Just, I'm stood on what we're under. The solid ground, you think, the certainty beneath the sole of the shoe. Don't get people to tell you different, the shifting sands of their opinions, the quicksand of their doubt. Right or wrong, a clumsy label, a cage built of common consent. You're always right to me, a fixed star, a compass needle pointing true north. Even if you think you're wrong, the shadow of self-criticism darkening the day, you're not. That conviction is the bedrock. Complications arrive like uninvited guests, bearing heavy coats and endless stories. The intentional twist, the calculated barb, when it's used against you, a weapon forged in their need. Whenever they want control of their life, a desperate grasping at the reins, I say their life, because yours is a separate landscape. They try to map your territory with their anxieties. No matter what you do, and say, the careful phrasing, the open hand offered, the very air you breathe in their vicinity. Your conduct, a mirror held up to their own unease, cause obviously you're not living yours, the unlived life they resent in your motion. They see freedom in your every move, and that visibility rankles. And to use it for a witness to see. The performance of grievance, the staged display for an audience of one, or perhaps an imagined jury. It's simple, really, stripped down to the bone, the core refusal. They don't want any part of you. Not the mess, not the brilliance, not the inconvenient truth of your existence standing firm on that same patch of earth. They want distance, a clean break, a silence where your sound used to be. And so you stand, on what you're under, unmoved by the gusts of their decree. Your rightness, a quiet, internal sun. The quiet chamber within, our deepest core, a fertile ground waiting, not for mere seed, but for the deliberate choice to reach for light. Education is not just the pages turned, the dates memorized, the formulas solved, it is the gentle tending of that inner self, a commitment to knowing, a hunger for understanding that feeds the whole being. Self well-being blossoms then, unforced, like morning dew, because the mind is nourished, the spirit finds its anchor in the steady rhythm of learning. And the soul, oh, the soul, it needs no pushing, no frantic drive, when the vessel is cleaned, when the inner landscape is mapped, it naturally stretches, a wing unfurling in the warm air. A gift awaits, inherent, the capacity to speak the truth clearly, to shape thought into tangible form, to articulate the complex dance of existence into understandable patterns. This is the blossoming into a productive life, not measured by accumulation, but by contribution, by the smooth flow of energy from the deep well of acquired wisdom into the fabric of the everyday. Summing up the moments, the small victories

Beneath their opinions