A fish at ease in the jade-green pool
runs suddenly into nets drawn on every side.
It turns and turns and finds no gap to slip through —
the thing it never planned for brings it to grief.
A past investment — years, money, love — is officially unrecoverable. The only real question is whether the NEXT cup gets poured at all. Stop auditing the spill; the lesson is in the puddle, but the future is in the pitcher.
Read the old chapter as written: new water, new cup — the future is in the pitcher, not the puddle. The fortune grieves the spill once, then pours again.
The trapped capital earns nothing: the losing position closed and learned is tuition; kept open, it is a shrine. Stop auditing the spill.
The sunk years justify the switch, not the stay — skills carry over, time does not return. The only real question is the next cup.
Write the spill one honest paragraph — then one line about what the next cup is. Pour it.
