Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
The Forgotten Samurai: The Visitations.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode five of the Forgotten Samurai. So let's go ahead and let's get into it. The cigar was burning unevenly. Ash kept falling in thin sheets like the tobacco didn't want to be held together. He sat in the apartment's one decent chair, leather cracked at the arms, spring just sharp enough beneath the seat to remind him not to get comfortable. The room was quiet, but something inside of him wasn't. The knock came at 9.02 am, not her usual rhythm, but too short one, long. Like a warning beat, he opened the door. It's Kasu. She stood there, but not like she usually does, you know hands on, hip smirk, half-loaded voice, quick to critique. This time she was pale, too pale. Hair was pinned back loosely, like she got out of bed too fast, like she hadn't slept at all. She says I think something's wrong with me. She whispered and then she collapsed in his arms.
Speaker 1:Hospitals always felt like places between Not life, not death, a pause, a hallway, and this one it didn't even try to feel real. He didn't remember how he got there. One moment she was slumped against him. The next she was being wheeled down a hallway by a nurse who didn't speak, who didn't blink. St Icarus Memorial was written on the wall in flickering gold. But when he blinked it read something else Sector C, containment. Then, back again, he reached into his coat, flask, empty Pack of lucky strikes down to three. He lit one. The flame from his brass zip-o flickered red for a second, not orange Red. The nurse nodded to a room labeled 3C and pushed the chair through the door. He didn't follow, not because he didn't want to, but because someone was standing at the end of the hall.
Speaker 1:Alistair. You came, he said, like they had an appointment. I didn't come for you but she brought you. Alistair replied, turning slowly and that was the first test. Slowly, and that was the first test. The hallway behind him was too dark but Alistair stepped into the light Tailored jacket, moonlit skin, the same black tunic that shimmered when it caught the air wrong.
Speaker 1:You said the armor watches. What does it see? Everything you won't admit. Alistair replied. Everything you still run from. He gestured behind him. A hallway stretched far into shadow, too far Longer than the building could allow. Alistair said walk with me.
Speaker 1:The first few doors were just shapes, nothing marked them, no numbers, no signs. The light overhead buzzed like something old trying to stay alive. Alistair walked in silence, hands behind his back, shoulders still as if being pulled by some string from the future. Then he opened the first door. Inside, a man kneeling. The forearm guards melted into his flesh, a helmet half shattered in his lap, eyes wide, mouth locked open, screaming something no one could hear. He thought the armor would save him. Alistair said quietly he didn't understand it. He didn't understand. It was a weapon, and weapons don't choose the weak, weapons don't choose the weak. He closed the door.
Speaker 1:Second door A girl no older than 16. Back turned, hair long, uncut. The chest plate hovered in front of her, just out of reach, trembling. She tried to earn the armor by doing good, alistair said, but she never faced the one thing. It demanded the truth.
Speaker 1:They started, they kept going down the hallway and then the third door. It was him Same coat, same fedora, same tired posture, but this version was sitting Hands on the armor, but not putting it on, not trying, just holding and crying. Alistair watched him closely. He made it far, but not far enough. Why not? Because he kept waiting for someone else to tell him he deserved it. He stepped forward. The version of him in the chair, looked up, eyes looked like glass and then everything went white. He gasped awake, chest heaving, Back in his apartment, same chair, same lucky strikes on the table beside him. But the test plate was on the floor next to him, still warm, still pulsing, like it had chosen him. But it hadn't finished testing him. The journal lay open, not the page he left it on a new page blank, except for a single sigil burned into the top, sharp curved. A single sigil burned into the top, sharp Curved. It looked like a ribcage or a gate, or maybe both. He reached for his coat and lit another cigarette. Ash drifted silently to the floor. He stared at the chest plate, then at the door, then at the journal. He didn't know if he was awake, he didn't know if it mattered.
Speaker 1:Katsu arrived just after 8.30 am, tray in hand, hair tied back loosely, sleeves rolled. She didn't knock, she never did anymore. She walked into the place like it was hers and maybe in some ways it was. She sat the tray down Tea Rice, something that smelled faintly of seaweed and lemon. You look like someone peeled you out of a nightmare. She said handing him the cup first. Said handing him the cup first. He took it sipped it Too hot, burned his tongue a little. I did, he muttered, not looking at her. She gave a soft laugh. Good Means, you're in the right story.
Speaker 1:Her eyes shifted to the journal, half covered over an overturned teacup. This thing's always open, she said, nudging it with a knuckle. It's not mine, he mumbled. I just write in it, she smirked. Then maybe it needs a new keeper for a day. He shrugged, too tired to argue. Just don't read past the second page. You think I can read this mess you call handwriting. She took it under her arm like it belonged there. I'll bring it back to you when you're less haunted.
Speaker 1:She paused at the door like there was more she wanted to say, but didn't. Just a slight nod and she was gone, her footsteps fading into the stairwell. The apartment exhaled behind her. Finally he sat down, slowly lifting the lid from the tray. Steam curled upward warmth she had always left behind. He ate in silence.
Speaker 1:The rope fragment pulsed once inside his coat pocket. He didn't reach for it, not yet. Outside. The wind had changed. It moved like it had somewhere to be. Something was coming.
Speaker 1:He didn't know if it was the next piece of armor or a memory pretending to be one. The cigarette was half smoked on the window seal, the Lucky Strikes packed behind it, crumpled, torn at the top. He hadn't meant to fall asleep not really Not with a chest plate still humming on the floor like a heartbeat he couldn't match. But sleep didn't ask, it took. He's standing again, same hallway, same flickering lights. But now he remembers he's been here before. This time the doors are marked, burned into the wood, like old scars. One sacrifice, two deceit, three legacy, four, regret, five, mirror. He hadn't noticed the words last time, or maybe he wasn't allowed to.
Speaker 1:Alistair is already walking. No greeting, no explanation, hands clasped behind him, panther, quiet. Why am I back here? He asks. You weren't ready to finish. Alistair replies so the armor brought you back. You said I already had the chest plate. You woke up with it. Alistair said you didn't earn it. They walk.
Speaker 1:First door, sacrifice Inside, a mother and a child holding hands, standing in open field, fire on the horizon. Standing in open field, fire on the horizon. The woman's eyes are closed, the child looks directly at him and the armor is nowhere. But something in their faces says this is where it started. He tries to speak, but the door closes before he can. Second door To see A soldier. The armor looks complete before he can. Second door To see A soldier the armor looks complete until he moves and the chest pate shatters like glass, revealing nothing beneath. He lied to everyone, alistair said, even himself. The soldier reaches out as the door closes. It might be him, it might be to no one.
Speaker 1:Third door legacy A boy kneeling at a shrine, helmet, forearm guard, knee plate, tears in his eyes. The armor won't move. It doesn't care who your father was, alistair murmurs, it only cares what you're willing to lose. The boy turns his head and his face is his. Too young, Too raw, too familiar Forth or regret. Too young, too raw, too familiar forth or regret himself. Older eyes, hollow, chest plate blackened with soot, cracked down the center. A blade rests across his lap. No sound, no movement, just a silence that reeks of shame. Some versions of you still exist, alistair says, even the ones who failed. He closes the door himself.
Speaker 1:This time they reach the final door, the mirror. Alistair says nothing, he only gestures forward, he breathes it in, then steps through. The room is infinite mirrors on every wall, ceiling, floor. Every reflection is him wearing the armor in different stages Some are screaming, some are calm, some are laughing, some are weeping, and one has no face at all. He walks forward, each step a reflection Steps back, except one, the one on the far wall. It doesn't mimic, doesn't flinch, just stares, and then its mouth moves. You haven't finished dying yet.
Speaker 1:The mirrors crack, he gasps, he falls to his knees. The sound of shattering glass rings like thunder on a skull. When he looks up, he's alone, one door ahead, no label, just light bleeding through the cracks. Alistair voiced behind him. Now you may try.
Speaker 1:He rises, hands are trembling, he pushes through the door and the trauma room awaits. But it's changed. It's brighter, sharper, more real than anything he's ever felt. The chest plate is there, still pulsing, still waiting. But something else waits with it, something he'll have to face Before it lets him claim it fully, something with his face, but not his name. The door cracked open with a slowness that felt personal, like it was deciding whether to allow him in. The light that spilled through wasn't warm, it was clinical, a pale, stale glow that clung to the edges of things but never touched the center. He stepped through and the door closed behind him without a sound.
Speaker 1:The room resembled a hospital trauma bay, but older, like a memory of one. Ceiling panels half-lit, a rusted heart monitor still ticking out of rhythm. The gurney at the center was wrapped in white linen, stained faintly with something red and ancient, and there, hovering above the table, the chestplate suspended in air like a verdict waiting to be read, impulsed once he didn't move, alice's voice echoed from nowhere. Do you know why? It's the chest plate now. He didn't answer, but he looked down at his own chest, saw the faint imprint of something that had once been pressed there. It felt familiar, like a scar he didn't remember getting, because this is where you hide it all, alistair said the anger, the shame, the guilt, the softness you pretend you never had.
Speaker 1:The air in the room shifted. He reached slowly for the armor, but it recoiled. The chestplate darted back, with the shimmer of a light repositioning itself at the foot of the gurney. Something else appeared in its place A figure, same height, same build, same coat, same fedora. But its eyes were sealed, shut with black thread, and when it opened its mouth it wasn't a mouth at all, it was a hole, and emptiness was sound. You're not ready, it said without words, and charged and charged. They collided hard fists, elbows, the scrape of breast zippers and scrap of coat fabric.
Speaker 1:But it wasn't a street fight, this was a punishment. Every blow from the figure struck like a memory the time he ran, the time he lied, the time he said nothing when he should have spoken. The night he almost didn't come back. He tried to fight back, but the figure was one step ahead, always because it was him, not the version from the mirror, not the one who failed, but the one that remembered too much, the one that knew where he broke. They hit the floor hard. He coughed blood into his palm and the figure knelt beside him, fingers twitching like it wanted to end him. But something stopped it. The rope fragment in his pocket flared A deep, heatless glow. The flicker flinched. He turned away. That's when he moved. He reached not for a weapon, but for the journal it had fallen out during the fight. Laying open on the floor beside him. It had written across the page someone else's handwriting Say what you never did.
Speaker 1:He stood faced the figure again and whispered I wasn't enough. The figure paused, not for her, Not for me, not what I could have been. He stepped closer. I let it die. All of it, the dream, the fire, the boy who gave a damn. The figure lowers its fist. He kept speaking. I tried to drink the noise quiet, I tried to kill the versions that haunted me, but I never forgave myself for surviving. The figure fell to its knees and whispered back with a mouth that finally resembled a man's. Then begin again.
Speaker 1:The chestplate returned to the center. This time it didn't hover, it bowed, and when he picked it up it was heavy, not physically, existentially like it had been waiting for this moment since before he was born. He held it to his chest. It locked into place and the hum it released sounded like his own name being spoken for the first time. Everything dissolved into white, then darkness. Then his apartment, back in the chair. Chest plate still on, cigarette burned out in the ashtray.
Speaker 1:The journal sat open, another sigil drawn, this one shaped like a cracked sun, with a sword through the center and a knock at the door. He opened it, katsu, holding a grocery bag in one hand and a piece of mail in the other. You left your letters downstairs, she said, not explaining why she was carrying breakfast too. You look like hell, by the way, I've had worse. She paused, stared at him longer than she needed to. You were gone, she said finally. I mean really gone? I'm back. No, she said, you're different. She stepped inside without asking and for once he didn't stop her. She reached up toward the kitchen light. You need help changing this. He nodded and for a moment, just one flicker. The light caught the chest plate beneath his coat and her eyes widened, but she said nothing, just smiled like she knew something he didn't.
Speaker 1:The hallway was longer than he remembered. He had been here before, long ago, or maybe just a dream ago. The floor creaked underfoot, like it was struggling to remember how to hold his weight. The air was thick, with a sterile chill like the kind in a hospital wing, too clean for the real world. Fluorescent lights buzzed above him, flurking in intervals, as if time itself was stuttering. He didn't know how he got here.
Speaker 1:One moment he'd been back at his apartment, the memory of Katsu's presence lingering like a scent of jasmine smoke. Then the whisper had come again, not loud, not violent, just inevitable Go back to where you were found. It wasn't a request, it wasn't even a voice. It was Alistair. Now he stood in the corridor, lined with whitewashed walls that hummed with memory, not his, but others. Every few feet, a door marked with faded numbers, none in order, some scratched out, some marked in chalk.
Speaker 1:Then Alistair appeared. He didn't walk in from anywhere. He just suddenly, standing beside him, wore the same black tunic that shimmered beneath a high-collared coat. His movements were still panther-like, smooth, controlled, but there was something else in his eyes now, something ancient, tired, not weak, just aware of every cost. You're further than most, alistair said, walking ahead, further than most, alistair said walking ahead.
Speaker 1:They passed doors, each one creaking open, as they neared Inside, glimpses of other lives A man screaming in battle armor tearing at his own chest. A woman kneeling in broken sigils, bleeding from her eyes, a child no more than twelve holding a shattered mask and trembling hands. These were the ones who came before you, alistair said, not stopping. All chosen, all failed. Why, he asked, alistair stopped he looks over his shoulder Because they mistook power for purpose.
Speaker 1:They stood in front of one final door. Unlike the others, this one had no handle. Alistair raised his hand and it opened Inside a room filled with light, not white, not gold, just clarity. In the center of the room was a stand. On it rested the chestplate, black and steeled, ornate edges, a single indentation across the center, like it had once been taking a killing blow, and survived. He stepped forward, but Alistair stopped him.
Speaker 1:Before you take it, you must understand what it guards. Alistair walked the far wall where a large mirror hung Look. He stared into the mirror but saw not himself, not entirely. He saw a boy in a burning village, a teenage warrior burying something in the forest, a man walking alone through the snow dragging a blade. The chestplate remembers the weight of your choices, alistair said. Not your pain, not your power, your choices. He stepped. Power. Your choices. He stepped away. Take it. He reached forward. The moment his fingers touched the chest plate, the light in the room shifted, dimming, pulsing. A surge of memory, not images but meaning, filled his chest Protection, betrayal, forgiveness, duty. When he opened his eyes, he was staying in his apartment. The chestplate lay on the floor next to him. He's sweating, breathing heavy Smoke from a cigarette burned in the ashtray beside him, though he didn't remember lighting it.
Speaker 1:A knock at the door Katsu, she entered holding a bundle of mail. You look like you've seen a ghost, she said. He said nothing. She stared at the chestplate on the floor. Her eyes flickered with something like recognition. You dropped this, she said, handing him the journal. He looked down.
Speaker 1:The cover was warm. A new sigil burned in the leather At the bottom of the last page, a symbol he didn't recognize. It wasn't written by him. The tea sat untouched. Katsu had gone, but the air still carried her warmth, like the room didn't want to forget her just yet.
Speaker 1:The leg guards gleamed faintly when the light hit them through the blinds. The shittons have still been there, but they were. He traced the edge of one with his finger. It was cold, unreal, but then too real. Then his eyes fell to the journal. It had closed itself, but something was peeking from the centerfold, a page that hadn't been there before. He opened it slowly. The paper was thicker, rougher, etched, with a new sigil that curled in itself like a maze made of bone, and underneath it one sentence burned in red you have not finished dying.
Speaker 1:He lit a cigarette, didn't remember pulling it from the pack. His hands moved by instinct. Now the lighter clicked. He exhaled and stared at the words again. They didn't fade, they paused as if they were breathing.
Speaker 1:The robe fragment stirred inside his coat pocket. The journal page flinched in his hand like it didn't want to be read anymore. And that's when it hit him. This wasn't a message, it was a door. He blinked and the apartment dissolved. Stone, ash, wind that whispered in a tongue older than thought.
Speaker 1:He stood alone in what looked like a courtyard made of shattered helmets and burned scrolls. The sky above was flat and gray. Time didn't move here, but memory did. O-moon's voice echoed softly around him. Not Katsu, not the one from the trauma room, another. You've taken their pain, but have you taken responsibility? A shape formed ahead, a mirror fractured down the center. One side showed him in full armor, powerful, poised. The other, him hunched in an alley. No coat, no lighter, nothing but a look in his eyes that said I ran. The voice returned. Every piece of armor you wear demands a sacrifice, and every time you deny it, the sigil turns. He reached towards the mirror and it rippled, then shattered inward. A wind hit his chest and the rogue fragment flew from his coat, wrapping around his arm like a serpent. The leg guards locked in place, his eyes rolled back.
Speaker 1:The courtyard dissolved, back in the apartment, but not the same. The journal was gone, the ashtray was clean, the tea had vanished. And there on the table, the next piece, the chest plate. Not the one he already had, another, more intricate, etched with kenji, that shifted when you looked at it. For too long. He stepped back, confused. You already claimed this chest piece, didn't you? Then a knock, not at the door, inside the wall, knuckles, slow, heavy. He stepped forward, pressed his ear against the paint and heard you're not the first to wear it, but you might be the last. Everything froze the room, the walls, the city outside and in the mirror, the one above the sink, a figure Wearing all the armor, standing still watching Himself. Maybe, maybe not. The mirror cracked, the sigil burned in the glass and then Nothing Dark.
