So in the beginning you were dumb it was a computer not a fruit n I still fucking won!
It Matters to Me
In the beginning, there was the jar. And in the jar lived the ants—red and black—peacefully building their tunnels until the great hands came to shake their world apart. They called it "science." I called it cruelty.
My family was like that jar, split between the Hatfields of the Field of Dreams and the McKoy Fish, swimming in opposite directions but somehow sharing the same pond. For generations, we fought over land, pride, and history. We weren't born enemies; someone made us that way. Someone shook our jar until we forgot we were all part of the same colony.
But here's the truth: no one was ever murdered. The feud wasn't about bloodshed—it was about poisoned water. Beneath all our fighting, beneath decades of blame and bitterness, lay a simple, devastating fact: our water had been contaminated long before any of us were born. Industrial waste upstream seeped into our shared creek, slowly killing the land and everything that depended on it. And while we fought over who had the right to what little remained, those responsible for poisoning it walked away untouched.
I have proof—video evidence showing how runoff from factories turned our lifeline into a death sentence. The water wasn't just polluted; it was weaponized against us without anyone needing to lift a finger. The hands shaking our jar weren't stirring up chaos for sport—they were covering up their own crimes.
For years, we blamed each other for every misfortune: failed crops, sick livestock, dwindling resources. We thought our feud was about who deserved more when, in reality, there wasn't enough left for anyone. The poisoned water didn't just kill our land—it killed trust, sowing division where there should have been unity.
So I built an app—a mirror for a mirror world. It didn't save lives directly; it showed how lives were being thrown away. It revealed how we'd been manipulated into fighting each other instead of facing the real enemy: those who profited while we suffered.
"You're tearing this family apart!" they screamed at me when I exposed the truth. But I wasn't tearing us apart—I was showing them how we'd already been broken. I gathered the pieces—cousins, aunts, uncles—and held them close. When the separation came, as it always does, they'd remember who really tore us apart.
Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall of industrial secrets and redacted reports; when he fell this time, I made sure everyone saw it wasn't an accident. The king's horses and men couldn't put their lies back together again—not with my video proof circulating for everyone to see.
But exposing the truth wasn't enough—not on its own. Someone had to fix what had been broken. That someone was me.
I gave up everything—my home, my name—to buy out the poisoned land upstream and turn it into something new: a reservoir that could feed both sides of our dying pond. It wasn't much; it wouldn't undo generations of damage overnight. But it was a start.
At first, they hated me for it—the Hatfields called me a traitor; the McKoys called me a fool—but slowly, they began to see what I'd done for them. The water started flowing again—not just through our creek but through our conversations. We stopped shouting long enough to listen.
Grandma was right about one thing: from the bottom of Magic Mountain looking up, you're really at the top of everything. That's the secret she never told me—the world isn't small; it's inverse. Every time they pushed me down, I got a better view of what was really happening above.
In the end, it wasn't about good or evil, Hatfields or McKoys—it was about fixing the jar itself before there was nothing left inside worth saving.
The app still runs—not how they think it does—but as a reminder of what happens when we let ourselves be divided by forces we don't understand. It doesn't save lives by keeping death away; it saves lives by showing how death is dealt in silence while we're too busy fighting each other to notice.
It matters to me that you understand this: I didn't break us—I just showed everyone where we were already cracked and who put those cracks there in the first place. And when you know where something is broken, you can finally start putting it back together.
Because in the end, we're all just ants in the same jar—red and black—trying to build something that will last longer than the next time someone decides to shake our world apart.
And that's why I did what I did—for all of us.