The Hyggelig Journey

Time does not slip away — it waits. Motionless, silent, watching. You say you have no time, yet time is always there, staring back at you. What you lack is not time, but intent — the courage to claim it, to shape it, to own it before it owns you. Ah, this tired habit of blaming the clock. As though time were something outside of you, pressing in, closing doors, slipping through your fingers. But time does not run, nor does it flee. It is you who rush past. You who look away. You who declare it lost when it was never anywhere but here. And time? Time watches. It sees you filling the hours with what must be done, what should be done, what you were told must be done. And you say you cannot, that it is impossible, that you are too busy. But busy with what, exactly? With the things you choose — knowingly or not — over the things you claim to long for. Yet before the ticking, before the measuring, before the universe itself, there was no time. No hours, no days, no waiting. Only ...

The evil they do to me does not harm me, for it is not the pain imposed by another that defines me. Pain is fleeting, transient, a passing ripple in the vast river of time. It may sting in the moment, but it dissolves into the past, becoming nothing more than a distant echo. What truly transforms me is the evil I choose to commit, for it is my own actions that carve the contours of my being. I am not shaped by what is done to me, but by how I respond, internalize, and allow it to influence my path. And so I observe. I watch the silent unfolding of existence, where men drift like shadows against the walls they have built themselves, prisoners of their own design. They believe themselves bound by fate, yet it is their own fear that keeps them shackled. The weight of harm is not in the hands of another — it rests in the choices we make, in the decisions we allow to shape us. A wound is but a whisper against the skin, a fleeting reminder of a moment that has passed. A mark that...