Me Duty, No Report

Metaphorical Narrative

There’s a certain bar, a certain street, a certain room—every time you step inside, a man with an invisible clipboard is waiting. He doesn’t greet you. He interrogates you.

“Did you buy the new car yet?”
“Did you prove you have money?”
“Did you deliver all the things I asked?”

His voice carries the weight of law, but his uniform is fake. He is no officer—only a phantom inspector conjured from old echoes. Still, your chest tightens as if you were on trial, rehearsing reports that were never requested.

This is the hidden contract: be on duty forever, report in advance for a future that may never come.

Core Insight

The stress isn’t from duty itself. Real duty is clean, chosen, and owned. The stress comes from reporting—the endless receipts for a committee that doesn’t exist.

Every “How dare you” and “Did you prove it” is just the inspector trying to keep you in line with phantom deadlines. Once you see him clearly, the scam falls apart.

“Me duty, no report” becomes the counter-script. You own what’s truly yours. You refuse to hand over fake evidence. The clipboard dissolves.

Saturday Experiment

1. Go to the trigger place (bar, café, room) with no hidden agenda.
2. When the inspector voice pipes up, picture him holding a clipboard.
3. Say inwardly: “No report. Clipboard burned.”
4. Stay present. Notice your chest, ribs, shoulders. Let them drop like a weight was just lifted.

Sunday Reflection

• When the phantom inspector showed up, how did “Me duty, no report” change the scene?
• What real duties belong to you—and which “reports” are just fake papers shoved in your hand?
• If the world no longer had inspectors, what rhythm would your body live by?