Speaker 1:He woke up in bed, the real one, chest, bare, arms trembling. The armor was gone, the journal was closed, but the sigil remained. Burned, his palm like a scar, a scar with heat still rising underneath, a warning that the next door wouldn't wait. At the end of his bed, a slip of silk, not his, not Katsu's. It was folded perfectly. Inside it had the final drawing he made as a child, before everything changed A samurai, faceless, wearing armor too large for his body, and in the corner, a symbol. He didn't remember ever learning how to draw the same sigil on his palm.
Speaker 1:The morning didn't arrive. It simply appeared Like a mass pulled over a bruise. The sky was colorless, the city outside didn't seem to move and the apartment? It was holding its breath. He stared at the sigil. The skin around it hadn't blistered, but it felt hot like something beneath the surface was trying to speak, he rubbed at it with his sleeve. It didn't fade, it never would. The leg guards were gone now, at least visibly, but he could feel them Still attached, whispering Like muscle. That wasn't his yet but would be.
Speaker 1:He opened the journal again. A single line had appeared at the top of the next blank page. You're starting to remember the parts of you that weren't allowed to survive. He didn't write it, but it was in his handwriting. A knock at the door this time it was light, it was real.
Speaker 1:He opened without thinking Katsu, but not with breakfast, not with tea, with a folder Medical charts, x-rays, something printed on glossy film. She held it with both hands like it might burn her. You ever see something you know shouldn't exist? She said softly. He nodded once she handed it to him. The x-ray was labeled with her name, her spine, her heart and something between them, a metallic shadow, coiled like a serpent. She wasn't injured, wasn't sick, but something was inside her and it wasn't supposed to be.
Speaker 1:He looked up. Her eyes were calm, but her voice cracked when she said it started the night. You gave me the drone on the hoed. He didn't know what to say. He never had the right words for her, not for the old her, not for this new version, not now. But he took the folder, set it on the desk and asked simply Do you trust me? She nodded, then looked past him to the mirror by the door. She flinched what I saw, someone behind you. He turned. Nothing but a warmth spread across the floor, not fire Memory. The air thickened, the walls pulsed and just like that the apartment was gone.
Speaker 1:He stood in a circular chamber, no ceiling, just sky that roared like thunder but never cracked open. Flames danced around the room's edges but gave off no heat. And in the center, the chestplate. Not the one from the apartment, not the duplicate, the first, the origin. It sat on top of a pedestal made of bone, wood and old vows. Not the duplicate, the first, the origin. It sat atop a pedestal made of bone, wood and old vows. A voice echoed, but it wasn't Alistair's, it was his. It was his from somewhere deep, deeper, darker. This is the part where they all failed.
Speaker 1:He stepped forward. Every motion echoed too loud for too long. The flame bent toward him, not to burn but to study. He reached out, touched the chest plate and instantly his back arched, his mouth opened, but no sound came out, because this time he wasn't just seeing memory, he was in it.
Speaker 1:The battlefield was soaked Not with blood but with silence. The temple stood burning. In the distance, before him, ten warriors in armor, each one of them faceless, every one of them dead, and in the center, a child no older than seven, holding a katana that shook in his grip. It was him. He knew it. Not the version he remembered, the version he erased. Alice's voice cut through again, distant like thunder. Not the version he remembered, the version he erased. Alice's voice cut through again, distant like thunder. Every piece reveals the version of you that died in its absence.
Speaker 1:The child looked up, eyes filled with terror. Then he ran and everything shattered Back in the chamber. The chestplate had wrapped itself around him, his lungs were fire, his visions were blurred. But he stood, and when he did, a door opened behind him, light, cold, clean. And in that doorway, alistair Real this time, not an echo, not a projection. He walked forward, studied him, nodded. Once you kept your name, he said that's more than most. Then he handed him something, a scroll Bound with silk, no markings. You won't open this now, but you will when the next one comes. What next one? But Alistair was already turning, already gone Back in the apartment. Chestplate is still there, sigil still on the hand, the folder on the table, untouched.
Speaker 1:K stood at the sink making tea. She turned when he stirred. Did you go again? She asked. He nodded, I was waiting. She said it's almost morning. She poured him a cup. He sipped Bitter Real and in the reflection of the kitchen window, the armor was complete down to the waist, and behind him a faint outline of a faceless child, gaetana, just slightly too large for his hands, still waiting, just like it always had been.
