Fuckism: Falling is inevitable. Quitting is a goddamn choice.
You’re gonna eat shit.
Not once. Not twice. On repeat.
Face first into the dirt—ego cracked, pride bruised, hope limping behind.
You think that means you’re broken?
Nah. That means you’re in motion.
Because statues don’t fall. They just sit there. Frozen. Pointless. Safe.
But you? You moved. You dared. You fucking tried.
And the universe? It doesn’t hand out medals for intentions.
It hands out ass-kickings wrapped in wisdom.
It’ll let you fall—hard.
Just to see if you get the message:
This isn’t about perfection. It’s about persistence.
Let the crash shake you.
Let the impact sting.
Then use that shit as fuel.
Because quitting?
Quitting is a silent surrender—a slow rot dressed as relief.
It feels like control. It smells like peace.
But it’s just you, bargaining with fear in a language called regret.
So fall. Crash. Ugly cry.
But don’t fucking quit.
Max Ren truth?
The fall isn’t the test.
Getting back up without clapping for yourself is.