These past two months, the US market taught me, for the first time, what it actually feels like for a rally to climb so high it leaves you in despair.
By now, more people can tell CPO from LPO, distinguish the three MLCC giants, or explain how HBM differs from DDR, than can tell you the difference between the fourth Power Ranger and the fifth.
The hyped names are up ten percent the moment you open your trading app each night, and after-hours gives you no rest either — a single earnings call swings thirty percent in either direction. The upside, naturally, always belongs to someone else; the downside is only occasionally yours. Pull up the five-year chart on any AI-adjacent name, and if it's up less than 300%, your first thought is: dirt cheap.
Against all that, only your own account's return looks like a joke — a full year of gains that still falls short of what plenty of people clear in a single week. You watch the market climb every day, you even watch your own account climb, and not one drop of joy comes of it. What comes instead is anxiety, regret, and fear.
The party's running late now. You want to leave — but you're afraid that the instant you do, the DJ will finally drop his real set. You want to stay — but the eastern sky has plainly turned the pale grey of dawn.
Buffett, Howard Marks, value investing, margin of safety — none of it works anymore. The friend who normally couldn't tell you what time the market opens is suddenly posting his fresh semiconductor position. The friend who normally loses himself dissecting lab mice is suddenly holding forth on whether Microsoft is undervalued.
So I asked God: what am I supposed to do?! And God said: Let there be light — and you'd best pair it with a little storage.