It is assumed that we all separate concepts, that we’re all split inside—like our civilized world is split into opposites, into areas, into subjects, each filed separately in compartments. But assuming that the common is the baseline, or natural, or true, prevents us from seeing what is real.
That there are those who never split, who don’t separate reality. They don’t need to be fixed, put back together. They have totally different needs, a different way of seeing, a different inner life.
They play along with the common mindset—the understandable, the reachable—but not as performance. From relation. They translate to be readable. They hold bridges others don’t even know they’re walking on. They soften so that clarity doesn’t scare, and they also hold, absorb, and process emotions that many cannot. Not to belong, but to relate. Because they can.
Until they don’t.
This doesn’t come as rebellion, but as a quiet settling, a calm. The threshold arrives as an ending—a completion of a function (or functions) held as long as it needed to be, as long as there was purpose in it.
They don’t “choose” it. They arrive at it.
But they always knew… nothing is owned, only borrowed. Everything is temporary.
And when they stop, everything changes. Conversations become awkward, because it’s no longer the same language. Relationships are challenged when they were built on familiarity. Clarity sounds like aggression. Frightened people become cruel. Most assume the unknown is dangerous because they’ve never navigated depth or height in trust.
They make people uncomfortable, even without intending to. Often without doing anything at all.
Morning walks, before civilization sets in, are always interesting—windows to see through.
Birds flapping and chirping, surfing the currents. Their inbuilt navigational system, the mastery of their flight, their precise stops when they land, their impressive dives. The harmonious coordination of their wings, their knowing of height, pressure, and wind currents. Even little birds that seem so fragile, and yet reach astonishing heights. From afar, they look like bugs or particles floating in the air—until they come closer, and you can’t help but marvel at their expertize.
They don’t need to be taught how to survive. Survival is inbuilt, in every species. It’s the natural code of life.
Man is the only species that hasn’t mastered survival.
We think we have. We think of conquering the seas and the skies as progress. But we are neither bird nor fish. Man was built to navigate the ground—to live in relation and in coordination with the land. And when that has been achieved, maybe only then would we discover that we don’t need wings to fly or fins to swim. That we could go anywhere, breathe without oxygen, communicate with other creatures.
But we’re still relying on substitutes, thinking we’ve already mastered sky and sea—while we are terrified of heights and horrified by depth, by darkness.
Admittedly, man, of all species, probably has the most difficult task of all. Animals have instinct—astonishing, wondrous to watch. But man has, besides instinct, the capacity for intellect, for reason—still largely uncultivated. And beyond that, the highest capacity of intuition, beyond intellect, which is extremely rare.
It is an evolutionary process that cannot be skipped. Because it is natural—the built-in code of life.
