When you see a swordman approaching you aggressively, draw your sword: Do not recite poetry to the one who is not a Poet.

Chān Buddhist classics

Private channel.

Келин. 2009г
Режиссер: Ермек Турсунов
Казахстан

If you need proof, it wasn’t real. Simple as that. You don’t prove gravity, you don’t prove hunger, you don’t prove pain. They are. You feel them, they shape you, they break you. They don’t ask for permission to exist.

If you need proof that you’re alive, you’re already half-dead.

If you need proof that they loved you, they never did. Love doesn’t hand you receipts. It either suffocates you or leaves you gasping, but it sure as hell doesn’t draft a contract.

If you need proof that you were important to someone, you weren’t. You were convenient. And convenience is disposable.

If you need proof of your sanity, it’s slipping. If you need proof of your control, you’ve already lost it. If you need proof that the world is fair, then you’ve spent too long swallowing the lie.

Real things don’t scream for validation. They just are.

And if you don’t get it, well, maybe it wasn’t yours to begin with.

I don’t need to dress this up with fancy words or philosophical jargon. Let’s just state it plainly. Why do people commit acts of violence? Why are the police especially brutal when facing crowds protesting against the government? Why can they unleash such force, sometimes to the point of committing what would otherwise be considered crimes?

Because in the eyes of the state, it isn’t a crime.

Violence isn’t judged by morality but by who wields it. When ordinary people riot, it’s “chaos.” When the police crack down, it’s “law enforcement.” The same act that would land you in prison is rebranded as “maintaining order” when done by those in uniform. Power doesn’t justify itself with ethics—it legitimizes itself through force and control.

As Freud once put it, why does a dog lick its own dick? Because it simply can.

I'm not stupid, and I am not Smart as fvck, but I've somethin' that even myself can't understand what it is.
I don't have a soul, I am a soul. I just have a body.
I always want to be in love with someone, but if this person tries to put me under control, I'll just leave. I like freedom, even the love of Juliette can't hold me. But if I like you, and if it goes back as mutual feeling then you are mine. You should be just mine and that's it, there is no and. Fvck your feelings, friends and others. Be mine or just get the hell out of my life.

Doesn’t it seem strange how we’re constantly jumping from one global crisis to another, almost like clockwork, for the last three years?

One moment, Gaza is in flames, and the world watches. Then, suddenly, Ukraine—forgotten for two years—is back in the headlines, conveniently as Trump returns to power.

Macron visits Uzbekistan? Barely a ripple in the news. Why? Because everyone was too busy obsessing over some self-proclaimed "magician doctor" who claims to heal with his bare hands.

Coincidence? I doubt it.

A person, in a single lifetime, lives as multiple people within the same body. Every loss, every painful experience, every sunset, and every tear alters them a little. A person is born as one but dies as many.