I have come to grips with my new physical body and the emotions it brings me. I feel like a child again, yet burdened with the memories of an adult. This duality is both a blessing and a curse. I know that, in time, I will grow out of the childish impulses that still occasionally grip me, but I hope I don't make any terrible decisions before then.
To keep my body limber and in perfect shape for growth, I have taken up the esoteric art of yoga, paired with deep meditation. The latter, while minimally helpful in strengthening my mind, is essential in reigning in my growing psychic abilities. They seem to be increasing as I age, and I wonder if they will plateau once I reach adulthood or continue to expand indefinitely.
I have developed a theory—overly simplified, of course. Psychic power is like oil; the body is the tank that holds it, and the brain is the engine that uses it. Therefore, I must take a three-pronged approach to my training: increasing my brain's processing capacity, strengthening my body to contain the power, and actively refine my psychic abilities. It sounds overwhelming, but I have never been one to shy away from a challenge.
When I was an infant, my parents had quite the time dealing with my abilities. On numerous occasions, they would wake up to find me floating out of my crib in my sleep. Unfortunately, gravity still applied, so I would inevitably fall. Thankfully, my subconscious seemed to have a failsafe; every time I plummeted, I would instinctively slow my descent, much like the feather fall spell from Dungeons & Dragons.
Howard, ever the innovator, grew both fascinated and frustrated by this. His solution? He built a rectangular crib with a lid to prevent me from floating out. A logical and effective move. They thought that would keep me contained, but much to their surprise, I quickly learned to circumvent the issue by teleporting the moment I woke up.
For a time, I suffered from an existential crisis. My entire preexistence was dedicated to one goal: awakening the mind. It had consumed me utterly. But now, with my goal achieved, I found myself lost. What did I do next?
After many restless nights, drawing inspiration from science fiction, I found my answer. Warhammer 40K, Halo, Marvel, Star Trek, Stargate—each universe held an ideology that resonated with me.
From Warhammer 40K, I took the dream of a united humanity—a centralized empire that pooled all of our might to push us beyond the limits of our world and into the stars. From Halo, I found the Mantle of Responsibility compelling—the belief that a highly advanced civilization should guide, protect, and cultivate less developed species. Of course, I wouldn't go so far as to impose my rule on every alien I encountered, but I would certainly seek out those I find interesting or worth preserving, like the Groot in Marvel.
Then came the unrelenting pursuit of scientific advancement for knowledge's sake, a philosophy best represented by the Ancients from Stargate. I would push the boundaries of understanding, constantly striving to unlock new mysteries.
Marvel, ironically enough, reinforced my sense of environmentalism. Earth in this universe had a literal living goddess, Gaia, who had, in the comics, unleashed elder gods to punish humanity for its rampant destruction of nature. I had no intention of letting our home world reach such a dire state.
And lastly, from Star Trek, I took the ethos of exploration—the drive to go where no man had gone before. But why stop at space? The Omniverse was the true final frontier. Since such a thing existed, then there could be more beyond even that.
These philosophies would shape my path forward. I would build, I would guide, and I would expand the limits of what was thought possible. The universe—and beyond—awaited.