A Return To The Path

Tomorrow, my life changes forever.

And no, that’s not some New Year’s Resolution nonsense. This isn’t about a new routine, a new me, or a new protein powder. It’s about finally coming home to myself after a long, ridiculous detour through indulgence, noise, and self-distraction.

The last few months have been a cocktail of bad habits and good times that went on just a little too long. Coke binges, boozy nights, takeaway dinners, and cigarettes pretending to be coping mechanisms. I wasn’t spiralling — just avoiding. Avoiding the quiet. Avoiding stillness. Avoiding the mirror.

And somewhere under all that, the real me — the focused, intentional one — was just sitting there, watching the chaos unfold like a parent at a school play. Patient, unimpressed, waiting for the curtain to fall.

Well, the curtain’s down. It’s time to get back on the path.

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Tomorrow I begin a three-day fast.

Not for vanity, not for trend, but for balance. For reset. For remembering what it feels like to be a calm, conscious creature again.

No food. No screens. No scrolling. No background noise to drown out thought. Just water, tea, the occasional black coffee, and whatever wisdom hides behind the discomfort.

I’ll walk. I’ll read. I’ll sleep when I’m bored. I’ll journal. I’ll be still. And I’ll listen to what the silence has to say.

It’s not a punishment or a war on my body. It’s a peace treaty. A break from consumption. A little autophagy, sure — but also a chance to clear out the mental clutter, not just the cellular kind.

This is my new rhythm: eleven days of effort, three days of rest.

Eleven to push, to train, to lift, to run, to fight gravity and my own excuses. Three to stop. To heal. To breathe.

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And yes — I’m switching from cigarettes to vaping. Is it perfect? No. But it’s progress. At least I’m not feeding my lungs tar and carbon monoxide like they’re starving pets. I’ll take nicotine without the combustion, thank you very much.

I’m not trying to become pure. I’m trying to become present. To make choices that keep me alive longer, sharper, and saner.

Because lately, I’ve been running on fumes — chemically, mentally, emotionally. So this fast is me pulling into the service station of the soul. No food, no nicotine clouds, no dopamine-drip of social media. Just me, idling in quiet until I’m ready to move again.

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But when the fast ends — oh, that’s when the real work begins.

Those eleven days in between will be my time to move like a man who wants to live fully again. Heavy weights. Long walks. Real cardio — as in actual running, not delusional “high-intensity” half-measures.

I want to be lean. Strong. Quick. Capable. Not for aesthetics, but for self-respect. Because being able to move well, breathe deeply, and feel alive is one of the simplest, most underrated forms of joy.

And I’ll be documenting it all — the training, the fasting, the reflections, the laughter, the failures, the “dear god why am I doing this” moments. Photos, thoughts, daily notes, maybe even some poetry or short fiction when the mood strikes.

I want to share the human side of rebuilding — the sarcasm, the stubbornness, the self-awareness. The laughter that gets you through the discipline.

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And yes, slowly, this will all shape something bigger: The Crownless Way.

It’s not a brand or a cult. It’s a philosophy. A way of living that values freedom, simplicity, and self-sufficiency. Strength without bravado. Wisdom without superiority. Peace without sedation.

The Crownless Way is about remembering that a man who can live happily with less — with his own two hands, his own thoughts, and his own choices — is a man who can’t be owned by anything.

I’ve proven to myself that I can survive with nothing. Now it’s about learning how to live well with little.

One day I’ll have that van, that bit of land, that small home I build myself. A garden. A fishing pond. A quiet place to grow things, make things, write things, and help others do the same. But first, I have to become the kind of man who deserves that peace.

This three-day fast — this ritual of silence and restraint — is where that begins.

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Tomorrow, it’s just me and the basics. No food, no noise, no smoke. Just presence.

And that’s more than enough.

Because this isn’t a “comeback story.” It’s a reunion.

Me, meeting myself again — clear-headed, a little hungry, but finally honest.

The next chapter isn’t about punishment. It’s about permission.

Permission to slow down. To focus. To do the simple things well. To build something that lasts.

Tomorrow, my life changes forever — not because I’ll become someone new, but because I’ll finally stop pretending to be someone else.