Of course, it shouldn’t be. It could be about so many other things. In a relationship, perhaps most importantly, it could be about connection.

It could be about how this is the moment when you can be closest to the other person, when for an infinite instant, all boundaries disappear—when not just your thoughts, emotions, and desires but your bodies, too, become one.

But maybe you don’t want to connect anymore. Not anymore.

Maybe the other person has become too much.

Maybe the woman next to you is too strong, dominating you, correcting you, constantly telling you how things should be done. She feels like your mother. And you definitely don’t want to sleep with your mother. Or perhaps you feel like you’re living with a helpless victim, someone who always needs to be told what to do, someone for whom you have to solve everything. Like a child. No way...

You’re looking for her—the woman who’s your partner. Who isn’t above you or below you but beside you. A woman who might, just occasionally, be a bit like your mother when it’s necessary, or a bit of a vulnerable, fragile victim whom you can save when needed. All of this so you can feel like a man.

But when sex becomes a punishment withheld at home, what is that really about?

So, if the man is missing from the relationship, he must be found elsewhere. Because the feeling is essential, even if just for a while.

And both parties do this, in one way or another.

In video games, you don’t have to go far for it. It’s better than porn, and the enjoyment lasts longer.

But one thing is missing from it: the other person. The connection with them. And it’s a devastating feeling to be alone in a relationship.

This article was written as a complement to a post published on the Lost Garden blog.

Everything is About Sex

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about situations from my past that fill me with deep shame or guilt. Moments where I behaved terribly or where others treated me that way. Am I getting old? Or is it something about the alignment of the stars that brings these buried memories to the surface?

There’s so much written and said about accepting our lives, our experiences, that everything happens for a reason, that we must face who we are and embrace our fate. But if you see a slap coming your way, what would you do? Would you accept it, or would you duck?

The feeling is terrible when the thought arrives, when, out of nowhere, that memory crawls into your face, dragging that emotion with it, engulfing you completely. And in an instant, you’re back in that old situation. Reliving it all over again.

It rushes at me so quickly, so inevitably, that at first, I didn’t know what to do. I just got smeared across it. My shame. And if I was still standing after the first blow, the urge to flee would come rushing in… But no matter how loudly the spiritual gurus, the internationally certified life coaches, and the authors of motivational books yell at me from the ringside to stand my ground, hold on, wear it down… I know I have to run.

Nowhere, because this isn’t about the slap anymore. I got that slap long ago, from someone else, from myself—does it even matter? Really, there’s no slap anymore. What’s left is the aching pain because back when that slap came, I couldn’t dodge it. Now, this feeling is nothing more than the memory of the pain from my broken nose, my knocked-out tooth, which torments me out of nowhere, again and again. You can’t duck it, and there’s no remedy for it either, because this pain doesn’t flow from the nerves around the broken parts; it’s become a part of my existence. Perhaps an inseparable memento.

We sit on the couch at dawn. Everyone is here.

It’s dark; the others are asleep. Ottó lies on his back with his legs splayed, head turned away, utterly relaxed, maybe dreaming of chewing a bone as his body occasionally twitches. The cat is silent too, curled up and softly breathing in the armchair. Kata is in the bedroom behind a closed door. I make sure not to wake her with the loud clatter of emotions and thoughts rattling inside me, capable of replaying an old scene within me in an instant. Sparing me nothing, showing me new and newer angles of my shame. As if I were inside the other person, the one I wronged or who wronged me. I feel how the emotion twists me, how I want to run, to escape the memory, the feeling, myself, the notion that I am not good, the fear that I might indeed be what I am in that feeling.

There was a time when I denied it, rationalized it, blamed others, or simply shut the door on it and maybe even bricked it up. Maybe this feeling is here now because of all those years of loneliness and humiliation, insisting on staying so close to me.

It’s sitting next to me on the couch…

Even today. Someone came again today. Came to celebrate their presence, to embrace me, to never let go. I surrender—I’ve run out of ideas. Am I tired? Have I accepted it? I don’t know. Maybe together we’ll figure something out. Maybe if it stays long enough, it will eventually want to leave, sending me only the occasional postcard: “Hello, I’m doing well! Hope you are too.”

Perhaps this time of year is the best for this. For being together. All of us. Me, who I am. Me, who I was seen as. Me, what I thought about who I was seen as. Me, the good, the bad, everything. Every day, a different guest from within me—a memory, an old version of myself—that I gift myself.

And I, a well-behaved child, unwrap my daily gift each day to get to know what lies hidden in the darkest coffee-drinking season of the year…

The article was translated from Hungarian to English by ChatGPT. Thank you, ChatGPT, for being here.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about situations from my past that fill me with deep shame or guilt. Moments where I behaved terribly or where others treated me that way. Am I getting old?

Shame

We love inequality. We go to parties where there are already plenty of people. We choose restaurants where many tables are occupied. We buy brands that many others use or aspire to use. Our lives are full of such situations. We actively seek them out. Yet, at the same time, we claim that inequality is the root of all societal problems.

What would happen if it didn’t exist? How would it impact progress?

I believe the same principles that govern matter also influence our entire existence. Our world originated from inequality. The uneven distribution of hydrogen molecules created gravitational centers, where matter began to accumulate, attracting more and more material. This process became the engine of star formation, where hydrogen atoms fused to form helium, releasing immense amounts of energy. That energy powered systems.

Of course, there comes a day when these systems collapse, and the brilliant stars are destroyed. Then, the remnants of these dead stars start to regroup, forming a new star, with planets emerging from the surrounding debris. Under the right conditions, life appears on some of these planets…

From dust we were made, and to dust we shall return.

If there were no inequality in the world, there would be no life. You wouldn’t have to choose between iWiW and Facebook, and you wouldn’t be reading this article now.

So, if the universe fundamentally strives to increase entropy—to distribute energy and matter as evenly as possible—how does this coexist with the fact that matter clusters around gravitational centers? One force seeks to disperse matter, while another pulls it together. Perhaps the same happens in societies: human systems might function according to similar principles.

Somewhere deep inside, we sense that it would be good if power, wealth, opportunities, and resources were evenly distributed in the world. Perhaps this is the fundamental law of existence. But inequality acts like gravity, creating centers where wealth and power become increasingly concentrated. This concentration creates pressure, which leads to fusion, generating energy and radiating force. Meanwhile, the components strive for entropy, creating constant tension in the system.

Perhaps this is exactly what’s happening in our society and economy. The problem is that we are the components of this system, and the tension born of inequality weighs on us, causing immense pain and suffering. It’s possible that resources, particularly wealth, have concentrated so much in our world that this process can no longer be stopped. These centers, now possessing vast wealth, behave like black holes, absorbing everything that comes near them…

Could it be that our societies are born and die just like our solar systems?

Matter (power, wealth) accumulates, constantly transforming everything around it, releasing vast amounts of energy, which further fuels the process until it reaches a point where this transformation no longer produces anything. Instead, it drains energy. At some point, the swelling system collapses under its own weight. As the structure falls apart, some of its values scatter, some are destroyed—or rather, transformed. Ultimately, this creates a foundation for something new to emerge. In truth, perhaps the cycle simply restarts—the wheel of fate turns again.

Does the system still have enough reserves to sustain itself, to avoid collapsing under the weight of accumulated power? Can it still produce, or is it merely siphoning off energy? And what will happen when it produces only enough energy to survive? Is survival enough?

There is immense tension within the system. This tension exerts continuous pressure on its components, forcing them to change, which in turn compels the system itself to evolve. But isn’t that how life works? Life is never static; it’s always changing, always seeking balance, yet always diverging from it. Perhaps this tension is the engine of life. It drives development and innovation.

And yes, intervention is possible… It just requires energy.

The opportunity is there. Or perhaps, the illusion of it.

Inequality

I simply don’t care about the news. I don’t read anything current, I don’t care about the American presidential election, I don’t care what’s happening in Brussels, I don’t care about poll results or which politician, religious leader, or celebrity did what with whom.

It’s everywhere, for years now. I hear it during friendly coffee chats, at the gym, friends call me about it, it’s there between YouTube videos. For years.

Over the last ten years, I felt it was necessary to be informed about current issues. I read the news, bought financial publications, listened to podcasts, followed events daily. I enjoyed debating what each party stood for, digging into what mattered to me. There was never a party I fully agreed with, so I usually voted against someone rather than for someone…

Because this is a perpetual opposition stance. Yet, I felt that, precisely because I didn’t belong anywhere, I could appreciate when someone did something I liked. But somehow, this not-belonging turned into belonging nowhere — not politically, not in debates, not in conversations. So, to others, I became sometimes liberal, sometimes conservative, sometimes a turncoat, indecisive, stupid, or simply just a “little queer.”

Once, in a podcast, someone said that being a politician is a profession. Just like being a doctor, a lawyer, or a teacher. It’s a profession to be learned, then a job to be done. A task. A task whose purpose, perhaps as simple as it sounds, is for us, ordinary people — the public, the masses — to live well. To feel safe, so that when we go to the store, we can buy things for ourselves and our children — food, clothes, anything necessary for life.

But perhaps the most important task of a politician is to make sure the people, the God-given people (“if they be so joyful as I would have them, and as the ox under the yoke”), feel like a people. A large community, where together, we are more, we are better, we are one. And in this sense of togetherness, we should have a vision, to know where we are all going. Together.

I think our leaders have failed. If that’s their task and everything else — tax systems, education, healthcare, industry, etc. — is merely a means to that end, then something has gone awry. Not just here at home. Perhaps everywhere.

But many don’t think so. And that’s perfectly okay. But if politics is a profession, then why don’t we let our politicians do their job? We, ordinary people, are not there at the decision-making tables, we don’t see or hear the clash of opposing interests. We don’t have firsthand experience, we don’t see the big picture. We see and hear what one side or the other says. Shows us. Whoever has more resources can say and show more. And of course, they can lie if it suits their interests. Perhaps they can’t even do otherwise, since lies are also told about them.

Anyone can say anything about what someone else is doing and why. We can have faceless enemies, shadow powers trying to take away our lives, our souls, our children’s futures, anything. Who knows what will happen. But perhaps we feel how we are, how we live. And maybe we don’t feel well.

Maybe all this isn’t about whether we like what’s going on. Because we might not. Maybe the question is just how long we believe that someone can make this better. Maybe politicians are the new priests. And the parliament, the houses of representatives, are the temples of this global new religion. They sell us faith. We believe in living gods among us and listen to their priests. Every single moment. The gods live as long as they have believers.

Should I believe? Should I pray for a better future? And is my only choice which god to bow down before?

Should I go vote? I did. Always. Should I encourage my kids, my friends to do the same? I did. It’s up to them who they vote for. And that’s not even my issue.

To arms then? Shall we begin the holy crusade?! This has been going on for years. If we pull weapons on each other, who benefits? Will we be victors or losers? Where will we belong? Because the victors always write history. But is that really how I should look at the people around me?

I did everything politics expects of me. What is supposedly the duty of an educated citizen. I let our politicians do their job. I don’t harass them, I have my tolerance. I just want to ask them to let me live. Get out of my private life. Don’t constantly try to make me believe what is good and what is bad. Especially don’t make me think that if I don’t live as they say, I’m some kind of trash. And don’t make me think that if someone else doesn’t do the same, then they’re a traitor, a nobody, and most of all, against me.

I’m a simple person. I want to live. In peace, in calm. I want to feel safe with my family, my loved ones. I want to talk with my friends in the morning about things that bring us closer, not divide us — about each other, how we’re doing, what we long for, what joy or sorrow we’ve experienced in recent days.

And of course, I’m happy to talk about politics too, because maybe a good citizen, a responsible adult does that as well.

You Did This, King!

It is always painful when something ends. Especially when it is someone's life. Is it part of life? Indeed, but for those involved, for those who remain, who have lost someone, a huge void appears in their lives. The death of their loved one is a part of their life that they didn’t ask for, didn’t wish for. For those left behind, the death of their loved one is a painfully heavy burden.

A well-known person. Someone’s son, someone’s brother, friend, mentor. A well-known person. And suddenly, my Facebook and LinkedIn feeds were filled with posts where this well-known person is in photos with others, stories about who talked to him when and where, and what he did. As I was reading these posts, I felt a strange discomfort.

Are they about the deceased? About his greatness as a human being, about what he gave to humanity? About who he was, what he loved, whom he loved, who he really was? Maybe so that those who didn’t know him could learn little things about him that cannot be found in books or recordings. So they could get to know the person too.

Or about his legacy? About what he gave to the world, what we received from him, how we became better, more because of him. How he affected us, our present, and our future. And maybe, by understanding what we received, we can also understand what we lost.

Or about the mourner? Does the writer want to do something, to give something, since they had no control over what happened? Or are we lifting up the deceased in our writing as a sign of our respect, gratitude, thanks, and grief?

Is this a moment when we can show everyone how important we were to the deceased well-known person? That we met – even if only for the length of a selfie – that we talked, and we told him this and that. And he listened because we were, and are, important. And maybe others will acknowledge this with their reactions. And maybe then we will be more certain that we were, and are, important.

What would I do if I had a photo or story with him? Would I post it? Would I too, with a mix of pride and sadness, tell the internet world that he’s gone? I don’t know; I’m not in such a situation, or I don’t remember ever being in one. I don’t know how I would feel, how I would see the moment, and of course, how the one reading it would judge it.

I also wondered if I would post about it if my neighbor, whom I highly respect, passed away. If a close relative died, would I post about it? Would I want to share what happened with the community? And if I shared it, what would I expect from it? And if I didn’t share this, but I shared the death of a well-known person, what would that say about all of this, and about me?

Do I want people to be empathetic? To not be alone in my pain? Or do I just want to talk out my pain, to make it easier to process the trauma that I might not even realize at that moment? Or do I just want attention, to feel like people are paying attention to me?

When I share something publicly on social media, it feels like I’m putting that part of my life on display. Is it okay to display death or grief? Is it important for our never-seen digital followers to express their condolences? Or do we just want to simplify how we inform our acquaintances? Are we looking for the quicker, easier way even here?

There’s nothing stopping you from writing a post about it. You can do whatever you want. Meanwhile, I’m thinking about what it gives me to read about what others feel, how they see the deceased, how they relate to him. I think if a post is about the deceased, their legacy, or the mourning, such writing enriches me, helps me get to know the person, and maybe helps me understand the shades of grief too.

We don’t talk much about death; we die in closed rooms, under the care of professionals. Just like birth, death is not really part of our home anymore. I don’t know what death is like. I don’t know what it’s like to hold the hand of your loved one as they go. I don’t know how to prepare for it. And I don’t know if I would want to display that.

For me, the display window is not the right place to share my experiences or those of others about death. The display objectifies and markets one of the most tragic life events. Between the car of the week, the girl of the day, and motivational quotes, grief and someone’s death don’t belong. Death and grief should be talked about, discussed. And of course, you can write about them, with respect, love, dignity. With emotions. Where? Where is the right place for this? I don’t know.

And maybe it’s just a cultural issue. Maybe I wasn’t socialized for this. I’ve never talked about death. When a very close loved one of mine died, I didn’t talk about it for years. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do with their absence or with myself.

I didn’t know how to share this with others.

Even today, I don’t know how to share this with others. How to share it well.

Recently, someone passed away. A well-known person. Someone’s son, someone’s brother, friend, mentor. A well-known person. And suddenly, my Facebook and LinkedIn feeds were filled with posts where this well-known person is in photos with others, stories about who talked to him when and where, and what he did. As I was reading these posts, I felt a strange discomfort.

How can one write about this?

"Men are often characterized as having a useful purpose.

But what should a being who identifies as a man do in the middle of his life if he has lost the purpose he once deemed important, lost his sense of significance, and torn down the facade he had built?

What do we do when we are not true to ourselves, our principles, our goals, and we’ve strayed, yet are afraid to delve into the depths of shame and afraid to change because we fear losing everything we’ve achieved so far in life?

How can one redesign, redefine their life, rebuild their character, their unique masculinity, and find meaningful purposes even after overcoming scarcity? What unexpected pitfalls, failures, successes, and joys await us so that we do not succumb to shame, to degradation, but instead embrace a new, better, and entirely different quality of life?

How can we feel like complete men, free from the need to follow socially ingrained goals, usefulness, or family models? What must we give up, what is the cost, the pain, or perhaps the shame?

And if we don’t, what will the price be?

Is it okay to ask whether it is allowed—whether we should rather rely on our feelings over rational arguments, make peace with choosing what is best for us without making sacrifices?

What does it mean, and do we need to be strong men?

Is it necessary to suffer for a higher quality of life, to dive deep into ourselves, to walk through hell, or is that just bullshit, and there’s an easier, painless way?"

...a recording was made with me, in which I had a conversation with Judit Kovács about these topics. The above text was written as feedback by one of Judit's acquaintances while we were preparing how to summarize the message of the videos.

After the HR Fest conference, I recalled this whole period again, the many uncertainties—whether I should, whether I dared talk about these things. How would this affect me, how would it affect those who are part of my story, how would it change my relationships?

How far and in what way should I take responsibility for those who are important? When am I being selfish, a traitor, or even narcissistic in choosing myself? And who will I become if I do?

This is how a very close friend summed it up. A meaningful word. Hurtful. But other deeply painful comments came from elsewhere too—from close people. And, of course, sometimes silence spoke the loudest. Did I make a mistake?

The “Better Man Project” was created two years ago. These were two important years. These conversations set me on a path that has led to more and more unfamiliar acquaintances, more and more leaders approaching me to explore these questions in the hope of changing something. Something that isn’t right. Something we often don’t even know, only suffering from its effects in everyday life. And often, they just tell their own stories because, in a way, we are comrades. Not making a decision, lying, looking away—it rots one’s self-esteem.

Am I a better man now? I don’t know. I hope so. I feel more comfortable in my skin. My relationships have become better, deeper, and more honest. Has life gotten easier? No. Yet, somehow, I feel like I have fewer burdens to carry. Or, if not fewer, then more of us are carrying the same burden. Together.

And somehow, it’s much better to live, to experience life this way.

Men are often characterized as having a useful purpose. But what should a being who identifies as a man do in the middle of his life if he has lost the purpose he once deemed important, lost his sense of significance, and torn down the facade he had built?

Male Roles

For some time now, I’ve been thinking about leaving the country. I’ve been browsing international real estate websites: Spain, Italy, Portugal, maybe Austria. You can find property everywhere for the same price as here. Or cheaper. Honestly, the place itself doesn’t matter that much. But if the point isn’t where to go, then it’s probably more about getting out of here.

But why do I want to change? And what do I want to change?

I remember when I bought my first motorcycle. It was sometime in the early 2000s. A beautiful little 600cc naked bike… It was so pretty, so easy to handle, lovable. Everything was fine. It was great riding around, and if I went fast, I enjoyed the bike’s momentum, and if I went slow, I basked in the attention. But after two years, something changed. All I could think about was getting another one.

And so it happened—I bought a bigger one. Stronger. Cooler. I loved that 1500cc black bike, the way it roared beneath me. Yes, this was always what I wanted to feel! Definitely since high school. And this machine was exactly what I wanted. A beast, my iron masterpiece that embodied both my freedom and individuality.

Then the feeling came back—I needed another one. Something newer, better, stronger, cooler, more masculine. More unique. Something that would make me feel more unique. Yes, that was it. That was the key. It didn’t matter about the power, the speed. I didn’t even ride fast. I wasn’t even really a good motorcyclist. I just wanted a bike that only I had. What should I get?

And it solved the problem. I didn’t need a new bike, nothing extra. A new helmet was enough to bring back that feeling: everything is awesome! I’m the king! Is that it? Is that what it’s about? That I have an endless need for change, for something different? I just need to figure out what can, should, or is worth changing to satisfy the feeling inside me. To bring that “we’re all good” feeling.

I’ve been traveling a lot to our western neighbor lately. I observe the people, the towns, the shelves in Spar. There’s order. Peace. I didn’t see any fences made of sausages (though the grass is greener), and I don’t want to get into price comparisons, but somehow, the way people relate to each other feels entirely different. Is this societal well-being? That the road they tore up in the morning is fixed by the afternoon? All done by one person with one machine. That the shopkeeper lends you his truck to carry what you bought? Just like that? Because he knows you’ll bring it back. He doesn’t know, but he trusts. In you. In us. Strangers.

I love the place where I live now. I love the people around me. The gym I go to, the morning coffee with the guys before training, the pastry I nibble on while listening to them. But as I walk around the city, the country, something weighs on me. I don’t really listen to or read the news anymore. I don’t know who’s threatening my home, who wants to take away my security. I don’t know who’s right. I don’t know who’s telling the bigger lie. Unfortunately, I don’t care anymore, because I can’t decide. I can’t make sense of it all. I don’t know who I can trust when it comes to my future. After all, I still have a future, and I want to create again, do my work. Live, just live.

But what can I do? I’ve followed politics. I’ve read. I’ve watched podcasts. I’ve always voted. I pay my taxes. I pick up litter. I pay attention to the people around me. I help them. I support various organizations—sometimes foundations, sometimes associations. I try to be a good citizen. And I don’t know what else I could do. It would be so nice if someone could tell me what I should change.

I’m happy to work toward making things different. I’m happy to learn and do what it takes to make us feel better. I try to be calm and kind at the store, at the gas station, on the street. Because maybe the mood is what really matters. How we treat each other. The faces you see in the elevator, in line. And whether you dare talk to someone on the street if you see they’re not doing well. Or to the person who drops their cigarette butt, their fast-food wrapper, or whatever they don’t need—asking them to put it in the bin instead of on the ground. Please.

Something. So I feel better. I don’t know why these things bother me now and didn’t before. I wish they didn’t bother me. I wish they didn’t bother me because they weren’t like this. And I don’t know how things are elsewhere. So I asked myself the question. What should I change? What can I change? How could I change what I’m living in now? So that the things I see wouldn’t be there.

Maybe I should just close my eyes? That’s an option too. Then I wouldn’t see. If I don’t see, maybe it won’t bother me. Or maybe I should just say, that’s life! It’s like this everywhere! At least here I know what it’s like. Or maybe I should just accept that, back in the good old days when I was young, people were different. This is how it is, and this is how we must love it.

Meanwhile, the question arises: while I try to be a good citizen because the country I live in matters to me, does the state want me to think it’s good too? Does it do the things that are important to me or to my community? Can reciprocity be understood in this relationship?

It should be, but I think no, it cannot. There is a power relationship. I’m just a statistical number. A social security number, a tax number, one vote. And I think it’s not different anywhere else. We live in a caste system. Like the bees. But maybe with bees, everyone matters. They matter to each other. It works for the bees; it could work for us too. There’s something that won’t let me rest. But I don’t know exactly what. Not yet. Just a tiny word stirs within me: Enough!

I like to make my own decisions about the things that matter to me. I work toward having that opportunity. Because in life, things usually don’t just happen. Usually, someone does something. I like to do things myself when it comes to matters that are important to me, and not wait for someone else to do something to me.

So, I’m searching for my answer to what I should do. I just need to figure out what can, should, or is worth changing to satisfy the feeling inside me. What I can change will become clear if I do it.

I’m on it. I’m on it to arrive at the “we’re all good” feeling. Not just for me. For us.

We live together. Let’s work on it. Let’s change.

Where to next?

I am in a fortunate position because I can afford silence in my everyday life. Somehow, life has brought this: I am quiet in my daily routines, in social gatherings, in phone conversations. I listen, I listen to others, who fill the space that silence creates. They talk. They talk because they need to share their burdens with someone, somewhere.

There are so many difficulties and changes in the lives of those I know. And lately, for some reason, they are increasingly reaching out to me, asking for help in gaining perspective, asking me to share my thoughts, but often just to listen. They seek the attentive silence, the connection that it offers.

And somehow, they connect with me in a completely different way than they did a few years ago. I observe myself in these connections. I observe the people, trying to understand why they come today, what they are seeking, and what that brief time together gives them. I observe what it gives me.

Something that wasn't there before. Am I filling the gaps of my past with these connections, or am I trying to build my future? I am present, we are present in these conversations, but what is my motivation? Why are they seeking these connections with me, and what has changed in me that I have become open to this? As people come and go in my days, I have started to feel that something is missing.

I used to always be the one speaking. Pouring out words about what I was doing, what I had achieved, what I wanted to do... