Martrutt

I am tired of this world.

Not in the dramatic sense.

In the quiet way you feel when something about the system doesn’t quite make sense anymore.

Most people feel it too.
They just don’t say it out loud.

We are born into a package:

A name.
A flag.
A nationality.
A religion.
A social code.

And an invisible message beneath it all:

Without these things, you are nothing.

Religion promised something extraordinary:

Suffer now.
Obey now.
Accept now.

Your reward will come later. After you die.

A remarkably efficient system.

The powerful remain powerful.
The poor remain patient.

And justice is always postponed.

Then there is money.

A number on a screen that entire civilizations agree represents value.

Empires were built on it.

Wars were fought over it.

Lives were spent chasing it.

Technology arrived.
The world became connected.

But look carefully.

War still exists.
Power still concentrates.
Nations are destabilized.
Children suffer.

And what do we search for online?

“10 habits of successful people.”
“5 ways to improve your morning routine.”

Endless lists.

Distractions disguised as wisdom.

Krishnamurti once wrote:

Man is still competitive, acquisitive, and brutal — and society reflects it.

But there may be another truth.

Humans are not only brutal.

We are easily manipulated.

We want to believe someone wise is in charge.

Because the alternative is unsettling.

The alternative is realizing the system might simply belong to those who learned to manipulate psychology better than everyone else.

So what do we do?

I don’t have the answer. Maybe none of us do.

Maybe the first step is simply this:

Thinking for ourselves.

But even that raises a difficult question.

Is it still possible?

Because while we scroll, argue, react, and chase the next trending idea…

The machinery keeps moving.

Quietly.

History remembers conquerors by their ships, flags, and dates.
It remembers empires by the weight of what they took.

But freedom?
Freedom survives in a single sentence.

Guaicaipuro was a Caribe cacique in what is now Venezuela.

When the Spanish arrived—armed with steel, disease, and the certainty of empire—they expected fear and obedience.

What they encountered instead was a man who understood something they never did.

Surrounded and outnumbered, Guaicaipuro was facing a force that believed domination was destiny and said:

“Come and see how a free man dies.”

It wasn’t a threat.
It wasn’t a plea.
It declared a fact.

Freedom does not bargain with power.
It seeks no approval, and it does not disappear when a body falls.

Empires depend on a dangerous illusion: that control of land, names, and bodies grants control of the human spirit.

Guaicaipuro shattered that illusion with one sentence.

They took his life.
They failed to grasp its meaning.

That’s why his words endured, and certainty collapsed.

Centuries later, the conquistadores filled history books.
Guaicaipuro still confronts us with a question.

What does it mean to die free? And more uncomfortably—what does it mean to live not free?

Today, freedom rarely meets swords.
It erodes comfort, safety, belonging, approval.

No one demands we kneel. We learn to comply.

Compliance doesn’t arrive in chains.
It arrives as silence disguised as reason.

Guaicaipuro reminds us: systems do not grant freedom.
People claim it—or abandon it.

His words were never about death.

They stood as proof, and the proof remains.

I landed in Florida at thirty-eight with a daughter who depended on me and a past I was trying to outrun.

The United States had always been Christmas in Disney, cold air on my cheeks, and Miami outlets where joy came wrapped in shopping bags.
Not a place to restart a life.

But everything I knew had collapsed.
Family who once promised warmth grew distant.
People I trusted turned into strangers.
I stood alone with no job, no support, and no clue how to build a future.

One gray afternoon, I walked toward Bayside Mall with my head hanging so low it felt attached to the ground.

That’s when I saw him.

A homeless man sat on a bench, watching me with a quiet, fatherly warmth I didn’t expect.
As I approached, he lifted his hand, nodded, and without a single word, told me:

Don’t look down.
Look up.

I felt the message land deep inside me.
So I lifted my head.
He smiled back, touching his heart as if passing me a strength I didn’t yet have.

And that very day, I found my first job in America.
One gesture.
One stranger.
One tiny miracle.

I never saw him again.

But his message never left me:

Walk with your head up.
Be strong.
Don’t let the world make you small.

Sometimes the people with the least to give end up giving us the thing we needed most.

Have you noticed that every conversation sounds like a secret code?
Three letters here. Four there.
LOL. BRB. FOMO. IRL.

By the time I decode one, the moment’s already gone.

I didn’t sign up to learn acronymic hieroglyphics.
I just wanted to connect, to laugh, to be human in English.

But these days, fluency isn’t about language anymore.
It’s about letting all that “text talk” loosen up
until it flows into a real, human conversation again.

And truth be told, I’m not even proficient in that yet.
Half the time, I’m just guessing what people mean,
hoping my laughter lands in the right place.

At work:

“Hey, Martrutt, have you seen the WDT?”

“No,” I said, pretending confidence.

Brain on fire.

Two hours later, I found a paper on my desk labeled “Weekly & Daily Trades”

Yet, I still don’t know if that was the WDT.

Then, it’s lunch time.

Coworkers were chatting fast, laughing, trading acronyms like confetti.

Paul arrived, “Hey guys, HRU?”

Each one of them gave him a different three-letter answer.

I smiled, nodded politely… and ran to the restroom.

Not to cry,

to Google it.

And just when I thought I was catching up, we got visitors from Florida.

My stepdaughters, all smiles and slang.

I asked a simple question, and one of them said,

“Oh, IDK. Maybe we could go to the mall.”

There it was again — the three-letter monster.

I said, “Sorry, what’s IDK?” She laughed and said, “ I don’t know.”

