Perhaps life is only a dance between ember and sky,
between what dies and what opens our eyes.
Perhaps only the feeling remains,
a shadow beneath the empty branches,
gentle, bitter, and strangely familiar all at once.
Fog erased Pilatus that day.
Moe looked into the white and said,
“Scheisse…normally it’s right there.”
We walked down into the Wolfsschlucht. It was cold, wet, and dark. The forest smelled like soaked earth and distant smoke. It was very quiet, as if someone had lined the entire forest with acoustic foam.
Then candles appeared out of nowhere. Small flames scattered through the canyon, trembling in the damp air like they weren’t sure they belonged. No wind, no voices, just that soft, unnatural stillness pressing in from all sides.
Everything slowed down.
Like diving underwater - only your breath remains.It felt safe. Calm. Almost sacred.
I’ve never felt so comfortable in a place so cold and shadowed.
Love is like an ancient tree, its roots tangled deep in the earth, while its branches slowly burn in the whispering fire of time.
The flames lick softly, black-glowing, devouring fragments of memory, and the bark crackles, crumbles, falling into ash carried by the wind through shadowed spaces.
Yet, in the quiet between the embers, a faint pulse lingers.
Solo travel:
No audience, no filter, no one to impress.
You wake up where you want,
leave when it feels right,
stay longer when it doesnt.
Some days are quiet.
Some nights feel unreal.
Its just you, the world,
and the version of yourself that shows up when no one is watching.
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Traveling alone means
no compromises, no waiting, no “what do you feel like eating?”.
You get lost. On purpose.
You talk to strangers and sometimes to yourself. Both count.
The plan is loose.
The memories are sharp.
Alone on the road,
but never really alone.
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Hands are soaked in blood, raised in prayer and lowered to kill. Religion is twisted into a tool, misused, justified.
Words of peace stand beside acts of cruelty.
Time exposes everything, even the lies behind faith.
In the end, nothing remains untouched, not even the sacred.
Palaces of gold rise up, built from wealth, power, and the labor of others.
Walls separate rulers from people, while kings and emperors speak of eternity.
Wars follow greed, leaving scorched earth and silent suffering.
The shine fades, crowns rust, walls begin to crack.
Impermanence claims everything, without noise, without exception.
The world carries scars, open and silent at the same time.
Suffering hangs in the air like dust, invisible, yet everywhere.
Tears do not fall only from eyes, they seep through walls, through days, through years.
Sometimes loud, sometimes so quiet that no one notices how much is being lost.
