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 Patience of Predators: The Dinner Party
The chandeliers glow like molten gold as Manhattan's elite raise their glasses to Aston Cross – the law firm's golden boy, the heir apparent, a man who seems to have mastered perfection itself. But as applause thunders through the ballroom, something unexpected happens: through the walls bleeds the jagged opening riff of Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit," a sound that doesn't celebrate Aston but mocks him.
Thus begins "The Patience of Predators," a chilling exploration of what happens when our carefully constructed facades begin to crack. We follow Aston through a single night and morning as his perfect world unravels in subtle, terrifying ways. His reflections lag behind his movements, phantom music plays when nothing is on, and mysterious phone calls bring only breathing on the other end. The city itself seems to be communicating with him through meaningful song lyrics that appear precisely when needed to unsettle him.
What makes this story so compelling isn't just the supernatural elements, but the profound questions it raises about authenticity and success. As Anthony notes, "You can polish a mask until it blinds the room, but the music doesn't lie." Each reflective surface becomes a window into Aston's fragmenting sense of self, revealing the disconnect between the image he projects and the truth he hides even from himself.
The episode concludes with powerful reflections worth considering in our own lives: Where are you polishing a mask instead of facing what's underneath? What cracks have you noticed and tried to ignore? When the applause fades, what silence do you come home to? Because perfection isn't just impossible – it might be the most dangerous illusion of all.
Connect with Anthony through the description link, email at anthony@gentsjourney.com, or on Instagram @MyGentsJourney. Remember, you create your reality – but first, you must be willing to truly see it.
"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 starting a brand new series, guys, brand new, brand new. And the name of this series is the Patience of Predators. So let's go ahead and let's get in the cold opening. The chandeliers glowed like molten gold, the light spilling over marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, every surface in the ballroom gleamed, every gesture rehearsed.
Speaker 1:Manhattan in 1991 was still dining off of excess of the 80s, though in the shadows, a new sound was clawing its way into culture Grunge guitars from Seattle, industrial beats from Cleveland, trip-hop tapes floating across the Atlantic. But tonight those songs belonged outside. And here it was all elegance. A quartet in the corner played a smooth rendition of Coltrane's Naima. The notes curled into the air like smoke, haunting and fragile, almost swallowed by the roar of champagne flutes and laughter. The music wasn't simply background. It filled the room with a reminder Beauty is delicate and it can shatter.
Speaker 1:At the center of it all stood Aston Cross 31,. Tuxedo. Crisp as a blade Hair, a slick posture, carved from confidence, he looked like a man every other man wished to become and every woman wished to touch. The law firm's golden boy, the heir apparent. He had learned how to let the spotlight rest on him without flinching. Elliot Warren, the senior partner, raised a glass. His voice was gravel, smoothed by decades of cigars, to Aston Cross. He declared the future of the firm, the promise of the city, the proof that perfection can be achieved.
Speaker 1:Applause, thundered, glasses lifted, faces glowing from champagne. Warmth, ashton stepped up, smile practiced, but warm enough to look effortless. He thanked Elliot, thanked his colleagues, thanked the firm that had shaped him. His words flowed like silk polish from rehearsals in the mirror. When he mentioned his mother, there was the faintest catch, a pause, so small. Most missed it, but it hung in the music just long enough for Coltrane's saxophone to fill the space. And then he said Claire's name. A murmur ran through the crowd. His fiancée, the doctor overseas, the one who had treated a Manhattan cocktail party. Were war zones Tonight? She was the only voice through the ballroom speakers. The connection crackled. Then her accent came through, soft French-American Je suis fier de toi, I am proud of you.
Speaker 1:The applause that followed melted into something warmer, almost tender. Aston closed his eyes just briefly, letting the words brand him. When he opened them, the entire room was smiling at him. In that moment he looked untouchable. But perfection is fragile. As the applause died down, the quartet shifted. Coltrane gave way to silence for a breath. And in that silence a pulse of sound leaked in from the outside, faint but insistent, from a bar down the street, the jagged opening riff of Navarra and a smell-like teen spirit rattled through the walls. It was a sound that didn't belong here, a sound that laughed at marble floors and champagne glasses, a sound that didn't celebrate him but mocked him. For the briefest second, aston's smile faltered. The lights caught the mirrors lining the ballroom and his reflection blinked back at him. From a dozen angles. The reflections all smiled, perfect, rehearsed, except one. One affliction lingered just a fraction too long and then it was gone. The applause surged again. Aston raised his glass. Untouchable For now.
