A dream at night. Strange. You don’t know what it wanted. By morning it is gone, almost gone, a remnant clings like mist to your fingers.
Then a memory. Pops up. Unasked. You look at it. Wonder: yes? And? What am I supposed to do with that.
Worries. They come unasked too. Fears as well. No invitation needed. They are simply there, in the middle of making coffee, in the middle of brushing your teeth, in the middle of nothing.
What was it again that I didn’t want to forget. Gone. Exactly at the moment I wanted to hold on to it, gone.
That is what everyday life looks like. No great drama. Small fragments. Constantly.
And then the offers. There are plenty of them.
A market. Huge. A solution for every fragment. A course for every worry. An app for every fear. Paid, of course. The market loves fragments. Fragments sell well.
Alongside it, something more genuine, more serious: therapists. People who want to listen. Who ask instead of selling. A difference that matters.
And then there is something else. A word. A label.
The psycho. Psycho nonsense. One of those, yeah, he’s nuts. Must have a screw loose.
A word that explains nothing. It only devalues. Before anything has been understood, the label has already been applied. Done. Off into the corner.
Everything there at once. Conditions. Offers. Recommendations for action. Social standards for how one is supposed to deal with oneself. A jumble. No clear view.
And right in the middle, the actual question. Small. Quiet. Almost overheard.
What do I do with it now.
What do I engage with, seriously. What do I leave alone, for today, for later, perhaps forever. What am I willing to work on. What not yet.
Answers can come from outside. What I take from them and what I engage with remains up to me. That is the point.
The dream remains a dream. The memory remains a memory. Neither asks permission to come. Perhaps that is a good thing too. I forget things, overlook them, push them aside. Not everything that happens inside me waits for my consciousness to finally agree. Some things simply reappear. Not all of it has to mean something. Not everything has to be worked through.
But perhaps it initially deserves something other than rejection.
Perhaps goodwill.
And I. I decide what I do with it. Not the market. Not the label. Me.
That is simply how it is. Everyday life. ☺️
Written on 13 August 2026 at 18:15. © 2026 Whisper7. All rights reserved.