Maybe I'm not broken| Maybe I just love the way I was always meant to open, loud, unashamed, even when no one claps at it.

I am learning to hold my own hand while walking toward someone who might never walk toward me.

And that's not pathetic. That's practice. That's the quiet work of becoming someone I don't need to apologize for.

Stop here. Let the voice in your head ask itself: do I exist?

Something just answered. What was that? A child knows it exists before it knows what existing is. That knowing cannot then be a thought.

But does the knowing know it’s not a thought?

asking others for reassurance,
knowing well i do not truly need it.
the body has ways of acting
i do not always expect,
learned behaviors shaped by a wounded ego. for a moment i forget i am human
and turn my anger inward,
but somewhere i remember
i am not too much: i am simply human.

i find extreme beauty in this so many layers a human has, no flat lines. and still at times feel shame in it = contradiction

I don’t think the parents are to blame. They were brought up the same way. Our society doesn’t know how to grieve. Death is seen as negative, something bad that happens, but what if dying isn’t bad?

How can we be a society that celebrates birth and not death? Aren’t those two the same coin, just different sides? Doesn’t everything you know as matter get born and then die? It reminds me of a poem from William Blake:

Little Fly, Thy summer’s play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away.

Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me?

For I dance And drink, and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life And strength and breath And the want Of thought is death;

Then am I A happy fly, If I live, Or if I die.

This poem has always fascinated me. When I first read it, I felt almost like a eureka moment. I am just like a fly. We both live and we both die. Maybe death just needs to be perceived differently than what it is.

I think we are failing to educate children about death. Such questions shouldn’t be answered with storytelling of myths or fantasies. The same goes for the question of how babies are born. Why is it easier to tell the story of a stork than to explain what happens in an intimate relationship?

I remember in one of the therapy sessions we talked about my mother’s death. I told my therapist that after she died, I didn’t process it in the best way. I didn’t talk about it to anyone for years. I made a whole new friend circle that didn’t know about it, so I didn’t have to talk about it. It took me years before I opened up about it. My therapist said that it wasn’t on me. There was no space for me to open up after her death. Everybody just moved on and tried hard not to talk about it and not to cry. You gotta move on. This idea that being strong is not crying and moving on was very present in my family indeed. My therapist said something I will never forget: „no one asked you how you were doing, no one was crying in front of you, no one talked about it, not even with each other.“ But it’s not their fault either, they just didn’t know better.

Buy less. Buy local. Starve the corporations that exploit us.

Delete social media. Disrupt their algorithms. Manipulate data. Make noise. Make it louder.

Be unpredictable. Be relentless. Be ungovernable.

When the system falls, will you break free and choose a new reality? Or will you cling to the ruling elite, the same group that has enslaved humanity for millennia? Do not fear. Kings have been decapitated for less.

This is not the end. This is a new beginning.