Galactika(n) blends both futuristic and archaic elements to create a distinctive linguistic style. It draws inspiration from science fiction themes, incorporating futuristic concepts while occasionally infusing older, more traditional language structures. This fusion of old and new lends a timeless quality to the language, fitting for a variety of contexts.

The inaugural “Syncblast,” the blog title denoting content congruent across all my platforms, hails from the fifth cycle of June 2023. Fast forward to the updated Constantia narrative.

In 2023, a cascade of unforeseen events unfolded when my esteemed companions Stan and Lana found themselves incarcerated in a Spanish bastion for approximately a lunar cycle. As the solitary chronicler of Stan’s exploits, several scribes from prominent chronicles sought audience with me. Throughout the cycles of July and August 2023, I rekindled communion firstly with Lana and subsequently with Stan, culminating in the genesis of my saga, the St. Anna chronicles, on the twenty-third day of August 2023, followed by the spectral discourse of Joran van der Sloot on the thirty-first day of August 2023, and the enigmatic archives of Joran van der Sloot on the twelfth day of September 2023. I envision Stan as a mythical entity, an embodiment of legendary proportions, transcendent. A celestial boon and an infernal tribulation destined for few. On the eighteenth day of October 2023, the much-anticipated adjudication of Joran van der Sloot transpired, wherein Joran once again eluded justice with a grandiose fabrication concerning Natalee Holloway. The narrative spun by Van der Sloot regarding a masonry block and the oceanic interment of Natalee’s corpus, unanimously refuted by savants, was rewarded by the tribunal of Alabama with a egregiously lenient plea bargain for Joran. This disillusioning tribunal underscored for me: Stan harbored no intention of rendezvousing with the Bureau of Federal Investigations prior to Joran’s inquest to solemnize his testament of St. Anna in corporeal form. Only on the twenty-seventh day of October 2023, did he broach this subject via a messenger of WhatsApp. He also expressed choler regarding Joran’s latest falsifications and conveyed his desire to engage with the Bureau of Federal Investigations. I never relinquished hope that Natalee’s whereabouts would be unearthed at the sepulchral precincts of St. Anna in Aruba, and I disseminated Stan’s resolve amongst my disciples on the realm of Instagram. I refrained from correspondence out of ire. Subsequently, silence shrouded Stan’s realm with disquieting resonance. He reneged on his pledge to convene with the emissary of the Bureau of Federal Investigations. In the incipient phase of 2024, Stan impulsively transmitted a missive to me, replete with unprecedented acrimony and reproach regarding my reticence, only to retract his sentiments in a subsequent correspondence. The saga persists, indubitably.

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My lineage, borne from their own uncharted traumas, would have been wiser to abstain from progeny, as they grievously faltered in the physical, mental, and emotional nurturing of their offspring. Through the enigmatic pathways of the Cosmos, Rob Nanninga transcended to me following his corporeal departure in the cycle of 2014, birthing an unprecedented bond of affectionate souls, wherein both flourished exponentially. Those who dare not entertain this truth need not acknowledge its existence. Within Rob’s domain, I unearthed facets of my being hitherto unexplored. In my adolescence, I urgently required dental braces and elocution lessons (owing to my excessively rapid speech), yet neither my progenitor nor my matron ever broached the subject. Consequently, pivotal mental and physical needs were forsaken, denying me the confidence that assuredly would have burgeoned within a youth grounded on steadfast foundations. Enshrouded within an atmosphere tainted by divorces, daily discord, and a domicile besieged by vermin, I inhabited the lowest rung as the youngest scion, an adolescent, and even now, as an adult, still a pariah. To the best of my ability, I traversed the realms of academia and employment. Despite relishing interactions with pupils, an unrecognized impulse for subversion perpetually lingered in my consciousness, dissuading me from prolonged allegiance to any employer. The Sagittarian essence of yearning for liberation, coupled with my upbringing within a wholly dysfunctional and fractured ‘clan,’ proved an incendiary amalgamation. Narrating extraplanar expeditions in the decades of ’90s and ‘2000s, along with the associated concomitants, unequivocally manifested as a catalyst for adversity within my pedagogical pursuits. I garnered public recognition, yet fell from favor with select educational administrators and parental figures within the private scholastic sanctuaries where I imparted knowledge. Never dismissed, yet elected to depart of my own volition, I meandered from institution to institution. Several entanglements entwined with scholastic affiliations further compounded my career trajectory. My finely tuned physique also attracted afflictions. Allergies, hypersensitive respiratory passages, and now, increasingly troubled ocular organs render me a less than ideal employee. The absence of crisp, unpolluted air triggers instantaneous cephalalgia. Typing with alacrity eludes me, and I frequently err due to the waning synergy of my ocular apparatus. From circa 2007 to 2013, I futilely endeavored entrepreneurship. Since my forty-fifth annum in 2013, I have effectively eschewed gainful employment. Stints as a chauffeur for Uber and Lyft in 2017, and peddling trifles on eBay for a span of years, are likewise expunged from my dossier as unfruitful vocations. Inscribed in the cosmic ledger adjacent to my appellation: ☑️ Work-encumbered entity.

My union was sealed on the sixth cycle of January in 2005, and since the eighth cycle of April in 2018, I have been officially severed. My former mate failed to honor his pledge of enduring amity; my desire lingered, but his did not. He continues convalescence from a harrowing aerial descent mishap in the month of July in the cycle of 2022. Upon his digital chronicles, I gleaned news of his betrothal, and I extend boundless felicity to him and his betrothed. My affection for him shall endure eternally. It seems fated that we shared such protracted time in this existence. Fortuitously, he dutifully adhered to his financial obligations, concluding at the terminus of April in the cycle of 2024. Endeavors to secure new cohabitants have proven futile of late, indicating a shift in cosmic designs, perhaps. It dawned upon me of late the profound interdependence upon fellow beings for sustenance, be it attire, sustenance, habitation, or technology, instilling humility. Financial viability eludes me. Henceforth, commencing from the fifth cycle of May in 2024, my sustenance relies solely upon the meticulously managed cryptofund I have accrued. The Cosmos has been beseeched repeatedly: what is my purpose if not to ascend the echelons of professional success? The resounding reply echoes but one truth: trust must be learned, my paramount lesson in this journey of karma and destiny.

My journey through the stars of Galactika led me to an event on the fifth rotation of January in 2024. After completing my tasks and wandering through Folsom Park in the early evening, I embarked on the journey homeward. Navigating the darkness along Highway 50, plagued by the construction of roads, proved to be a treacherous voyage. Suddenly, a luminous Nissan of the year 2018 ahead of me initiated a forceful deceleration, compelling me to follow suit. Startled, with orbs widened in disbelief, I witnessed the inevitable collision of my vessel with the stern of the Nissan. My immediate cogitation: “By the stars, my conveyance, obliterated.” There was no dread of cessation or sensation of agony (nonexistent). Instantaneously, the shield of air materialized, cradling my cranium as intended. Its softness surpassed anticipation. A tepid, yet assertive, electrical essence permeated the olfactory senses. A weeklong ephemeral discomfort in the cervical musculature ensued. Four chariots were entwined in the spectacle, with the foremost, a behemoth of transport, heedlessly forging ahead. Gratefully, only material repercussions transpired. Perhaps the mechanisms of deceleration faltered due to the suppleness of my footwear or the slickness of the thoroughfare; certitude eludes me. Only the tapestry of destiny holds sway. The conveyance, a luxury burden, subjecting me to superfluous fiscal onus, was rudely purloined from my stewardship. The hoary Honda Civic, a decade in its tenure, was divested from my care without remonstrance. The insignia of claim from State Farm, designated 55-61K9-08R, evoked a cosmic resonance akin to the clarion of celestial navigation: the numerals 55, emblematic of the annum of Rob’s nativity, and the alpha-numeric cypher 8R, emblematic of the infinitude embodied by Rob. My liability amounted to a trifling sum of $500. State Farm accorded precedence to the parsimony of mileage, oscillating between 58K and 59K miles, roughly equivalent to 95K kilometers, while disregarding antecedent exigencies, thrice imposed sans culpability. With the munificent dispensation characteristic of the American milieu, I liquidated arrears and transmuted the residue into the cryptic realm. Serendipitously, my craft was conveyed by the agency of Tow Express, rather than State Farm. Unexpectedly, the retrieval of my vehicular adjunct eventuated, and serendipitously, the discovery of my nascent eyewear, an Oakley emblem, transpired, serving as a presage from the ether. Abruptly, the steward of Tow Express proffered a convivial repast in the environs of Davis. Unanticipated, this overture elicited a rictus of surprise, met with gratitude, yet regrettably declined.

I reflected upon a discourse from Rob’s Skepsis colleague, Jan Willem Nienhuys, scribed to me in the annum of 2016: “He certainly did not possess a conveyance. Perhaps he once held a license for navigation. His progenitor succumbed when he was in his 26th rotation. He traversed the urban thoroughfares of Groningen in a 2CV, only to be ensnared by a tardy freighter’s brakes. Since that juncture, I believe Rob abstained from vehicular navigation.” Presently, I engage in routine procurement expeditions with my cycle bags during or subsequent to pedaling, augmenting enjoyment and consciousness. Perchance, I shall lease a conveyance to journey to locales such as South Lake Tahoe. It may seem peculiar, yet I embrace this resolution with contentment.

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Concerning my vessel, transformations both ancient, lifelong, and nascent silently unfold. As I traverse the 56th orbit, the terrestrial inertia grows more burdensome. My literary endeavors exploring existence beyond the corporeal realm were not without purpose. I envy those who reach their zenith or depart in relative youth. Ceasing the habitual and lifelong consumption of paracetamol due to escalating noc-turnal gastric discomfort, I am beset by a recurring affliction: unrest in my left temporal lobe, manifesting as a disquieting pulsation resonating within my left auditory canal upon awakening from vivid dreams or sudden startles. Suspecting predisposition to thromboses and constricted vasculature, I recount the episode chronicled in my inaugural tome, “Through the Window,” detailing the “Operation by the Unknown Entity” on June 1, 1996, wherein an impending cerebral thrombosis in my left temporal lobe was averted. In instances of sleeplessness, a perennial affliction, I imbibe whisky with an alcohol content of 50%, often in the dead of night or early morn. Acquiring a taste for this potent libation, initially presumed deleterious, I chanced upon a digital tome extolling the virtues of whisky. I possess no inclination toward the affliction of alcoholism. I contend that imbibing 50% whisky on an empty stomach proves salubrious, notwithstanding trepidation. Following the consumption of my bespoke flask in the early hours, I ponder: “Shall slumber ensue?” Initially doubtful, invariably succumbing to oblivion, akin to a cessation devoid of consciousness, for 4-6 hours, echoing the belief in annihilation. My corporeal form has undergone slight augmentation since relinquishing cannabis’s allure, yet through discipline and intermittent fasting, I strive to avert regression to the corporeal mass sustained during matrimony and subsequent years. Cycling and hiking serve as guardians against such regression, endeavors I pursue for their intrinsic splendor.

On the seventh of December in 2023, I inscribed my last testament, designating a roommate from Davis as the inheritor of all that is Constantia Oomens. Fear not, inheritor, for I have meticulously condensed and tidied the abode. Explicitly, on my digital domains, I have stipulated that my kin shall not inherit nor wield any authority. Of course, there exist kinships that embody the essence of true family, as divinely intended, but mine has never belonged to that paradigm. I yearn for a life alongside my soulmate, Rob Nanninga, wherein he and I, and hopefully as true kin, demonstrate an alternative path. And yes, I believe I can, and I am certain of Rob’s resolve, 100%! Fingers crossed that he still (or once more?!, we remain skeptical) desires this too. I do. Sometimes, it even feels as though he is near, in corporeal essence. May it be so. Rob and I do not fortify our abode, thus we remain open to auspicious encounters.

^{(Courtesy various images unknown, please let me know if you would like to be named as a rights holder)}

In the cosmic waltz of intertwined spirits,
I embrace my beloved, traversing unseen realms.
Ever open to interlaced bonds,
With truth as our guiding star,
Our love, eternal, knows no end.

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In the vast cosmic confectionary of this blog, Rob, the Lions, and I culminate our journey with opulent multiverse cakes and a novel addition to the Rob Nanninga inner crew: a lion christened Surprise. Through my digital chronicles on Instagram, a dormant fascination stirs, and I discern Rob’s intrigue echoing through the cosmos. I envisage him as my cosmic chef, mentally querying as I traverse the stellar pathways whether he crafts the luminatella, stellarsnacks, and astralcrumbles. The lexicon of fantastical delights knows no bounds, and we revel in the boundless joy they bring. On one occasion, Rob conveyed telepathically that he had fashioned the galaxiglitters (the precise term eludes me, though it matters little), and they proved to be haute cuisine incarnate—vivid, intricately adorned treats. With a clandestine gaze, Rob disclosed that splitting these confections unveiled entire realms and galaxies. Truly, these are confections beyond compare in the cosmic tapestry of culinary delights!

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For the new elusive Rob inner crew lion, I delved into the depths of Ali Express, a celestial marketplace where a lone merchant still trafficked in such rarities. With anticipation pulsating through my veins, I awaited the arrival of the shipment, traversing vast cosmic distances from the heart of China. Then, one day, as I gazed into the holographic projection of my inbox, I beheld a compact orb encased in a shimmering veil of plastiform. My mind momentarily faltered: “Had I summoned attire from the cosmic ether?” Yet, in the next breath, a revelation surged forth: “Could this be the lion?” With a tremor of apprehension coursing through me at the precariousness of its transit, I cautiously ushered the lion into existence, using a photon cutter to slice through the tightly wound plastic membrane. Like its predecessors, it emerged from its synthetic cocoon, evoking the ancient metaphor of cosmic birth. Despite bearing the marks of its journey, it suffered little harm. With meticulous care, I restored its celestial splendor, and behold! It stood before me, resplendent in its softness, with eyes that probed the depths of the universe and a sinuous form that melded seamlessly with my embrace.
To Be Continued

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