A place for a


I am considering closing my Facebook account and blog

I have written a lot of stuff on this blog that was … too honest. I did not do much to conceal my identity. I posted photographs of myself. I wrote stuff that could be very easily used against me, in ways that I don’t need to explain to you.

Blog has not gotten much love from me recently, I posted most stuff on my Facebook page.

All the while I was doing this, I was driven by a rage. A rage to tell what is on my mind, a rage that made me blindly hate those who want me to shut up or use it against me. Just come, motherfuckers, I thought. But my experience has shown me I do not have the psychic or financial power to defend myself against those who don’t wish me well. I wish I had that power, I really do. But it’s a fight in which I have everything to lose and little to win, aside from a defiant bird flipped at the forces that be.

I suppose some stuff is best kept for locker room talk. Hell, my stuff isn’t even suited for that. I loved reading from those who can relate to my stories. I loved the honest exchange. But I am starting to ask myself if the price I may have to pay for it is not too high. My paranoia aside, there are people out there who have the means and power to go after people who post or say controversial stuff.

But neither do I feel I can really keep writing this blog without speaking my mind. It would feel like a lie. All or nothing. Or is that childish? I don’t know, it’s just how I feel. I’d rather be completely silent than to have to pretend. Rather be alone with my misery than to pretend I am not miserable. Or angry. Or whatever. Anything that people can’t accept.

Maybe there’s stuff we have to deal with on our own. Not stuff that is shared. Kinda sad idea. That in the end, I would bow down to this damning game of pretending and playing nice, of keeping up this ludicrous idea of a peaceful civilization. That friendship can only go so deep and the only person who really ever knows you is yourself.

Maybe I can become a comedian and say all this stuff without people getting nervous, because they think I’m not being serious.

Maybe I can become powerful enough so that nobody will be able to do shit. And those who will, I will crush them badly enough so that they won’t come at me again. But that’s not reality and likely will never be.

What a weird world.

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There is only one real conspiracy

We always fight about the truth. Which system is the best, which rules are the best, whether this and that really happened and who lied to us and whom we can trust.

But this is not the real fight. Even the conspiracy theorists and smart minds play right into the hands of those who know the real rules of the game.

The real game is not about truth. It is about a commodity of much higher value. Your attention.

The real game is not about whether politicians lie to us, whether we have really been on the moon, whether capitalism is better than socialism, whether feminists are right.

The real game is about keeping you thinking, keeping you wondering, keeping you worrying, keeping you afraid and caught up in epic fantasies of heroism and betrayal.

The real game is about feeding on your attention. They feed on all the energy you invest into trying to take those things apart in your head. Trying to figure out what’s going on.

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A moment of clarity

A friend passes by as I sit around smoking a cigarette. We talk about something of no consequence. I show him the headline of the newspaper on a stand nearby. 26-year old girl raped by 5 men. I ask my friend why anybody wants to read this. Why anybody cares. Because it happened near us and we are interdependent with those people.

No, I’m not, I realize. It could happen in the same house I live in and it would have nothing to do with me. Why don’t the newspapers write about a father who passed the street with his kid without accident. Sure, it happens all the time. It is normal. It is not important. But a raped girl is not any more important.

My friend says that this stuff concerns us because it shakes our worldview. Does it really? People die all the time. And more than that, the newspaper is full of it all the time. There is nothing worldview-shaking about it at all. It is just a cheap effect. Why did I care in the past? I was proud of living in a horrible world. Of thinking I was better than that. I fantasized about saving the world, making it good. But it is not bad. That’s just our judgment.

Why do we care about rape? Why do we care about massacres? More people die of hunger than of any massacre. We eat animals and never think of their lives. So why care about other people’s misery? Because it harmonizes with our own?

My friend gets angry at me. I don’t know why. For suggesting the newspaper write about something equally unimportant, but much more uplifting?

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The fallacy of common virtues

Since my latest meditations, there has developed a strong distaste in me towards a component of manosphere articles. It is the discussion of common virtues and morals and ways for a society to be. I will try to put my revulsion into words.

First off, my single greatest argument from a more solid and confident personality perspective is: Why the fuck do you care how anybody else lives? Why do you not simply live your life the way you want it while leaving alone the people you dislike?

You men in the manosphere often state that nobody owes you anything. Fine. Then why are you still discussing politics? Why are you still discussing matters that concern anybody’s life but your own? You are hypocrites. You use the phrase nobody owes you anything to justify pushing your own demands down other people’s throats and silencing their protest. If they protest, they are being difficult and throwing temper tantrums. But how about applying that mindset to yourself? Nobody owes you anything. That is right: You can make no demands on anybody, ever; neither can you have any expectations towards anybody. The logical and universal consequence of this belief; anything else must cause severe cognitive dissonance.

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Why do you hold on to false beliefs?

Every day I go outside to buy food, I am afraid that my bank card may no longer work. I have a lot of outstanding taxes to pay, but I can not and want not. Fuck that mafia. I have no energy to work. No, rather, I want to focus on healing. I have enough money to survive for another five months and maybe I can sell some stuff. I will be in trouble with the tax office and likely have to file bankruptcy. My secondary bank account is already frozen.

But I know that I will survive long enough to finish my healing. I know that even if I can not pay anymore, my house owner will likely let me live here for another three months or so. I know that even if I lose the flat and all my stuff, I will still have the energy to regain all that has been lost once my mind is healthy again – if I will care to. And besides, it is just stuff.

So why do I care? Why do I feel this intense anxiety about it all?

Why do I have no abundance mindset? I already wrote about the problems of adapting new mindsets.

I meditated about this fear. About my doubts. About not being productive. About being a loser and all that shit. Why do I care?

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Why I do not learn game

When I see a confident and relaxed man with his girl on the street, I just know it. I know there is something wrong with me. I know that this man has something I lack. It hurts. It makes me feel lost, inferior, fallen, alone.

This man has trust in himself.

I have been running from this feeling my whole life. I thought if I could just imitate that man, do whatever he does, act like he acts, move like he moves, speak like he speaks; if I could convince everybody that I am in fact that man, I could start believing it myself.

I wanted to believe that everybody is just faking it, because I was. I wanted the world to be a show, so that I could run from that deeply seated, but vague notion I call inner emptiness for lack of a better word. Run from my overwhelming shame for not being who I should be, shame for that leaking wound in my soul that surely was my own fault, a wound that was an abomination and an insult to they eyes of everybody I dared to show it to.

When a girl I desired told me that I was not confident enough to be attractive, I knew she was right. But I did not even have enough confidence to acknowledge this. I did not even have enough trust in my own judgment to acknowledge the obvious truth. Instead, I hated her. I still hate her. I hate all the people who pry open my soul and expose it to my eyes, to my eyes that want to look away in terror, look away from the monstrosity I carry inside myself, that steaming graveyard of emotions.

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What are your limits?

There were a handful of situations in my life where I really tried to be a hero and fight through it all, but ultimately failed. Nothing tells you quite as much about yourself as to find your hard limits despite best efforts. It fortifies your sense of reality and you are undeniably confronted with the mechanics of cause and effect.

I am no John McTough and these are no war stories. Nevertheless, these experiences at their respective times defined the boundaries of my power and are thus among the most intimate of my life.

They are intimate, because they reflect truths about my self that can not be denied. When you know that you tried your best, you can not lie to yourself by saying you could have, if you had really tried. Because you really did try.

This definitive and disillusioning quality of limits is also the one that brings peace to your mind. It is an experience of absolute truth at the time and shuts down all ego-preserving attempts to rationalize or relativize. It gives you the gift of finally being able to feel yourself without running away and puts a dark and calming cloak over your senses. The ultimate bullshit-breaker.

Ironically, thus, this admission of defeat also provides you with confidence.

You do not have to read all these stories. Choose the ones you find interesting. If you have a moment, please share one of your stories as well.

Anyway, here goes.

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A mother’s love is selfish

I sit at the lake and watch my birthday card burn. The part with the message is already gone. No way to know what grandma and my mother wrote me. My gut aches with guilt and sentiment, but I am consciously too cruel to acknowledge it. I sent them away months ago and now I must be firm. I need to learn to live without their support. Totally.

Some time later, I get a letter from my mother. I hesitate to read it, but curiosity gets the best of me.

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Ayahuasca: The devil called me to Peru – Part 1: Iquitos

Iquitos. The air is wet but doesn’t smell like fireworks, as Lima’s does. I like the weight of the humidity that challenges my breath while I relish the burning sun. Have I just fled from cold Germany? Have I fled from a life I saw no more point in living, in the hope to find meaning through yet unexplored, mystical means, am I such a pathetic coward? Yes, I did. Yes, I am.

Ten taxi drivers rush toward me, like lemmings. I feel the excitement of entrepreneurship and imagine the satisfaction they get from their hard and unrelenting work, the push of confidence each time they outplay the competition. I know what I want and ignore them.

This world is real. This world is aggressive. This is more home than anywhere else. I shout: Motortaxi!

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Goodbye, Mama

I lie around on my couch, look around my room. It’s been a mess for weeks now. I feel mory from having told some girl on Facebook that she should get rid of her piercing. First time I have ever been called a bully. Once more baffled by the intense emotions that social pressure can generate, I let the moment sink in and listen to the sound of dust settling among the other dirt.

The door to my flat is open to let the air stream wipe through my little room and pass right out into the corridor. Outside, steps approach. I put my fingers into my ears, anticipating the ringing bell, but it doesn’t ring.

The people outside my room behave quietly. Who is this?

I unwillingly stand up and open the door. My mother and grandmother stand before me. I forbade them to come, but they came anyway.

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