Once upon a time there was a black sheep. It lived in a village full of sheep and carried a bucket with it. A bucket of filth. Everything it had not allowed itself to be, everything the village had not wanted to see, lay in it. It could not put the bucket down. For a time the sheep thought about tipping the bucket out. Over the others. They should turn black too, it thought, then it would no longer be alone. It imagined nights in which it moved through the village spraying colour. The thought warmed and poisoned at the same time. ...

There is a form of self-destruction that feels like protection. It is called: I am the victim, everyone else is to blame. I know this attitude from the inside. For years I was the poor one. When something did not work, it was down to the circumstances or the people around me. Above all to my parents. They were the address for my blame for years, for much that I should have stood up for myself. ...

If you like, listen while reading: The fool is one of the oldest figures in human history. He goes by many names — shaman, dervish, mystic, court jester. What connects them: an inner freedom that outlasts outer circumstances. He sees differently and speaks what others leave unsaid. He cannot be bought. The fool knows the word no — toward himself and toward others. ...

Yesterday I helped a family bury their dog. We accompanied him to his last breath. A dear, dear fighter — for those he loved. I read Psalm 23 to the family — so they could see: even this dark valley passes. In the evening I thought: now I will do something good for myself. I went out to celebrate. Into bed at six in the morning, fell straight asleep. Up again at two in the afternoon. The day was depressive. ...

I write this not from theory. I was a victim long enough to know what that feels like from the inside. And I have myself oppressed — made people feel small, relieved myself at their expense, passed on the burden that lay on me. Both belong to me. Neither is to be glossed over. Today I am free. Or more precisely: I am on the way. I am trying to be a warrior of light, in Coelho’s sense — that is, someone who falls, rises again, doubts, keeps going. Not a hero. A practitioner. ...

Things a machine does not have, or that only work with a living counterpart. Having a heart. Giving real hope. Reading between the lines. Irony. Standing together. Good will. Accumulating experience through the same task — like the old mechanic who knows exactly where to strike the hammer because he has worked on that engine for thirty years. The point that occupies me most was the last one. I have been working for a while with people in addiction and mental crisis. My anchor there is nothing I learned in a training program. ...

The ancients built upward: roads, houses, knowledge, peace. We inherited it. That deserves respect. Today we have everything. Information. Choice. Comfort. Stimulation without end. And we lose: depth. Quiet. Space in the mind. Whoever has everything must learn to have nothing. Jesus went into the desert. Mohammed into the cave. Both had nothing for a while. Only then came what we know them for. In the emptiness the gaze becomes clear. Without noise one hears what is one’s own. Without possessions the hands are free. ...

If you like, listen while reading: Mania and depression. Day and night. Light and shadow. For a long time I fought against one of the poles. I believed one was my enemy. I believed I had to choose. Today I know better. Freedom comes first. It is the first thing we receive — from God, from life, from what carries us. With it I decide every day how I live with both poles. ...

I was never good at staying in the lane. My mind constantly draws connections that are simply not foreseen within the lane. Theology and geopolitics. Music and spirituality. Austrian narrowness and global thinking. This was often read as unreliability. As if “staying focused” were a synonym for “seeing less far.” I grew up in a conservative culture. Austria maintains its forms. That has its value — continuity, depth, rootedness. But it also costs something: whoever thinks laterally pays for it. With isolation. With the feeling of never quite belonging. ...

The person wants to be good. The compass sits in the heart. The sensitive person especially. They do not want to hurt — and that is exactly what makes them small. They swallow, they adapt, they wait. And yet the opposite is true: whoever sets no boundaries is not authentic. They are merely polite. Setting boundaries requires the shadow. Whoever knows only their light cannot say no — because the no comes from the dark part, the one that can also fight, that can also protect. Getting to know one’s own shadow and allowing it is not a defeat. It is the precondition for real boundaries. And for real authenticity. ...