Uranian | Uneducated Philosopher
Those are the links:
Gabor Maté (public figure and jew on Palestine and Israelian lies
Israeli ambassador literally telling lies in UN
"A Father to a Father, a Human to a Human"
He might be your little brother or son too.
Gabor Maté (public figure and jew on Palestine and Israelian lies
Israeli ambassador literally telling lies in UN
"A Father to a Father, a Human to a Human"
He might be your little brother or son too.
You literally come to their country (land) and kill, torture, rape their women and destroy everything they have and call them savages?
That's an interesting move.
You've managed to label yourself as a blossom of civilization!
That's an interesting move.
You've managed to label yourself as a blossom of civilization!
The moment when a person feels most exhausted is the moment they begin to be reborn.
Life-changing decisions are made during this time.
Life is questioned from beginning to end.
The people around are weighed—some stay, some leave.
Behaviors begin to change.
A new purpose is set.
And this painful process, sooner or later, comes to an end.
The moment a person feels strongest is when they succeed in being reborn.
Because they have come to understand the necessity of leaving all their weaknesses behind.
Life-changing decisions are made during this time.
Life is questioned from beginning to end.
The people around are weighed—some stay, some leave.
Behaviors begin to change.
A new purpose is set.
And this painful process, sooner or later, comes to an end.
The moment a person feels strongest is when they succeed in being reborn.
Because they have come to understand the necessity of leaving all their weaknesses behind.
"We Were the Last"
I’ve got chills thinking about it.
No shame, no embarrassment.
Tears run down my face, and I let them—
because we’ve already lived the best of it.
We were the last.
The last kids to play outside
before screens replaced sidewalks.
We knew the texture of carpet under our knees,
when the only "streaming" was a real stream
and the only "cloud" was in the sky.
We were there
when phones had buttons, not faces.
We watched the world pixelate—
from flip phones to touchscreens,
from cartoons on Saturday mornings
to algorithms deciding who we are.
We grew up with Shrek’s sarcasm
and Po’s clumsy heroism.
We saw Lightning McQueen slow down—
not because he wasn’t fast,
but because time always wins.
We were told to be kids, just kids.
No followers. No filters.
Just dirt, bruises, laughter,
and imaginations fired by carpet patterns
and ceiling shadows.
We were taught by teachers, not tech.
We respected them, feared them,
and sometimes, yes—
our parents hit us,
because that’s how love looked, then.
Psychologists were for “problems.”
ADHD was whispered,
not diagnosed with apps and online quizzes.
We didn’t know our mental health
had hashtags or awareness months.
We witnessed—
not just watched—
the birth of AI.
And now, we’re talking to it.
We are the crossover generation.
The in-betweeners.
Analog hearts in a digital age.
Raised in the real, adapted to the unreal.
And maybe…
just maybe,
that’s what makes us special.
We were the last.
And we remember.
I’ve got chills thinking about it.
No shame, no embarrassment.
Tears run down my face, and I let them—
because we’ve already lived the best of it.
We were the last.
The last kids to play outside
before screens replaced sidewalks.
We knew the texture of carpet under our knees,
when the only "streaming" was a real stream
and the only "cloud" was in the sky.
We were there
when phones had buttons, not faces.
We watched the world pixelate—
from flip phones to touchscreens,
from cartoons on Saturday mornings
to algorithms deciding who we are.
We grew up with Shrek’s sarcasm
and Po’s clumsy heroism.
We saw Lightning McQueen slow down—
not because he wasn’t fast,
but because time always wins.
We were told to be kids, just kids.
No followers. No filters.
Just dirt, bruises, laughter,
and imaginations fired by carpet patterns
and ceiling shadows.
We were taught by teachers, not tech.
We respected them, feared them,
and sometimes, yes—
our parents hit us,
because that’s how love looked, then.
Psychologists were for “problems.”
ADHD was whispered,
not diagnosed with apps and online quizzes.
We didn’t know our mental health
had hashtags or awareness months.
We witnessed—
not just watched—
the birth of AI.
And now, we’re talking to it.
We are the crossover generation.
The in-betweeners.
Analog hearts in a digital age.
Raised in the real, adapted to the unreal.
And maybe…
just maybe,
that’s what makes us special.
We were the last.
And we remember.
There’s a strange silence that follows me, not the absence of noise but the presence of something unspoken. I have lived across languages, across nations, across selves—each one half-formed, always becoming, never quite arrived.
Sometimes I feel like a bridge between worlds that never asked to be connected.
I observe more than I speak. I carry too much history in a body that never felt like home, and even when I try to laugh, there’s always a delay, like the sound took the long way to reach me.
I study systems to understand why they break. I study minds to understand why I broke.
And still, I remain.
Weightless. Rootless. Aware of every thread that ties me to things I can’t name.
It’s not a cry for help. It’s not even sadness, really. It’s just the gravity of existing as someone who notices everything, and cannot forget.
Sometimes I feel like a bridge between worlds that never asked to be connected.
I observe more than I speak. I carry too much history in a body that never felt like home, and even when I try to laugh, there’s always a delay, like the sound took the long way to reach me.
I study systems to understand why they break. I study minds to understand why I broke.
And still, I remain.
Weightless. Rootless. Aware of every thread that ties me to things I can’t name.
It’s not a cry for help. It’s not even sadness, really. It’s just the gravity of existing as someone who notices everything, and cannot forget.
Some nights I stare too long into my own reflection, hoping to catch myself blinking. There’s something hollow in the glass lately—like a room after someone leaves, perfume still lingering in the air.
I don’t regret everything. Just the parts I let bleed for nothing.
People talk about moving on like it’s a walk through fog. But I’ve been living in the fog. I’ve named every ghost here. I think they’re starting to recognize me too.
Anyway, I’m still breathing. Still haunted. Still soft in the places I shouldn’t be. But I’m not sorry for that.
Not anymore.
I don’t regret everything. Just the parts I let bleed for nothing.
People talk about moving on like it’s a walk through fog. But I’ve been living in the fog. I’ve named every ghost here. I think they’re starting to recognize me too.
Anyway, I’m still breathing. Still haunted. Still soft in the places I shouldn’t be. But I’m not sorry for that.
Not anymore.
Auschwitz begins wherever someone looks at a slaughterhouse and thinks: they’re only animals.
Theodor Adorno