give a fuck about his ugly little poems,

and he did it for decades

with nothing to show.

and no sign it would ever pay.

most men would've quit at 30

and called the dream a childish thing.

he just kept feeding paper into the machine by day

and bleeding onto the page by night.

then it broke open, late,

the way it does,

and the same world that ignored him

suddenly couldn't get enough.

i think about that when i want to quit,

broke, ignored, unsure, depressed.

he had more years of nothing in him

than i've even been alive.

he won for one reason.

he was still standing at 49

when everyone with his talent

and less stubbornness

had long since put the pen down

and made peace with the mail.

he won with nothing,

but spite and coffee..