The Crow's Nest

Journalists occasionally troll for answers, and sometimes, they get trolled right back. A battle of 'pens' may ensue, or (you might surmise), a seemingly endless game of Tom and Jerry. Even ghostwriters — who attempt to remain as anonymous as possible — fall victim to trolls; often as a result of their efforts to arrive at a sliver of truth, which may awaken sleeping lions who wish to maintain their interests and keep such information buried.

But these journalists — these sole investigators in their own right — who edge ever closer to the truth (perhaps to expose some misdeed or other), can sometimes elicit real-world physical and hostile reactions from their subjects, as a consequence. Indeed, in the worst cases, such as in authoritarian governments, silencing the truth is the preferred weapon. But a tyrant in power, much like any wannabe pirate, may be increasingly inclined to trade the pen for the sword, given what is at stake: which is typically power and control.

For particularly gifted trollers, nefarious works that instigate someone can be accomplished in but a few hours. Mighty is the hand, therefore, that knows when to pick up the pen and when to pick up the sword. But, whether it’s a journalist versus an anchor, or an author versus a musician, or even a fan versus a poet, where does one draw the line? And why would one even dare to cross it?

Just the same, pull the strings of the business magnet, or the celebrity of influence who is rather quick to decode a sleight of hand, and they just may leave you with more than a bruised ego. Though we're not living in the jungle and attempts at life are rare in a Western democracy, it’s not as if they’re unheard of: warnings are sometimes written like graffiti on concrete walls, or they may even hang like nooses under bridges. You might even take notice of such warm displays of affection whilst on a stroll out during a midsummer night. Despite the dangers, you may choose to tango with the rival, anyway... such is your prerogative. You can hedge your bets or you can tread carefully; never placing your foot where you do not see the ground, as Charles Dickens wrote in Bleak House:

“It is this, that he cannot have too little to do with people who are too deep for him, and cannot be too careful of interference with matters he does not understand, that the plain rule is, to do nothing in the dark, to be a party to nothing under-handed or mysterious, and never to put his foot where he cannot see the ground.”

The alternative would be that you gamble what's at stake and win or lose some chips. If the rewards just aren't there, it may be wise to pour some concrete right into the underfed Rubicon — and then pave it and steamroll over it — before writing antagonizing online content; so that, in the event you do wish to backtrack, it's still quite possible without the humiliation of leaving with your tail between your legs.

However, supposing that — somewhat out of the blue — life did present you with the right hand in a deck of cards, and you’ve now got yourself an ‘edge’ in this so-called game of life. You’re not ready to fold, and you never really were — not with this particular whippersnapper — and you’re lying in wait like a tiger, ready to pounce. A tiger must eat eventually, am I right?

So, perhaps they make you an admiral and the flagship is at your command. You're now Columbus and you're setting sail to discover America and bring back riches. Thus, the game of life continues — whether you like it or not — so long as you keep winning. Don’t play too many bad hands though, and don’t go and lose all your chips, either.

In this game of life, one such tool to level the playing field, is, without a doubt, an insatiable quest for knowledge, which may aid you when taking the helm or whilst making life-altering decisions. It could very well be, that, although you're not currently on a 'fast-sailing expedition and going around the world on a triumphant voyage of discovery,' (which would be another Dickens reference), you have instead thought up the story of the century — a pirate story, perhaps— and you’re laying down the groundwork to share it with the world when the time is right. The ‘edge’ of this story is as sharp as a dagger, and, you surmise, that you cannot possibly file it down any further. This story of yours is nearing completion, and its debut is sure to cement you among the greats.

In yet another example, suppose, like Jack Sparrow, you’ve been steadily climbing the ladder of 'author-ship' — for a better (indeed, a panoramic) view — whilst fending off attempts at mutiny and commandeering armies. There are these rungs on the ladder leading up the foremast to the Crow's Nest of these delusions — they twirl in a double-helix fashion — and, they code for a unique path (your unique path), where the sky is not the limit but just the beginning; nothing can hold you back from the imaginary cosmic ceiling. If you could also imagine that these rungs are staggered at such intervals that they supersede all trivial AI capabilities and algorithms, you’d be on to something, even Chat GPT couldn't stop you!

And even if there were to be some errors along the way — some kinks in your story that couldn't, for whatever reason, be swiftly ironed out (such is the case with DNA transcription), there would be autonomous proofreading and self-correction. As is the case, with your unique DNA. So, I’m standing on this ladder’s last rung (though I know I shouldn’t, but I live rather dangerously, what can I say), and I’ve entered into the Crow’s Nest to guide my ship and my mates toward an unbounded destiny...

And I see you at the pier and you're waving at the ship, and I’m sailing away, of course. And I pull out my sword from the hilt with my right arm, and I point the sharpened blade up at the sky, with a bit of force... and then I lower my extended arm a bit until I’m pointing the tip of the blade precisely towards the horizon. To the very fringe — as far as the eye can see — and there it is! — Gosh-darn it! Without a doubt — there it is — just as Columbus would’ve envisioned the shores of America whilst sailing across the Atlantic on his voyage of discovery.

So, are we 'just one atom twirling in a universe?' (Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged). I'd reckon there are bridges — and of course, fibre optic cables — everywhere, and which connect us all in one way or other. Indeed, even the great expanse of oceans do little to truly separate us through space and time.

"In short, all that is of the body is as coursing waters, all that is of the soul as dreams and vapours; life a warfare, a brief sojourning in an alien land; and after repute, oblivion. Where, then, can man find the power to guide and guard his steps? In one thing and one alone: the love of knowledge" (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations).