I aspire to be strong and take pride in it. Strength isn’t always active and heroic, big and loud; strength is also passive and shy, letting go and accepting what is no longer.

Poetry & prose, faune & flore, bliss & sinn, just to name a few, soft reciprocities. Am I the only one staring at words, reading them, saying them out loud, enjoying their forms and sounds. Some even made it on my body, a permanence.  

I feel frustrated and disappointed towards the mass of people who unconsciously, or even consciously, accept a relatable opinion impetuously. The idea of stagnating at the same level of knowledge, instead of getting more attuned to the unknown, questioning what is given. The people who feel content, who are easily gullible, or even blindly impressed, thinking that they are empowered from being comfortably stupid, dogmatic to others opinions. Because of what ? False validation, fear of something, of getting out of your way? It is like giving a pacifier to a child to shut them up. I have to say that innocent rubber toy (also called dummy) holds quite a premise for today’s passive society… Dummy adults…numbed from knowledge, with their mouth and mind shut.

I can’t always keep going, the more I go, the more I forget to stay still. I know so much but so little at the same time. I cry of joy and ache of happiness. It is all connected. When I am conscious and grounded, I create my own ever shifting constants. It is the only way to be sane when everything else around you is elusive. So now, as I build my own inner system, I build the strength that radiates outwards, and from there, I, and the other, will feel present, will feel alive, will feel connected. It has been a little while since I started writing before thinking. As I thought it was nonsense to do so. Because I said so and because I thought I needed to be better before I can write, as I was attaching meaning to what is yet to come. But then, I also do believe, at least more and more, that meaning doesn’t necessary come from a thought, it comes from an intention, a feeling that communicates before words are spoken.

I don’t know where to start, but I know I want to move away from my feelings. Not in the sense of disconnection or repression, but softer, in terms of shyness and retreat.

I go through quite a few interesting observations in one day, I’ll try to write them down as much as possible. I’ll make a conscious effort. They are fun and light to read.

It’s a fact, all doctors’ offices or clinics seem to have one of those reproductions of Matisse or van Gogh hanging on their bleak walls. You can find the different iterations of the same space, wherever you go. It exists in it’s own spatial identity, holding no attachment to its locality. Maybe that counter-cultures the exclusivity of art, and democratizes art to people who think they know more than they do; or to people who want to know more. Or, it’s just a perfect example of culture consumerism.

The tourism industry should counter-culture itself. How can you cultivate knowledge and experience cultures without jeopardizing the latter?

It’s not a question of not understanding you, it’s the condition of not listening to you. Frustrations stem from a misalignment, a loss in conversation, a skew of perspective, and the flawed intuition of not feeling connected.  

Why compassion? Because I learned to be more accepting of myself, and to reflect back on moments and feelings where I wasn’t too compassionate towards myself and others. And with that growth, I received more, crossed paths with like-minded people who caressed, nourished and sensitized my inner expansion. My heart was becoming full. External compassion reflects internal compassion. I no longer pushed away parts of myself, and parts of others that were experiencing pain. I no longer rejected those emotions as means of self-preservation, self-defense. I no longer numb my discomfort, and my vulnerability.

Letting my thoughts unravel and swirl in my mind, and sometimes, the choreography gets too complicated that I lose sense of coordination and balance.

I felt disconnected the other night. I was walking with a friend around Friedrichshain’s humble commercial streets. Although I was the freer person lurking and peeking into the cozy display of bars and restaurants, at peoples’ laughters and their eye contacts; I was the contained one. I felt somewhat suffocating, being mentally enclosed as I continue down that street, in an environment that I don’t belong to. I am an outsider.

I see and recognize myself in those strangers, in their light complicities and intimate exchanges, in a time and space I once belonged to. I was an insider.

The cold in Berlin can only be felt and not described. It prevails, inviting its way inside, of you. It reminds me of that suffering yet pleasurable sensation I wrote about a few years back…

“I enjoy that burning sensation of cold and that sudden change to warmth, but it is so sudden that it burns your inside and arouses your senses.”