Speaker 1:Part One, the Drive Home. The pause followed him out of the ballroom, clinging like smoke to his tuxedo. Outside, the night was colder than he expected. Manhattan in February bit through fabric seeping into skin, reminding him that even kings felt the wind. The doorman hailed his car though it was an extension of him. Sleek black, the BMW 7 Series polished so thoroughly, the streetlights bent across its hood. Aston slid inside. The leather hugged him like old money. For a moment he sat in silence, staring at the dash, his own reflection, faint, in the windshield. The applause still rang in his ears, but behind it was something else, the echo of that Nirvana riff bleeding through the ballroom walls, raw, unpolished and sneering. He turned the key, the engine purred to life. Smooth and obedient, the ritter clicked on the jazz station.
Speaker 1:Late night hosting, introducing Coltrane in his sentimental mood. The saxophone poured over him. Melancholy, wrapped in velvet, he drove slowly at first, letting the city swallow him. Streetlights flashed in rhythmic sequence, taxi horns blared, neon signs smeared against the glass as he moved through the intersections. He'd always thought of Manhattan as his kingdom, one he had earned. Every polished detail of his life, from his car to the apartment he was headed towards, was proof of his mastery. But the kingdom didn't feel secure. Tonight it felt alive. Watching At a red light, his eyes wandered.
Speaker 1:A homeless man curled in a doorway, breathing, clouding the air. Two lovers stumbled out of a bar, clinging to each other, laughing at something he couldn't hear. On the corner, a payphone rang unanswered, its metallic clang sharp against the night. From the bar that spilled another song, muffled but clear enough to prick the skin Pearl Jem's alive. Eddie Vedder's voice stretched into the night, raw and wounded. Son, she said I have a little story for you. The lyrics hit harder than they should have. He turned the volume up on his own radio, forcing Coltrane to drown it out. But he had already heard the words and they already lingered. The light turned green. He pressed the accelerator.
Speaker 1:The further he drove, the emptier the streets became. The skyscraper stood like silent sentinels, the windows catching him in endless reflections. For a moment it felt like the city wasn't just holding him, it was surrounding him, duplicating him, watching him from every angle. He gripped the wheel tighter, jaw set. He told himself it was exhaustion, a long night, too much champagne. The scotch waiting for him at home, already whispering.
Speaker 1:But as he pulled into the garage beneath his building, the thought pressed harder. Perfection attracts eyes, and not all eyes clap when they watch the garage, hummed with fluorescent lights, empty except for rows of cars asleep in their spaces. He parked the BMW engine, sighing into silence. For a moment he lingered in the driver's seat staring at his own faint reflection in the rearview mirror. The reflection blinked back. It beat late. His throat tightened. He exhaled, shook his head and told himself it was nothing, just tired eyes playing tricks. He stepped out the sound of his polished shoes echoing against concrete. The echo sounded like another set of footsteps following half a beat behind.
Speaker 1:By the time he reached the elevator, the silence of the garage was suffocating. He pressed the button, waited for the doors to open and stepped into another box of mirrored glass. The reflections multiplied him infinitely, all of them perfect, almost One lingered. The elevator hummed upward. Aston fixed his tie. Every reflection fixed theirs, every reflection Except one. When doors opened, he stepped out too quickly, as though the distance could erase the thought. His heart beat harder than he wanted to admit. He told himself it was fatigue the price of success. But as he walked towards his apartment door, the faint echo of Eddie Vedder still clung to him. Oh, I, oh, I am still alive. Alive, yes, but not alone.
Speaker 1:Part 2. The Diner at 2am. Sleep would not come. The scotchy porch sat unfinished on the counter. Ice melted in the water-ambery pool. The skyline outside his window glowed like a promise. He couldn't cash Every attempt to settle into his leather chair to let Coltrane's saxophone guide him towards calm. But it failed. His body hummed with restlessness, his mind sharpened than it should have been With applause. From hours ago, ed Crowden did something better.
Speaker 1:At 2 am, aston put his coat back on and stepped out into the night. The city at that hour belonged to a different breed, not the polished executives or laughing couples. He passed earlier. This was the hour of insomniacs and ghosts. A man wheeled a shopping cart stacked with cans down the avenue. A group of club kids spilled from doorways. Eyeliner smudge voices, high and jagged Taxi drivers lean against their cars, smoking Faces, half-shadowed, half-lit by neon. From a passing bar, nirvana's lithium blasted, distorted through thin walls, cobain's voice breaking on the words. I'm so happy, cause today I found my friends and they're in my head. The line hit too close. Aston kept walking, coat collar pulled higher.
Speaker 1:He turned into a diner he'd noticed before but never entered, a glowing beacon of neon and chrome, the kind of place that never closed, that seemed to exist outside of time. The bell over the door jingled as he stepped inside. The warmth wrapped around him instantly heavy with grease and coffee. Blur-scent lights hummed overhead, buzzing faintly in the silence. Between the songs on the jukebox, a waitress in her forties moved with mechanical efficiency, topping off mugs before anyone could ask. Two cops sat in a corner booth, uniforms, rumpled eyes, scanning the room, with the bored vigilance of men who'd seen too much. A young couple leaned into each other over pancakes, whispering conspiracies like lovers do at that hour.
Speaker 1:Aston chose a booth near the window. The vinyl seat squeaked as he slid in His coat, his watch, his whole presence marked him as out of place. The waitress noticed, everyone did. He ordered black coffee anyways. The jukebox clicked and Seals Crazy swelled through the diner. Its echoing beat filling the space like prophecy. In a world full of people, only some want to fly. Isn't that crazy?
Speaker 1:Aston wrapped his hands around the mug when it arrived, the heat biting in his skin. He stared into the coffee, dark and endless, before glancing up at the window. The city stared back at him through the glass. But the glass also held his reflection. It looked like him, tired, perfect, untouchable. Almost For just a moment his reflection didn't match. Behind it, blurred and indistinct, a figure stood on the sidewalk watching Asen's chest seized.
Speaker 1:He snapped his head towards the street. It was empty, just steam rising from a grate, just neon flickering. He pressed his lips together, forcing his breath steady. When he looked back at the window, it was only his face staring back. Now the cops in the corner shifted one glancing his way with faint suspicion. Did they see him flinch? Did he look guilty of something? The thought clawed at him. Absurd yet sticky. He dropped bills on the table without finishing his coffee. The waitress picked them up without a word. Her eyes lingered on him as though she knew more than she should. The street outside was colder. The neon sign buzzed faintly above him, letters flickering like a dying heartbeat.
Speaker 1:The song still leaked faintly from inside, seal's voice echoing after him. But now we're never going to survive unless we get a little crazy. The lyric hung in the air like a warning. A payphone across the street began to ring sharp metallic, out of place in an empty hour. He stopped walking staring at it. One ring, two ring, three ring. He almost stepped towards it. On the seventh ring it stopped.
Speaker 1:The silence that followed felt heavier than the sound. He quickened his pace, shoes clicking against the pavement. The city has grown quieter now. A garbage truck growled in the distance, headlights spilling against brick. A man in a trench coat disappeared into an alley.
Speaker 1:As Aston passed another bar, a different song spelled out Guns N' Roses, november Rain. The guitar solo cut through the night raw and aching. A drunk man stumbled out of the door singing along, cigarette daling from his lips. The drunk didn't notice Aston. But in the glass of the bar's doorway Aston's reflection lingered and, just for a heartbeat, smiled. When he didn't, he tore his eyes away, quickened his steps and didn't look back.
Speaker 1:By the time he reached his building, exhaustion had begun to outweigh paranoia. He stepped into the elevator, the mirrored walls surrounding him in perfect copies. He straightened his tie out of habit. Every reflection straightened with him, except one. It lagged A blink too slow. The doors opened. He stepped out too fast, as though distance could erase the thought. But the echo of Seal's lyric clung to him as he reached his apartment door we're never going to survive. Unless he didn't finish it in his mind. He didn't want to.
Speaker 1:Part 3. The Apartment, glass, the apartment welcomed him with silence, Too much silence. Usually it felt like a sanctuary Florideth ceiling, windows overlooking the East River, polished oak floors, furniture arranged with the precision of an art gallery. Tonight it felt staged A museum exhibit of a man called Aston Cross. Every chair, every glass, every framed photograph existed exactly where it should, and that was the problem. He hung his Coke neatly on the rack, though his hands trembled faintly. His watch ticked in his ear louder than it should. The hum of the refrigerator felt accusatory. Even his own footsteps seemed a beat too loud against the floor.
Speaker 1:Aston moved to the record player, setting the needle against Coltrane's blue and green. The saxophone curled through the apartment smooth but unsettled, like a memory that wouldn't resolve. It filled the silence but didn't erase it. He sank into the leather chair by the window. The city sprawled below, alive and glowing. Bridges lit like necklaces, skyscrapers gleaming like polished teeth. This was supposed to be proof of his triumph, the view every man dreamed of owing.
Speaker 1:But the glass didn't just show the city, it showed him His reflection, staring back, tuxedo, crisp, jawline, hard eyes burning with fatigue. It was perfect, like everything else, and yet for a moment it wasn't. The reflection blinked half a second too late. Ashton's breath hitched. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the cold glass. His reflection leaned too, but not quite in sync. He tore himself back, blinking hard. It was fine, just exhaustion, just champagne and scotch, nothing more. He turned up the record, letting Coltrane push harder against the silence.
Speaker 1:The phone rang. He startled, almost knocking over his glass. He snatched the receiver, breath sharp, hello, hello. He sat a calm note around the Claire, claire. Are you there, claire? Silence. He strained holding his breath for a second. He thought he heard breathing. Then a click the line went dead. He thought he heard breathing, then a click the line went dead. He slammed the receiver down, chest heaving. It rang again immediately. He lifted it. Nothing, only static. His hands shook as he set the phone down carefully, like it might explode if it dropped. He poured another scotch, drinking it too fast. The warmth slid down, but the cold inside him stayed.
Speaker 1:He drifted from room to room restless. The kitchen counters gleamed like silverware, aligned like soldiers. The dining room table sat untouched, pristine. The bookshelf lined with leather-bound law journals, their spines unbroken. Every detail perfect, every detail empty. He caught his reflection again in the polished surface of the table. His face warped slightly in the shine For a moment. It looked like someone else.
Speaker 1:He shoved the glass tray aside too hard. It clattered echoing through the apartment. He froze waiting for the sound. Too hard. It clattered echoing through the apartment. He froze waiting for the sound to settle. It didn't. It clung like someone was listening. He switched the record off. Silence pressed in again thicker now. He turned on the radio instead, searching for anything Static, filled the air until it locked on a station REM, losing my religion. That's me in the corner. That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion. The lyrics cut deep, the words pressed in him like a confession. He turned the volume down, but the chorus kept echoing inside his head even after he clicked the radio off. The silence that followed was heavier than sound.
Speaker 1:He returned to the window, clutching his glass, staring out at Manhattan's endless glow. His reflection looked back, flawless, but his eyes were hollow. The city felt alive Watching An imperfection For the first time. It felt alive Watching An imperfection For the first time. It felt fragile.
Speaker 1:Part 4. Phantom Music. The shower was supposed to wash it away. Steam filled the bathroom, curling against the mirror until the reflection blurred. For the first time all night, aston felt a measure of relief In distortion. He looked human again, imperfect, softened. Let the water pour against his shoulders, sculling enough to sting, forcing his mind into focus. He told himself it was simple Exhaustion, alcohol. The high of applause curling into emptiness. Everyone felt hollow.
Speaker 1:After being celebrated, everyone came down. The water roared louder, drowning out the city. Then he heard it. At first he thought it was the pipes, the rattle of old plumbing. But beneath the hiss of water came a pulse of sound, faint but distinct Music. He twisted the knob silencing the shower. Steam hung thick in the room but the sound remained. Seals crazy. The same track from the dyno jukebox, faint echoing through the apartment. But we're never going to survive unless we get a little crazy. This pulse spiked. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped into the hall, steam trailing behind him like smoke. The apartment lay quiet, but the music pulsed, faintly bleeding through the walls. He followed it past the kitchen, past the bookshelf, towards the living room where the stereo sat. The stereo was off, the set deck empty. Still, seal's voice lingered in the air Crazy, crazy, crazy. The sound faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only silence.
Speaker 1:Ashton stood in the middle of his apartment, damp hair dripping on the polished floor, his chest heaved. He forced himself to move to the window to ground himself in the city. The skyline still glittered, cars still flowed, neon signs still sputtered in rhythm. But it didn't feel the same. The city wasn't just there, it was pressing in. Its hum wasn't background, it was alive, vibrating against the glass like a heartbeat.
Speaker 1:He stared at his reflection again. This time the reflection didn't look tired, it looked alert, almost amused. Aston blinked hard. When his eyes opened, the reflection was back to normal. He staggered back from the window, muttering under his breath You're tired, that's all, you're just tired. But the silence answered louder than words.
Speaker 1:He tried to anchor himself in ritual, poured another drink, but the scotch no longer soothed. He checked the locks on his door, though the building was guarded. He arranged a stack of magazines and rearranged them again. Every movement felt hollow, every detail perfect but meaningless. He drifted back into the bedroom, hoping maybe sleep would come if he surrendered.
Speaker 1:The bed was immaculate, sheets tucked sharp as a hotel. He pulled them loose, slid beneath and stared at the ceiling. He left the light on. He closed his eyes just for a moment. Then the phone rang. He jerked upright, grabbed the receiver on the second ring, hello, static, hissed. He pressed the phone tighter against his ear, claire. But this time he was certain there was breathing on the other end. Who is this? His voice cracked sharp, demanding. The line clicked dead. The silence after was louder than the ring. He lowered the phone slowly, his hand trembling. He didn't hang it up right away, he just listened. The receiver still pressed to his ear, but all that came was his own breathing, ragged, too fast. Finally he sat it down. He sat on the edge of the bed. He couldn't sleep, not yet. The silence pressed too close, the reflections too ready, the phantom music too near. Somewhere in all of it Aston began to understand. Cracks weren't just forming, they were already there.
Speaker 1:Part 5. Don Cracks, the Mask Don slid into the apartment like an uninvited guest. Not triumphant, not golden, but pale, gray and cold. The kind of light that stripped things bare. Manhattan's skyline glowing like a crown. Hours earlier looked worn now, edges softened by the haze of early morning. Earlier looked worn, now edges softened by the haze of early morning. The east river shimmered faintly, more steel than silver.
Speaker 1:Aston sat slouched on the sofa. He spent the night pacing, drinking, checking reflections, as if one might finally reveal what he feared. Now exhaustion clung to him, sleep refused him. His body trembled with a kind of fatigue that felt less like tiredness, more like erosion. He dragged himself into the kitchen and brewed coffee. The machine gurgled, hissed, then filled the room with the bitter grounding scent.
Speaker 1:He poured a mug, held it between his hands like a relic. The steam curled upward and delicate. For a moment he stared at it too long. The tendrils bent, swayed, and then impossibly formed the faintest shape of letters. For half a breath he thought he saw a word. He blinked and the steam was just steam. He pressed the mug to his lips but the taste was thin, metallic. It didn't matter, he drank it anyways.
Speaker 1:The phone rang. This time he answered before the second ring, claire. His voice cracked with hunger. The delay was long enough for her stomach to twist before her voice came through, distant, accented. Aston Relief surged too sharp. He clutched the receiver tighter. Oh, Claire, thank God I needed. He stopped breath catching the word. I needed to hear you. Her voice was faint, threaded with static. You sound tired, I am, but I'm fine.
Speaker 1:Last night, you know the gaming award, you know the whole firm was there, elliot, everyone. He tried to inject pride into the words, but even his own ears it sounded hollow. It was a spectacle. I wish I could have been there. The way she said it paid both sincerity and distance, like a promise spoken out of duty. He imagined her in some dim hospital, overseas, fluorescent lights, buzzing above patients lying in cots, worlds apart. Imagine her as some dim hospital, overseas, fluorescent lights buzzing above patients lined in cots, worlds apart. You'll be back soon. He said quickly, too quickly. Yes, soon. But the word landed soft but unsteady. Static thickened. Her voice broke in and out I'm proud, aston. Then the line died. He stood frozen, holding the receiver against his ear as if the pressure could force her voice back through Nothing. When he finally sat the phone down, his hand shook so hard he spilled the coffee across the counter. He staggered back into the living room, gripping the mug tight, even though it was empty.
