The Quiet Battle of Becoming

Sometimes I write selfish pages. Not out of greed, nor vanity — no. I write them as if whispering to myself in the dark, so I don’t forget. Because forgetting is easy. The noise of the world is thick, sticky, clinging to the skin and numbing the senses. And in this blur of days, of duties, of silences swallowed whole, I must remind myself of what truly matters.

Life isn’t a straight line, nor a grand revelation. It is a slow unravelling, a peeling away of what isn’t yours until you find what is. Never stop fighting, they say, until you arrive at your destined place. But what is destiny if not the place where you are most yourself? And how do you know when you’ve arrived? You don’t. You just keep moving, sculpting yourself with each step, shedding skins that no longer fit.

There must be an aim, a north, a whisper calling you forward. Otherwise, what is effort but exhaustion? With purpose, even suffering holds meaning. The wind scatters those who walk without direction, but those who know why they walk — ah, they move with gravity, with weight, with something unbreakable inside them.

But wanting is not enough. One must learn, and keep learning, for knowledge is not a trophy but a movement. The mind must stay awake, alert, like a bird that knows the shape of the sky. Work hard, yes, but not just with your hands — work with the soul, with that secret part of you no one sees but you know is there.

And even then, life will test you. Doubt will seep through the cracks, failure will knock at your door with familiar hands. Do not fear them. Perseverance is not about being strong — it is about continuing even when you are weak. It is about knowing that the path is yours alone, and no one will walk it for you.

So go on. Go on despite everything. The world will try to mould you, tame you, but you are not here to be tamed. You are here to carve your name into time, to reach the greatness that has always been waiting for you.

Comments

The Fallacy of Self‑Sufficiency

Some people will tell you — quite loudly, usually — that they are enough. They need no one, thank you very much. Entirely self‑made. A closed circuit. I, too, fancied myself an island at one time. A small, sturdy principality of one. I paid my own bills. Made my own tea. I even spoke aloud to myself in the supermarket queue, which was meant to prove something. But late at night, when all the heroic independence had been done for the day, there it was — a sort of homesickness without a forwarding address. You know the feeling. You’re supposedly sovereign, but you still wish someone would knock. Self‑sufficiency is a word that weighs a bit too much. It sounds like an insurance policy or a piece of camping equipment. It promises freedom, but only the kind you can fit in a box. Like eating an entire birthday cake alone — which, I confess, I’ve done. Because the truth (and it arrives, as truths tend to, when you’ve just burned your toast) is that we are made of others. We are es...

The Progressive Misreading of Silence

At 5, I entered rooms like a murmur. I was already listening for something behind the noise — something older than voices, softer than footsteps. “He’s such a well-behaved boy,” they said, smiling with relief. But what they mistook for virtue was only quiet intuition. I was not good. I was attuned. At 11, I had mastered the art of presence without weight. I could sit by the window for hours, watching the wind pass through the trees like thought through the body. “He’s quiet,” they would say — gently, but with a trace of discomfort. They couldn’t name the feeling of someone watching without need. At 17, I was called “mature.” But maturity is not a virtue — it is a scar. I had already seen the shape of endings before others saw beginnings. Friends came to me like tide to stone, hoping to be held. I held them, yes — but not always with words. Sometimes silence is the only honest offering. At 24, my stillness no longer charmed. The world asked for brightness, momentum, performa...

Clarity Begins Where Pretence Ends

At some quiet juncture, without spectacle or warning, the architecture of one’s life begins to feel misaligned. The roles once worn with ease grow heavy; the rhythm once followed now falters. In that stillness — where noise gives way to unease — emerges a longing not for more, but for truth. Not the polished kind offered by others, but the raw clarity that demands a reckoning with who we are, beneath all that we’ve built. At that point, we no longer seek applause, distraction, or even resolution. What we seek is clarity — elemental, grounding, liberating. But this clarity is not the kind that flatters. It is not decorative. It is not curated for display. It is the kind that requires dismantling illusions, reordering assumptions, and exposing the scaffolding that holds our being together. To know oneself is not a sentimental pursuit. It is an architectural one. Each insight is a cornerstone; each falsehood identified, a wall removed. We begin, not with grand gestures, but wi...

The Hyggelig Journey

Search This Blog