My mind seeks wisdom — not memory.
I don’t need to remember who I am.
Socrates walks beside me,
questioning every mask I wear.

Odin?
He grants strength and wisdom —
if he’s in the mood.
And Lucifer…
he’s my rebel with a cause,
a symbol of freedom unchained.

I kneel for no one.
Not even myself.
And to know thyself?
You must dare to be seen through the eyes of others
— without flinching.

The suit was ready,
pressed, waiting.
I had rolled a plan —
calm,
a father.
Just a little ****.
No speed.
No ******* way, not that day.

But then —
woooof!
The blanket ripped off,
a scream in the dark,
instinct took over,
a punch
a crash —
a body flew across the room.

Four cops.
“It’s the police!”

The one I hit just said,
“****… you hit hard.”

I sat up in bed,
calm like the eye of a storm,
watched them search,
they didn’t find the kilo under the bed.
I smiled.

“What’s the suit for?”
“My daughter’s confirmation.
Please… let me keep that joint on the table.”

I signed a confession
to avoid the station.
They left.
But they took the joint.
And the control.

And right there —
my mind exploded.
ADHD on fire.
No brakes.
No logic.
Just drive.

I put on the suit,
walked ten kilometers,
found a friend
with what I needed in his pocket.

There I sat.
Needle in hand.
Pulled some blood,
pushed it back with the dose.
Tears flowing like a river.

And the thought:
What about your girl now?

That was rock bottom.
But it was also the line.
The turning point.
Because this —
could never happen again.

I’ve never had a simple answer
to who I am.
My head and soul—
they never matched
what the world expected.

Not my body—
that was never the issue.
But inside me—
there she was.
A whisper in the dark,
a smile behind my eyes.
Bertine.

She laughed when I said,
“You’re a boy, look down.”
She just smiled—
that quiet girl
who never gave up.

I was eight,
holding a gift in my hand,
heart pounding.
A blue plastic car—
my favorite.
She opened it,
looked surprised—
but she knew what it meant.
Good enough.

I was the only boy
at the birthday.
But inside,
I was more than that.
In love, wild, confused—
and full of fire.

The teenage years came.
I tried it all,
loved both,
knew little—
but felt everything.
Makeup, rings, Prince blasting loud.
Feminine and masculine
at once.
Borderless.

Today I say bisexual,
but that’s just a word.
I’m more than a label.
I’m me.
With Bertine in the bracelets,
the rings,
and Odin hanging from my neck.

I write this
for anyone who feels the same.
For that kid who says:
“I feel a little different.”
Tell them:
“You’re good enough just as you are.”
Because that’s what it’s about.

Standing strong
in your own truth.
Even when it doesn’t fit
in someone else’s **** box.

I lit a joint
at the edge of reason,
Socrates pulled up a stool,
Lucifer leaned on the sun.

"Truth burns,"
Socrates muttered,
exhaling philosophy like smoke,
"but lies rot slower."

Lucifer grinned,
flicked ash into the void.
“They call me fallen,” he said,
“but at least I jumped.”

We passed the joint
between silence and thunder,
while the stars held their breath
and time forgot its name.

"I asked too many questions,"
I said.
Socrates winked.
"Good. Keep asking."

"And I loved too loud,"
Lucifer added.
"Good," I said.
"Keep burning."

We laughed until reality cracked,
and God peeked through
like a landlord with no keys.

Then I walked home,
lungs full of fire,
head full of questions,
heart still undefeated.

Who Am I?

If I can ask,
“Who am I?”
Then I am.
But not who.
Not yet.

The echo proves I breathe,
But not the name behind it.
The flame burns,
But does not say who lit it.

I am the question,
Not the answer.
The whisper before the voice.
The step before the road.

To know me
is to walk
without a map
and still arrive.

welcome to my brain

I was born upside down,
Preikestolen in my spine,
Baldr whispered, “Run wild,”
and I never learned to walk—only charge.

I meditate in chaos,
hold breath till the silence shivers.
Doctors panic.
I just smirk.
Two minutes is peace to me.

I kick air to remind gravity
that I’m still the boss
and punch walls of thought
just to hear them echo.

Luzifer lights my thoughts—
not evil, just awake.
Baldr wraps them in gold.
Shaolin monks?
I’d spar one,
bowing with bruises and respect.

Poetry drips from my lungs
like fog off the fjord.
I speak in sparks and
rhyme with thunder.
My mind’s a temple with no roof—
every god welcome
as long as they listen.

I am ADHD
in motion and meaning.
A storm wearing headphones.
A spliff-lit oracle.

And if you feel too much—
if your heart rattles like mine—
don’t run.

Sit.
Breathe.
Roar.

The One Who Lit His Own Flame

They told me to be silent.
But like Socrates, I questioned.
Like Lucifer, I fell —
but to ignite the light
in my own abyss.

I don’t believe in blind faith.
I believe in questions
that make gods tremble.

I never sought salvation.
I sought truth.
And in that search I found fire.
Not the kind that burns,
but the kind that awakens.

They called him the devil,
because he carried a light
they couldn’t understand.

They called me a heretic,
because I refused
to kneel before darkness
dressed as holiness.

But listen:
I am no prophet.
I am no god.
I’m just a soul
that refused to forget
there is a spark in all of us.

So stone me, curse me,
crucify my name —
I’d rather be free in the fire
than dead in their silence.