Life, with its unpredictable flow, has just stopped at your feet; halfway between two inward bounding infinities - you would hardly admit it to yourself - you have been stuck for a long time, like someone suffering from pathological constipation. You stand in its crowded No Man's Land and you would rather shrink yourself, instead of finally fulfilling yourself.
As if lost, you would voluntarily hold yourself back and rather exile yourself from this big world, so that you would not have to look at the wolf's eye as a surplus with vile, hand-holding promises, which some compromising friends have forced on you as a shortage, or you would have to spend countless profit reports on a multitude of results reports, because with the final blow of Being, it totally delivers you, but it also keeps you in constant dependence. Perhaps it is better if praise and humble intentions keep trickling down from noble people, which is still going on; the patience of the actor, ingrained in human faces like moldy **** is the bribed. The great powers are tinkering with a degraded historical era, patching it up.
Fickle-minded men pedal with those knocked out of the ring, saying: "That's how it should be!" Why didn't the loser-fool surrender?!" - As if the sweet lightness were one with the black compulsions, the crumbs of impending silences, the certain infinity floats above our heads with eel-like slowness, which we can barely see even now...
You have a yearning for faith, a liar, a sluggish life, because you made deals, and so sooner or later you became everyone's debtor; the wild tolerance you believed to be insoluble, to which you clung while you did your things, has also become tamed into an impassable ditch. A person is now constantly standing in the depths of cubic silences, like some creeper, hesitant, because there is nothing to cling to. Your petty evils have put on a mask, like a child's toy, they are still playing hide-and-seek with you, - but be careful, maybe - not for long!
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 1:43 AM UTC
This melancholy Age has planted a golden seal on the stores of longing cells, molecules, and instincts. Every single day the fall itself stumbles, and useless counterarguments; pitiful soul-secrets begin to sob deep within you. who could have brought it to what?!
Because the mirror-heart that has become breakable is washed inside by true pearls, and thus the bitter, truthful-word is silent in them, like the mole-depths of wells. On narrow, cloud-faces, holy-evil is conceived, as man would like to keep up with his insidious chess moves to the core of history in vain. He throws a snag, then collapses so many useless, idyllic, dream-image-visions conceived in uselessness; because guilt seems to have universally died out not only from our souls - but also from our weathered bones. With the sour smell of sweat, we seem to be completely dependent on ourselves; the mass-man also empties itself in the inexcusable finiteness of a series of Nirvana-lacks.
Because man - since he can hardly do anything else - is forced to rush all his life towards the periphery of the uncertain Nothing, because later he will return to the invisible infinity anyway. Echo-words of duplicated cries echoed under caned rib cages... In the wave encounters of instinct-lives, Someone-Someone has always sinned. In their hidden misadventures, the feeling of stigma-loss settles under the human skin. Why does a fateful expectation have to be hidden?!
The spirit rarely builds castles in the air from expelled mother-killing words. In every case, a persistent, self-destructive self-blame gnaws at a person in every stubborn moment, so that one can only thrash about, like a worm stuck in a tree. Now the ancient principle of "hands wash hands, and an eye for an eye" remains in effect. Roosters scratch at their garbage heaps to their heart's content and scoop it all up for themselves.
Dec 29, 2025
Dec 29, 2025 at 2:17 AM UTC
The seemingly crowded nerve poisons of everyday life seem to be gradually drumming in the molehills of your hearing ear; you don't even notice how your sweaty palms feel for the rusting keys of the memory crumbs of your past. You cherish the hard-to-bear laundry of your days in your depraved head for days on end. In this current Age, nothing else can be a vigilant, hunted fugitive; your life - I fear - may never truly catch up with you if you always deliberately run away from it. The thirsty, vulnerable blood-soul is still being immersed.
You would still wait for that certain inner, compelling spiritual burden to be eased somewhere, sometime, by someone, but you are unable to accept that the sober interest of helping can no longer eradicate worms.
Because in this current distorted, flawed World, the tears of missed lives seem to be running like endless movies; the corruptible silence of conscious uncertainty is straining itself, a soul explosion that is about to die out would be pulled home like a rough magnet. The impossible spasm, like some strange, inexplicable dream image, still holds you captive - but maybe - not for long.
The empathy poison of acceptance still glows unwaveringly within you, but of course only if you allow yourself to become even more vulnerable, more exposed, because the scenes of life must also be wallpapered so that the conscious Lack can be lived... Because unconsciously, endless cosmic rivers are being built inside you, like a labyrinth, which the knotted, gloomy anxiety has built within you.
One day - if you really wanted to - you could tear apart the gigantic bridges of your complicit silence. Your longing anticipation could also be buried under the guise of undemandingness. Your emptiness that is moving inward becomes more and more vile, more meaningless, as you try to fit together the puzzle pieces of your uncertain Future with melancholy.
Dec 28, 2025
Dec 28, 2025 at 2:42 AM UTC
Among freshly innervated feelings, it is increasingly difficult to declare that mere Existence is a sure haven. The multiple fatigue of increased attractions and repulsions still consumes its members, in times of disprivilegedness, "some" beg for lucky privileges to their liking, while you have exploited their ancient indifference, profit-gain can only be squeezed out of the average.
They impose the duties of bribery and petty devilish manipulations on the simple average man in every step, because they know exactly that even if he were to speak out in the matter of his self-defense, there is no human law or legislation that would enforce its unquestionable truth for all time. Out there, they are hanging on a string with their slutty sins that can be swept under the carpet, who could have seen helpless, seething-smelling debauchery these days?! Nowadays, free robberies are still more important than the crowded congregations of educated human beings. Today, it is already resounding pathos-lost, bleak sermons, base emotions would not make a truce for a single minute, because why would they?!
Anyone who is already over forty is faced with the fact that they are faithfully guarding and cherishing in their narrowed veins, like a time bomb, the blood clots suspected of being a heart attack. It is as if everyone is already terrified by superstitious cock-talks into permanent, lied-to traitors; a pulling hesitation tightens their caring, visceral members like a string. Like the small but all the more important stars of a football match in crystal vases, they fall, clanging into the Nirvana-nothing, intentionally hidden away because no one was willing to pay enough attention to them.
An Angel, who looks like a ********** on duty, might even talk to the person for a good salary, just so that he doesn't have to go to a psychologist. The moments that were thought to be wasteful - I fear - are already They are irretrievable. Because everyone who exists is running madly into an indifferent, deaf tunnel, and sooner or later the whining Promethean Time will also be devoured by Someone.
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 1:25 AM UTC
Some remaining, unfinished feelings still linger on the shores of restless, storm-beaten hearts; the restless churning of instinct cells closes in on itself on the outskirts of Space and Time. Instead of futile carousel loves, it would be good to safely experience the immortal euphorias of the Universe, because even the cruel Fate seems to be waiting for only one thing - it deliberately seals the individual lines of human tragedy. Walking in the mirror of sinking present times, the panting features of the person who has become can be distorted at any time, like some grotesque reflection.
Because a person - whether he wants to or not - is forced to carry, to carry with him the petty secrets that invite death, which only he alone can know. Even those who want to live can be trampled by any number of soul migrations; lukewarm prosperity can rarely fill the holey stomach of poverty - not even around Christmas - because - undoubtedly - the lovely idlers want to wallow more and more in their own manure piles. Large, lazy animals sleep, a labyrinth of anxious struggles inoculated into the cheap triumph of mediocrity, from which it is increasingly difficult to free oneself.
The yoke of laws that seemed to ossify in rotten indifference is increasingly unbearable to tolerate. Under suspicious, digital magnifying lenses, it is no longer possible to get to know anyone honestly and truly. They always sigh for some cursed, disowned mantra-preaching - especially those - who already have plenty to chop into soup; yet so many would wait with secret cries until the intention to help could become a touch.
As if the great swindler were already leading everything and everyone by the nose. Because now everyone is playing the role of a smiling soul-tender, and anyone who dares to admit that something is wrong in the world can already be a cause for suspicion in the camp of bleating fools.
Dec 26, 2025
Dec 26, 2025 at 1:44 AM UTC
The fearful, trapped mighty ones are no longer held by the trap of dug wolf dens; they are chased and devoured by the pack of sheep bleating insidiously, vast scenes are all split open like the piercing dawns of a fine day, if the treasures of human well-being and attainable happiness must be measured within a set deadline.
"Some" turn back into hungry monkeys yearning to go mad if they interpret the extended, universal principle of "it is better to receive than to give" only for themselves. The various egos and the mind's haughty worldly love - in secrets - still bet against each other, as if they were playing a game of chance with each other, because ideas that are too full of themselves can fail a person at any time, because the burden of past events weighs down the head of a weathered and worried mind. The counterarguments - which anticipated sincere trust - remain here, in a despicable way, orphaned, abandoned, and can fall on people's heads.
A dwarf historical age is not yet certain to put a worthy end to the great beasts. In the servant moments, as in some strange process of vulnerability, they still grab their living victims by the scruff of the neck, and Balázsa Hübelék will be the one who does not act. Because this No Man's Land, which was previously claimed to be stable, is full of stumbling, full of doubts. Silence repeatedly belies those who still listen to it. A wind-silence conscience nests in the human soul in the form of a careful flock of birds.
- You see, the World coincides today; between the plebs and the aristocratic diva-queens, increasingly deepening social chasms yawn. The pearl-of-tears truths are now increasingly reserved for the chosen few and not for close friends, who might have known what it meant to be a janissary child who was chased. As if the endless mine-yours were now continuing in a permanent manner, even on a global scale.
Dec 25, 2025
Dec 25, 2025 at 1:36 AM UTC
Small, blood-splattered gusts of wind howl above the heads, pushing the onslaughts of the self-uncompromising winter before them; from the instinctive silence of bodies, a crack of silence quietly roars out, and that too is only half audible. Because somehow all silence is conscious, and now lives in permanent captivity, because due to the unbearableness of Being, it is becoming increasingly difficult to get ahead, which would be good for everyone. The petty man of today, like a stupid animal, is walking towards a puppet covered in illusion, from which he is quickly disillusioned, if only he is not awakened.
Once again, superficial, meaningless gaiety and revelry to the core, a party-drama-cavalcade until dawn, which has little meaning, just another stupid festive party, where you can waste the beautiful, the good, the noble, because most people prefer to deliberately measure themselves equal to zero, if there is no other way, and not a laurel wreath grows in every cursed, dazzling rose bush.
Outside, you can increasingly feel as if only the consciously planted Deficiencies are demanding their one-time debt, which - as it were - were already buried at the moment of birth. The indifference-emptiness nicknamed the permanent has been dug up here, just like most manure piles.
The dense Nirvana-nothing waits for its turns that disappear into timelessness, like Godot, while most of the little people breathe their last breath of its lead-free air. Every rejection of assertion is a fatal stroke to the heart. Now, lovely families of rats are playing around at will, mainly on the edges of bridges in a flood of neon light; the balanced tremors are difficult to decipher if there are no signposts on both sides of the Paths of Being, telling people where else they could go in their lives.
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 1:57 AM UTC
Even inner instincts that do not lie to themselves will sooner or later deceive you; how many disappointments, how many petty, manipulative plots, humiliating shames, ugly secrets are still needed for the curse of fulfilled, self-tortured self-accusation to finally fall on the heads of individual people?! Because surprisingly many sluggish offenses still throb in the heart, which is the debtor of the restless, storm-battered Soul. The man who is in labor with Existence is constantly bled by his own judgment Fate.
As if the dream-devouring shadows were walking among us at the same time, because it happens that even among trusts and honesty that are in the process of decaying, everyone sooner or later becomes suspicious. Even those who - exceptionally - dream of culture are forced to stare at the big Celebrity-Ricky starlets shown live on the screens.
Why is the undulating abyss of airy happiness constantly included among man's desires, which he must lose anyway, since he is unable to keep it?! Like a serpentine road, man is being torn apart by the debasing, superficial crumbs of lies. Conspiratorial scheming and toasting are everywhere; because in vain do they regurgitate a whole series of honey-glazed promises twisted into baklava, if they have nothing to do with it, how can they make it come true?
The winding ****** of lies are also increasingly real and do not let go. The instincts have long been shaken by the ebb and flow of existence, nicknamed the permanent; the intestinal circular corridors, which it would have been good for people to walk through at least once of their own free will, are already dwindling in ever-accelerating final beats. A truly feeling heart would do better to inject a little vigilance into the coronary arteries that are beginning to become blocked, which are difficult to operate on with steady hands. He who lives scratches and bruises.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 2:05 AM UTC
The stubborn effort that only man can understand himself; the diminishing regularity of intentions, the inquisitorial midwifery indifference that now - for some reason - is already settling heavily on life; cheap successes and awards should not tempt you irresponsibly either. The petty, merciless logic of cogwheel systems piles up the simple average here and there, and it is increasingly rare to speak up. The more influential seem to deliberately not tolerate petty extremes, in which it would still be good to hold on a little sometimes. Among the mazes of useful lies and half-truths, it is increasingly difficult to find an act guided by sincere intention.
Because now the massive, muddy lake of enduring idiocy is belching even more, while the primitive towers of neo-barbarism are gloomy all around. In the leaden cage of Time, modern man seems to be able to toss and turn, like a tied-up person. A castrated generation is still performing in a circus, scolding and lazing around because it cannot find its place. On hidden paths, the merchants-entrepreneurs who want to make a profit are trapping their dreams.
The daily pinpricks deliberately suffered as cheap little defeats, the pitiful, almost pleasure-seeking pranks of the ambitious and the self-important, i.e. who else can be fooled and robbed lavishly? The ominous warning signs inserted into cynical chess moves, which no one can be curious enough about. The filth-stream of stagnant water that has become rotten to the core of human relationships will finally sweep everyone away.
The Celebrity star dreams of unqualified recognition, just like the five-minute-famous person who stepped into the tabloid media for such and such considerations. This current postmodern century praises thin-headed bloodsucking scoundrels in vain. Where are the librarian prophets who want to philosophize compared to bustling jackal-breakers?! It's as if everyone is being devoured at once by the sea of flesh of life!
Dec 21, 2025
Dec 21, 2025 at 12:48 AM UTC
As if man could now be captured once and for all by the vegetative World, which has advanced to a homogeneous state. As if the infected hemlock cup of conscious shell-solitude should be drained to the bottom - as necessary; offensive indifference, vile suspicion - it may seem - today silent accomplices of a drunken man, everyone is swallowed up by compromises like unreasoning animals, since decency can no longer exist. Like a lurking hyena army, persistent idiocy and indifference threaten its victims, until Death unexpectedly forces the average to its knees. The sense of lasting shame burns out the sense of wasted years, because shameless creepers are now multiplying unnoticed, who never let others assert themselves and kick the ball.
Halfway between birth and death, the sure abyss of despair is already surging within, the proof of the compromises made every day; it is quite a difficult and tiring task to even crawl under the creaking train wheels, let alone survive with the massive sense of security of sleepwalkers. - As if one should accept every new, meaningless defeat and stroke of fate with apathetic resignation.
Only a few can take the risk of starting over. It would be good, therefore, to observe precisely, even if only once in a while, the course of inner events, and what is still missing from the Whole that has been torn into parts. The innermost, secret desires that lurk for betrayals consume the needs of the individual; it would be necessary to get to know the limits of greedy selfishness.
Because there is no credit - either way, or no - for redundant, aimless promises. The Moliere-like risk of mistakes can hardly be taken as a thread; One can only stumble through human-sized dimensions, because they are unaware of the obstacles that Life sets up. It is hardly possible to rest a little in the ruts of everyday life.
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 12:53 AM UTC