Fuckism: The mountain looks huge—until you realize you built the damn thing.
Standing there, paralyzed.
Looking up at this beast of a mountain.
Overwhelmed. Intimidated.
Convinced it’s too much, too high, too hard.
But here’s the twist, kid:
That mountain?
It’s yours.
Not yours like belonging to you.
Yours like you built that bitch.
Brick by brick—
Every doubt.
Every excuse.
Every story you told yourself about why you can’t.
That’s what stacked it so damn high.
You fed it fear.
You dressed it in “not yet.”
You watered it with “maybe someday.”
And now you’re shocked it towers over you like a goddamn monument to hesitation?
Nah. You don’t get to play victim to a structure you designed.
So here’s the move:
Stop staring.
Start tearing.
Strip that mountain down—one false belief at a time.
And when you hit bedrock?
You’ll find out the real obstacle wasn’t Everest.
It was your own blueprint.
Max Ren truth?
Sometimes you’re not climbing life.
You’re climbing your own bullshit.
And the view only clears when you tear that summit down.