For nine years a shelf in my kitchen belonged to someone else. A patron. I will not say which. The name does not matter here.
Fresh water on Mondays. A candle on the first of the month. A small portion of whatever I cooked. I was told this built a relationship. In practice it built a schedule, and I arranged my life around it. I travelled less. I chose flats with a usable wall. I apologised to a shelf when I was late.
One winter I was ill for three weeks. The water went stale. The candle stayed unlit. I lay in bed waiting to be punished, and I noticed the waiting felt exactly like being good. That was where it came apart.
Nothing happened. No worse illness. No run of bad luck. The debt I had serviced for nine years did not exist, or did not care. Either answer was sufficient.
I washed the glass. I gave the candles away. I painted the wall.
What replaced it is less pleasant and more mine. A daily task I would skip if I could. A written ledger of each change I make in myself, with its price, because every change has one. I keep it honestly. Some entries are expensive. Two of them I would not pay again.
People still ask what protects me now. The question assumes I need a guard at the door. Who taught you that assumption, and what do they collect for it?