Watchtower I was built in pieces. Some forged in heat, some wired in silence, some learned the hard way when nobody was watching. I learned early how to stand guard over doors, over men, over moments that could end a life or split one in two. I learned how to count breaths, how to listen for the sound that doesn’t belong. Later, I learned how to build systems so nothing critical gets forgotten checklists, routines, backups, failsafes. Not because I love control, but because chaos charges interest and I’ve paid enough. There are ghosts here. They don’t scream. They hum like machinery left running after midnight, like a radio tuned between stations. I don’t chase them anymore. I log them. I acknowledge their presence and keep moving. Pain taught me humility. Not the poetic kind the kind where tying your shoes becomes a negotiation, and asking for help feels like surrender until you realize it’s not. Love taught me risk. Not the reckless kind the kind where you stay soft even when you know how hard the world can hit. Where you don’t armor your heart, you reinforce it. Fatherhood changed the mission. Suddenly every decision had a longer shadow. I wasn’t surviving anymore I was modeling. Showing her how a man stands when he can’t run, how he tells the truth even when it costs him comfort. I write to leave markers. Not for fame. For continuity. So if one day she wonders who her father was when the lights were off and the noise was gone, there’s a record. This work is not loud. It doesn’t need to be. It’s maintenance. It’s vigilance. It’s choosing discipline over despair, presence over numbness, creation over collapse. I am not healed. I am operational. Still learning. Still refining. Still standing watch not against the world, but for what matters. And when the day comes that I finally power down, let it be said: He built something that lasted. He stayed. He loved. He endured.