I turned back to my seat and laughed:

“Honey, I don’t know either!” 😂

My Final Thought

Maybe people in the U.S. still speak English…

I just need to find them, ASAP. 😂

Hey! As someone who fought to learn the whole alphabet,

I refuse to let the vowels go extinct.

But fine… I can adapt. CYO😉

When I was little, adults spoke about age as if it were a jail sentence.
In years to serve.

Forty.
Fifty.
Sixty.
Each number sounded like another chain link.
Heavy.

Predictable.

Forever clinking behind them.

I remember frowning, counting on my fingers, thinking,
"This math can’t be right."

Then, the history books.
Julius Caesar, emperors, calendars, debates,

and the Gregorian fixes.
Whole empires rearranging time itself.

And I thought,
“Someone decided how we measure life, and they all just nodded?” 🤔

Time, the Trickster

When I was fifteen, a year felt eternal.
Now, I blink and lose one before breakfast.

Two mornings ago, I was blooming.
Today, that calendar swears I’ve aged.

Numbers! Such liars.
They pretend to measure something they can’t touch.

So, I stopped letting them.

The Sunrise Calendar

One morning, I switched systems.
Now, I count sunrises. 🌅

Every sunrise means:
another laugh,😂

another adventure,
another breath on this wild, spinning planet.😅

Today? I have 20,480 sunrises in my pocket calendar.
(And yes, I loved almost every single one. ❤️

Cloudy days don’t count. I have standards. ☁️

The Rebellion

The best part of counting sunrises instead of years?
You delete the old programming.

No emperor.
No rulebook.
No ticking clock decides when to bloom, rest, or reinvent.

You start to see the world like a beginner again,
hopeful,

wide-eyed, 👀

delighted by possibility.💖

So, here’s my official declaration:
Today is my Sunrise Day. 🌞

Bring chocolate.
And maybe a little champagne for good measure.

As for the days of the week?
Oh, I rewrote those, too.
But that’s a story for another sunrise.

Right now, I’m at the top of the incline,
about to start the screaming, stressful, somehow nice ride called “The Holidays.”

As soon as I blink, Thanksgiving will be here.
Cooking or restaurant? Is this even a dilemma?

Restaurant wins: good food, no dishes, no failed experiments.
But I’ll miss my zero-sugar desserts (the ones I actually nailed).

Then the coaster climbs again.
Christmas.
Gifts. Outfits. Santa.
And—ugh—the mall.
I worked in one for nine years, and those Christmas songs?
They feel like psychological warfare now.

The only version I can handle?
A TikTok where someone sang a carol in an Indian accent.
I laughed so hard I almost forgave Mariah Carey.

But let’s be honest:
The music does something to people.
They hum “happy holidays” while paying full price for a shirt that was half-off all year.

So yeah—
I’m holding my cocoa tight,
screaming with grace,
and riding this old wooden roller coaster till the lights go out.

In fourth grade, I went to an all-girls Catholic school run by nuns.
Every morning started with songs — national anthem, hymns, more songs after class.
It felt like living inside a musical.

One morning, right after math, the music began again.
And I suddenly felt dizzy.
Then warm.
Too warm.

When I looked down, there it was — a tiny shimmering lake right under my shoes.

I froze.
Then ran to the restroom, whispering,
“Oh my God, what am I gonna do?”

Every cell in my eight-year-old body wanted to disappear.
But something in me — maybe pride, maybe instinct — decided to go back.

So I did.

I walked back into the classroom like a soldier returning to the scene of the crime.
The puddle was still there.
No one said a word — not the girls, not even the nun.

I stepped over it, lifted my chin… and sang louder than ever.

Looking back, I can’t tell if I was too shy to ask to leave,
or just trying too hard to be perfect in a world that demanded too much.
But that day, a shy girl learned how to own her most humiliating moment.
She didn’t run.
She didn’t hide.
She just kept singing.

And that was power.

Reflection:
I used to laugh at that little girl, thinking she was shy and clumsy.
Today, I admire her.
Because she made the hardest choice — the brave one, fast.
She went back before the song ended,
head high, heart steady, voice unshaken.

The rest of her story lives on Medium — quiet, brave, and still singing.
Read the full version on Medium.

We all have that one mortifying story that shaped us, don’t we?
Tell me yours — I promise not to laugh (too hard).

(Savage Flirty Chaos Edition)

Love is hard.
But ruining love?
That’s art. 🎨💔

Here’s how to be the main character and the plot twist:

1️⃣ Develop Olympic-level standards.
If he calls you “bro,” block him before he finishes the word.

2️⃣ He text “Hey”?
Reply: “Rewrite with passion.”

3️⃣ If they take 8 minutes to respond…
Plan the funeral. Move on with someone hotter.

4️⃣ Catch feelings?
Release them back into the wild.

5️⃣ You got the “wyd?” text.

Answer: “Plotting.”

6️⃣ Emotionally unavailable?
wIfE mAtErIaL 💍 (yes, wrong on purpose)

7️⃣ Emoji overthinking:
😊 = He wants something. Probably affection. Gross.

8️⃣ Show interest…
Then vanish like a rare Pokémon.

9️⃣ “I don’t want a relationship” =
Try harder with your face.

🔟 If they treat you well:
RUN. 🏃‍♀️
True story. Don’t ask.

❤️‍🔥 Final thought:
Be the chaos.
Be the star everyone fears a little.

👇 Full chaotic version drops on Medium soon — stay tuned 😈🔥