Speaker 1:You know, this episode, this one was heavier, you know, and if you're still here after everything that's happened, you know the armor, the voices, the sigils then I need you to know something. You're not just listening to a story anymore. You're watching a man disappear and reassemble in real time. And maybe, just maybe, that man is you. You know, in this episode, right, the visitations, it wasn't a mirror with ten faces. It wasn't about finding armor, it was about finding memory. You know the kind that doesn't live in your head, but you know in your soul, like in your bones.
Speaker 1:You know Alistair's return wasn't just for show. He came to warn you. Every warrior who walked this path before made a choice to stop, to fall to, you know to forget, but you didn't. You entered the hospital again, not to heal but to see what needed to die. And the doors Alistair opened. Each one was a version of you that didn't make it, and that's the part that matters. You're walking through the consequences of your own survival.
Speaker 1:This isn't a story about becoming strong. It's a story about facing what your strength has cost you. You know that sigil that burned into your palm it wasn't punishment, it was a receipt, proof that even your forgetting has been recorded. You know Katsu's moment. You know it matters too, because sometimes people around us are affected by the things we don't or won't really admit that are real. You gave her the journal not to protect her, but because a part of you needed her to see you, even if she didn't understand what she was holding. You know that folder, the shadow and the x-ray, those are not abnormalities, those are signals.
Speaker 1:You know you're not the only one being marked by the journey. You're not the only one who's changing. You're not the only one who's changing. See the armor. It doesn't just protect, it demands a price. Right. Every step forward burns another piece of you that you really pretended to be, you know.
Speaker 1:So now you have to ask yourself the real question what part of you is still afraid to be seen? And that's what these next reflection exercises are going to really talk about. Right, first, is describe a version of yourself that didn't make it. Maybe it was a dream you left behind. It was a path you abandoned. Why did you walk away Right? Ask yourself that.
Speaker 1:Two what truth about yourself have you been unwilling to accept until now? Write it down, say it out loud, face it, face it head on. Okay. Number three who around you has been affected by your inner battles? Reach out to them. Ask them what it's like to love you through your silence. Four Create your own mental corridor.
Speaker 1:List five selves that you've tried to become but couldn't. What stopped each one? And last but not least, what piece of yourself do you feel returning as you go deeper into the story? What scares you about wearing it again? See, when we're going through all of this, right, especially when you're doing these reflection exercises.
Speaker 1:Yes, this is a great story and it's entertaining and these kind of things, but what I really want you to get out of this is really reflecting inside of yourself, because I'll say for me I've been in all those doors. I faced all those guys right Versus me. You know like I wanted to build a big business and you know relationships and all these different things right, and just like we've talked in prior episodes, like when you're in this journey you know why it's called Jen's Journey when you're in this journey to become better, right, everyone talks about the beginning. Everyone talks about the right. Everyone talks about the beginning. Everyone talks about the end. No one talks about the middle, and that's where you're at in this journey right now. You're in the middle. Right, this is episode five. You're in the middle. Right, there's five more episodes left and it's gonna keep cranking, right. But a lot of us are in the middle of a journey and we try to compare with social media and our friends and this, and that One of the things you have to understand about life is that each life that is lived is uniquely their own.
Speaker 1:Your life right now is uniquely your own. No one can live it, but you life right now is uniquely your own. No one can live it but you. And the sooner you start to understand that, the sooner everything will really start to fall into place. And that's what he is starting to understand. That's why these things keep happening because he has to understand, he has to live his own life, and that'll become clearer and clearer the further on we get in this.
Speaker 1:So you know, I know I usually do like a big like hey, I said, you know, thank you guys so much for supporting me in this kind of stuff, but this is a really big episode, so I'm not going to ask that, I'm just going to tell you guys, thank you so much for always listening and and if you do well, I guess we're going to do it now. Huh, if you, if you do well, I guess we're going to do it now. Huh, if you, if you do want to get ahold of me, there's three ways. First way is through the chat function on the description of this podcast. Second way is through my email, anthonyatjensjourneycom. And, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram, myjensjourney, and we can talk there.
Speaker 1:Okay, but like today, like when you take this this weekend or this time, really reflect on those five exercises I gave you. The clarity that you want is really going to be in those, and it's going to feel scary and it's going to feel weird, but that's a great thing because that means it's the right one. Okay, that's a great thing because that means it's the right one, okay. So again, guys, thank you so much for listening today and remember this you create your reality, take care. Bye.