Permit me, dear reader, to peel back-ever so languorously-the stately skin of regret, that chameleonic companion of all who ply the markets. Picture, if you will, the tawny-limned silhouette: MPLX, that rare creature slinking along the pipelines-part siren, part sphinx, perpetually glimpsed through the foggy looking-glass of ticker tape. “Have I missed it?” The plaintive wail of latecomers echoes through the bourse, and as a trader (a term which, incidentally, I wear not unlike a double-breasted tartan jacket: with the utmost flourish and a dash of disdain), I could wager that the tune is older than the bull itself, staccato and eternal, like a perverse harbinger of déjà vu.
But, ah!-here’s the rub: the biggest reason (if we must traffic in such vulgar metrics as ‘reason’ and its twin, ‘logic’) that you have not missed out on MPLX is not some cryptic market inefficiency nor saboteur analyst. It is, in fact, a distillation of that most Nabokovian delight: temporal relativism. The moment of acquisition, like a butterfly’s wingbeat, is only lost if one believes the lexicon of missed trains and closed doors. The trader toys with time; he is neither on the platform nor the ticket booth, but inside the clockwork itself, winding and unwinding possibility so deliciously.
Observe the stately image above-a person (presumably not the embittered seller at $76.13) standing with the posture of one who knows the gleaming viscera of industry, masquerading as mere backdrop. Hold-was it Monet or the gods who conjured such sunlight on steel? MPLX, meanwhile, is more than its combustion chambers and distributary yields: it is an ongoing soiree of margins, modulations, and the measured madness of profit. The prudent trader knows that regret, like a dividend, gathers only if one neglects the duration, the deliberate dance of holding.
Should you engage in windblown reminiscence on profits past-if your mind’s eye stutters over candlestick charts, haunted by what-ifs and if-onlys-be reminded (no, amused!) by the infallible truth: markets, in their infinite recursiveness, abhor closure. Entry points flutter by; MPLX remains, sphinx-like, awaiting the next riddler. Exit regrets, enter opportunity-an endless fugue played across screens in the predawn quiet.
Oh, to have missed out-is this not the trader’s Proustian madeleine, essence of perpetual longing, but flavored with oil and the scent of faintly fried circuitry? There is always another threshold, another spread of cards beneath uncertain palms. The greatest secret, then: you have not missed out. Not yet. To trade is to transcend; to pretend to have missed is the richest play-acting of all. 🎭
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2025-08-29 19:11