I will put my cards on the table right from the start: I cannot sing, I do not play the cello, and whenever I pick up a guitar myself, it is at best enough to send the neighbors running. Even so, over the past few weeks I have made two complete music albums. And I have no intention of pretending there is a real band standing in my basement. The lyrics are crafted in close back-and-forth dialogue with language models; the music and vocals are generated as well. ...
I used to worship chaos. Behind it lay a rebellious desire to be “free”: for me, disorder was synonymous with aliveness and an untamed spirit. For a long time, structure, fixed times, and rules felt to me like a prison that robs you of spontaneity and room to breathe. Yet chaos makes you unfree. It took years for me to truly grasp that for myself. And honestly, this slow transition from chaos to order is still not simply finished today. I have to prove to myself over and over again that structure takes nothing away from me, but on the contrary truly does me good. ...
If you like, listen to: MiBi @ Suno - Leid nach dem Leid (German) In psychiatry — and out in everyday life as well, if you truly listen — you encounter many stories of unheard people. They are stories that start in seemingly small ways, with groping, obscene remarks, or stalking, and reach all the way to severe physical, psychological, and sexual abuse. Yet almost always, the pain does not consist solely of the act itself. At least as heavy is what comes afterward: the suffering after the suffering. ...
Most people picture a support group as a place for an absolute emergency — and only go when nothing else works anymore. My experience with my bipolar disorder is different: You should attend a support group in all walks of life — except during acute crises. A group is no substitute for therapy. And anyone in the middle of an acute crisis needs rest, protection, and professional help — a doctor, a crisis service, or a clinic. A group is the wrong place then. Both for yourself and for the others in the room. ...
Once upon a time, there was a tall man out at sea. A man with broad shoulders and a mind of his own, who had weathered many a storm in life. He was not afraid of going under. Down in the dark trough of the waves, he knew his way around — down there in the shadows, he knew how to endure. What was foreign to him was the light all the way up on the crest. ...
If you like, listen while reading: You can read a thousand books about trust, debate it, or try to figure it out rationally in your head. In everyday life, we are used to thinking in terms of certainties, logic, and control. We build protective walls around ourselves so that life remains predictable. Yet what primal trust truly means is not something you grasp by thinking about it. You only grasp it in the moment when all familiar roles and certainties fall away completely. ...
Many people believe they simply enjoy having hustle and bustle around them. They leave the television running in the background, reach for their phone in every free second, throw themselves into work, or look for the next stimulus. I know this from myself. For a long time, it was not a zest for life — it was a flight from silence. Because the moment the last sound around me fades away and I simply do nothing, I suddenly find myself standing in front of a mountain. Down in the noise of the valley, I could still avoid myself. But here, at the foot of silence, there is no escape anymore. Only the “I” remains. Unvarnished, without distraction, without a role, without excuses. Just me and the voices in my head. ...
If you like, listen while reading: There is this one song by the Böhse Onkelz that plays at many funerals: “Nur die Besten sterben jung” — “Only the best die young.” When you are standing at a grave and cannot comprehend why someone is gone far too soon, that sentence is a bandage for the soul. Yet for the living, for the boys of tomorrow, it does not serve as a compass. For the living, we need another song by the same band: “Der Himmel kann warten” — “Heaven can wait.” ...
Once upon a time, there was an elderly lady who passed on the same four words to those around her again and again: “Zfrieda muss ma si” — you have to be content. When the young people sat at the kitchen table complaining about everything that was missing, what new things the neighbor had, or how unfair the world was, she would slowly smooth the tablecloth with her rough hands, smile quietly, and say that sentence. ...
A few days ago, I was out riding my longboard. There is a kid living in the neighborhood with whom I now often do a few laps. When we ran into each other again today, the greeting was not just a simple “Hello.” The kid looked at me and said, as naturally as could be: “I missed you.” A small sentence, honest and unfiltered. In that moment I am no educator and I am not doing anything special — I am just riding my board. And yet that one sentence made my whole day brighter. It pulls you straight into the here and now. ...