Speaker 1:He stood before the window again, staring onto the city, staring to life. Yellow cabs swarmed, intersections, suits hurried down sidewalks. With briefcases in hand, a woman tugged a child towards school. The boy dragged his feet Normal, ordinary and alive. His reflection in the glass looked anything but. The daylight made it sharper, cooler. His tuxedo looked wilted, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw slack with fatigue. He pressed his palm against the glass and his reflection mirrored it. For a moment they were in sync. Then the reflection lagged, half a breath late. His stomach twisted. He leaned closer, searching his own face. His reflection leaned closer too, but its eyes didn't match his. They were colder.
Speaker 1:Aston stumbled back, blinking furiously. When he looked again, it was only him, just him. He whispered to the glass, voice frayed you're tired, that's all. You're just tired. The reflection said nothing, but in silence. You're tired, that's all. You're just tired. Reflection said nothing but in silence. Echoes of last night's music returned, faint, imagined, yet insistent. Eddie Vedder's voice from alive, whispering through memory oh I, oh I I'm still alive. Alive but not steady, not safe, not safe, Not alone. Part 6. The Reflection that Does Not Sleep.
Speaker 1:By late morning, exhaustion has conquered him. Aston had paced the apartment until his legs trembled. He poured coffee after coffee, after coffee, until his stomach soured. He stared out windows until the city blurred in one endless smear of light. The cracks in last night had grown too sharp, too jagged to ignore. He had checked the locks twice, pulled the curtains, turned the radio on, turned it off, moved from chair to chair like a fugitive in his own home. Eventually, there was nothing left to do but collapse.
Speaker 1:He dragged himself into the bedroom not even bothering to undress fully. His bowtie hung limp, his shirt untucked, his jacket tossed carelessly across a chair. He pulled the sheets back, slid beneath and lay flat on his back staring at the ceiling. The silence pressed down heavier. Here. He could still hear the faint hum of traffic below the clatter of the city waking until its day, but it came muffled, distant, like the sound of another world. His world shrunk to four walls, a ceiling and a bed that suddenly felt too big.
Speaker 1:He left the light on. He told himself it was practical, that he didn't want to oversleep. The truth was simpler. Darkness felt dangerous. He closed his eyes just for a moment. The remnants of songs drifted through his half-sleep, losing my religion alive, crazy, each lyric surfacing in fragments Like a record skipping on dead wax. That's me in the corner. I'm so happy cause today, but we're never gonna survive Voices that don't belong to him but live inside of him.
Speaker 1:Now he jerked awake, his chest heaving. The apartment was quiet, too quiet. He turned his head toward the window. The lines weren't drawn all the way. A sliver of glass glowed with daylight and in that glass his reflection stared back. It should have been faint, distorted by angle and brightness, but it was sharp, too sharp, and its eyes were open.
Speaker 1:He sat up, breath caught in his throat. His reflection did not. It stayed lying down, perfectly, still, perfectly composed. His pulse hammered. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, looking again. The reflection was normal, just him. He collapsed back under the bed, dragging the covers over him like armor. His body shook, then stilled, then surrendered His breath, slowed His eyes, closed, finally sleep. But the apartment was not asleep. The city outside still pulsed with life. The faint echo of call train saxophones seemed to linger in the air, though no record played. Curling through the silence like smoke, the blinds quivered faintly, as though stirred by a presence, though the windows were sealed tight and in the glass, aston's reflection did not close its eyes. It remained awake, watching, waiting Aston's Monologue.
Speaker 1:I should be proud tonight. They raised their glasses, they called me the future. They said my name like it belonged to marble in history. Claire's voice crossed oceans to tell me she was proud. Elliot promised me everything I've been clung towards. This should be the night I remembered for the rest of my life.
Speaker 1:But what do I feel? Not triumph, not security, not peace. I feel cracks, small at first, a blink too slow in the mirror, a song leaking through the walls that didn't belong, a silence too loud to ignore. But cracks grow and once you notice one, you can't stop seeing them. I told myself I was tired, that champagne dulls the senses, that scotch plays tricks. But I know better. Perfection is heavy and tonight I felt it bend. I built this life brick by brick, mask by mask, until even I believed it was flawless. But what is flawless except fragile? The one night of applause and I come home to silence that knows my name better than the crowd ever did. I tell myself tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow the cracks won't show, tomorrow the reflection will obey. But tonight, tonight, I know the truth action doesn last and the silence is waiting.
Speaker 1:Let's go ahead and let's get into my monologue. You've seen it, didn't you? The applause, the tuxedo, the champagne, all of it gleaming, all of it perfect. That's how Aston Cross wants to be remembered. You know the future of the firm, the man in the spotlight, the untouchable. But you notice what was underneath the way his mother's name caught in his throat, the way Claire's absence echoed louder than her words, the way every reflection of him faltered, lagged and hesitated, as if even the glass didn't believe the mask anymore.
Speaker 1:And the music? Did you get that? Nevada bleeding in when reculturing should have ruled Arium? Whispering from car radio, seal crooning prophecy in a diner. At 2 am, the city was singing to him, whether they wanted to hear it or not. The songs weren't random, they were reminders, they were warnings. They were the unseen character waiting in the wings. Because that's the truth. You can polish a mask until it blinds the room, but the music doesn't lie. Music cuts through, it slips in sideways, it tells you what you're afraid to admit. And Aston, he's already hearing it. The city's playlist is telling him exactly what he doesn't want to face.
Speaker 1:What about the cracks you pretend aren't there? What music has been playing in your background lately? The words? You ignore the warnings, you dismiss the silence that grows louder every time you turn away. You know perfection is fragile. You can keep hiding behind it, but the cracks don't stop until Actually, the cracks don't stop really just because you refuse to look. So I'll ask you this when the reflection lags, when the song cuts through, when the silence breathes heavier than applause, will you face it or you wait until it faces you?
Speaker 1:Let's go ahead and let's get into the reflections. Reflection one where in your life are you polishing a mask instead of facing what's underneath? That's such a massive question to start off with. But once you get those answers, these other questions will be a lot easier to answer. Reflection two what cracks have you noticed recently and tried to ignore? Number three what music, words or messages have you been echoing around you, like warning Three, sorry, four, when the applause fades, what silence do you come home to? And last but not least, number five If your reflection could speak, what truth would it say back to you?
Speaker 1:So, guys, this was episode one. So we're gonna close out september with this series. So you're gonna get a lot coming out here and this is gonna be a real wild ride. I'm telling you, you guys, if you enjoyed the death of peace of mind, you're gonna enjoy this. This is gonna be a real wild ride. I'm telling you, you guys, if you enjoyed the Death of Peace of Mind, you're going to enjoy this. This is going to be a real thriller for you.
Speaker 1:So I just wanted to thank every single one of you guys for your support. I know I say this all the time, but I couldn't do this without you, without you guys messaging me and your guys' support. Without you, without you guys messaging me and your guys' support, it's just me talking to myself, and I do that. Enough already.
Speaker 1:But if you want to support the show, if this is your first time listening, supporting the show is super easy. It doesn't cost you anything and it takes just seconds really. First thing is, if you want to support the show, leave a comment, leave a review. Those are super helpful, okay? Second way, share this with a family member or a friend. That goes such a long way and if they like what you like, trust me they're going to like this, because I know you like it all.
Speaker 1:Right Now, if you want to get a hold of me, you want to call me. You want to call me. If you want to contact me, I should say we want to talk about this series, this episode, 15 other series that are out there and the 300 plus episodes now that we have on Gents Journey. It's super easy. There's three ways. First way is going to be through the description on the podcast. There's something you can click on that says let chat. Once you click on that, you and I can have a conversation about this series, this episode, the 300 other episodes that are on Gents Journey and a bunch of other series.
Speaker 1:Second way is going to be through my email. My email is anthony at gentsjourneycom, so feel free to reach out to me there. And then, last but certainly not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram handle is MyGentsJourney. So again, guys, this is just the beginning of this series. We're going to have a good time and it's going to be a wild, wild ride. So buckle up, all right, but again, guys, thank you so much for listening today and remember this you create your reality. Take care Bye.