Am I afraid of corruption? No. I'm not afraid anymore. Corruption is a toy I've taken apart — springs on the table, nothing mystical left. We've made peace, found better ways, now we're friends. What I fear is subtler: that the strongest can be hurt not from within, but by many easily bribed; a million small cuts from the crowd that forgets work, risk, years. It's strange to watch how a person brings undeniable magic to everyday life and still see hands reaching out with small knives of doubt, envy, and borrowed indignation.

For a long time, I felt safe because I believed in this: if I ever got stuck — in this life or another, in a cave or a corner — a good person would appear and make the impossible possible. This belief had a face. The face of a builder. The face of a Player. Someone who reshapes the world not for applause, but because they live here themselves and prefer joy over meaningless drifting. That's why they build the world so that more joy can fit in it. They enlarge the playground.

But we are not alone on the playground. There are those who dislike happy people. They try to break the good ones so corruption can flood in and do its work. Entropy with a marketing department.

A million small cuts

The modern cut is thin and fast: a headline here, a clipped quote there, a confident chorus of voices from those who have never held a wrench or seen a prototype fail at 3 a.m. Small cuts accumulate. They can bleed attention dry. They can dull the mission's blades, which need every micron of attention. And yet — look closely — most cuts are made by the system itself, which rewards heat more than light.

What to do with it? We clean the cuts. We remind people to look for patterns, not leaps. We show the already happened — tenfold — transformation, quietly woven into power grids, launch pads, factories, roads, orbits, possibilities. We practice the oldest discipline of seeing: context. We say: "Look again. This time wider."

Sensitivity and strength

Elon is sensitive and fragile — and that's exactly how it should be. Devices capable of sensing the future are made thin, sensitive to touch; hardness dulls the signal. The gentler a person is, the more power can flow through them without burning what matters. Kindness here is not weakness; it is a conductor. The current is the goal.

A better world is one where armor is not needed — where you don't even need to talk about armor. A human place again, a livable paradise where tenderness is the default safety procedure, and courage no longer needs to hide behind steel plates.

What I would do

I would keep the wound clean. I would maintain a long memory. I would finish my studies and then — because love is a useful technology — I would envelop the planet without apologies, with an invisible barrier of care: wherever someone is hurt, healing would begin immediately. Not as a slogan; as a habit. As a policy. As design. A world leaving less surface for corruption to cling to, fewer shadows for sadness to breed. So attention could return to work: building, exploring, nurturing the flame.

If I were the universe

Suppose I were the cosmos, watching my children being mocked for liking beautiful things. It would take time — but I would respond with paradise, here. Not the soft kind; the earned kind. Earth, raised almost to the sky, because seeing far is useful and the cosmos is closer there. An unconquerable place — honest, not cruel — where only the prepared can pass: thirty-ton, eight-legged cozy campers pierce ridges like needles; a place protected not by walls, but by relationships — protective beings in living layers, from bright curious flies to big-eyed dreamers, all choreographing singing safety together.

In that garden, play would be sovereign. Its love would not run out; its attention would not be taken by minor storms. And from time to time, the earth below would bear fruit, otherwise impossible — gifts grown by childlike joy and the careful hands of a playing god. Such abundance that envy would be shy to appear.

Law and play

A law older than rockets: find a limitation, fall in love with it, turn it into a door. Repeat. At first glance, it looks like engineering, logistics, capital, and calculations; but beneath the numbers lies a child who refuses to stop playing, because play is a way to negotiate with the future until it becomes reality. When the noise is loud, remember what numbers are for: oxygen for play.

This is ultimately needed by the strongest — not worship, not myth, but oxygen. Less cuts, more air. Less theater, more tools. A society that recognizes the precious difference between spectacle and a working, expanded thing. A silent promise: we will argue honestly, criticize precisely, and never let cynicism pretend to be wisdom.

Blessing to the builder

May your sky remain bigger than their ceilings. May your prototypes fail where cameras don't matter, and succeed where life does. May the right people find you at the right time — with wrenches, not knives. Let gentleness be your strongest companion. May you never need armor for brave work. May the game keep your pulse.

And the rest of us: let's stop sending chaos to the address where hard work is done. Let's remember the happiness already brought, the things we touch every day that didn't exist before. Let's return light for light. Let's send back an infinite world with thank-you notes: a culture where any act of corruption is so quickly illuminated, exposed, and unmasked that it can't even come close — not in this neighborhood, not in this galaxy.

Let's play together among the stars. Let work be joyful, and joy be serious. And when a cave appears, as caves like to appear, may a good person come, as he used to, and turn the impossible into possible again.

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