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Who am I: How to find yourself

Who am I? Am I a soul inside a body or am I a body that has a soul? What the fuck. Finding your self can’t be that difficult, can it. I need to know who I am! Wait. Why do I need to know it? When did I start to ask this question and who gave it to me? Is there some divine thing that has cruelly decided to torture me with incomprehensibly complex mazes? If there is a god, wouldn’t he want life for me to be simple enough to be able to live?

I’m slowly getting tired of debunking nonsense. No, it’s not your fault, you didn’t ask for it; it’s just me growing up. Three months ago I was obsessed with all kinds of seemingly deep questions. I thought that if I answer them all, I’ll find peace. Figures that they weren’t even relevant and merely a procrastination of pursuing my goals.

To find my self, to know who I am. One of those questions.

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There is a soul. Or not.

Is there a soul? Well. What is a soul? It’s a word.

You know the fact that you see the world from your perspective. You call it consciousness. You know this perception exists.

Now, if you stop childishly playing with words for a minute and simply call that perception soul, you have your answer. Does it change anything? No. Now move on to something more interesting.


Fat kid, I am your sweet chocolate, women, I’m your nice guy

Words hurt me because school taught me that those words hurt others. If people say something is dangerous and very damaging, you tend to believe. Especially when they are so fucking grown up and should know, right.

Grown ups. Hey, you fucking grown ups. I am big now and I’m no better. Will you not tell me how to grow up, finally. But you don’t know it yourselves, do you. No one told you how to be grown up, but somebody gave you the right to educate me.

Now I am to be self-responsible for a life full of your mistakes.

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Euphoria and the illusion of knowledge

He wakes up after unimaginable torment and exclaims with profundity: Wow. All my problems are so small and unimportant. His thoughts are clear and his eyes are bright. His perspective on life has changed. What happened?

The title of the article implies a kind of knowledge that is not real. But I am being deceptive. Just like the devious knowledge of euphoria.

I bet you feel like you’re on the brink of an epic discovery already. One that will change the way you look at life. Oh, that’s not why you’re here?

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How much of a man do you need to be?

Three acquaintances of mine were or are seeing a psychotherapist. One of them is becoming a good friend and I can see that he is making great steps to become the person he wants to be. He often asks me if I am going to consider psychotherapy.

Another friend joined Scientology. From what I see on his Facebook wall, he’s meeting lots of people and engaging in many social activities. He looks happy on his pictures. He is certain that Scientology’s pursuit of a free mind is quite the thing I would like.

Just two of many examples of people who live a life I don’t. People who surpass me in social skills, courage, confidence, strength, intellect, spirituality.

I see their flourishing personalities and feel a deep desire to be on par. Yet apart from the guilt of not being good enough, I don’t really wish to do anything about most of it.

How much of a man do I need to be?

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When women say: Show your weakness

The best trick of the devil was … you know it, don’t you? His best trick was to invent language to manipulate men. His second best trick was to make them believe in their own integrity and rationality.

I will be writing a lot about language and the way it shapes our thinking. Ever since my Ayahuasca retreat I have been firmly convinced that words are anchors inside our minds to limit our thinking and control us.

Today’s issue is one about the statement: Show your weakness.

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Jean Hatchet’s petition against Ched Evans is injustice

Ched Evans was convicted and sentenced for rape. I am not going to discuss whether that was appropriate; I think it was not, but that is not the point of my article. Ched Evans wants to play football again. Cool for him; who cares but his friends and fans, right. A big debate arises. A petition is started by Jean Hatchet, some self-proclaimed radical feminist enduring the sufferings of Poe’s law, not to allow him to play football again. It already has some 20.000 signers. Why does she even care? Does she know him? Does she want justice? What is justice?

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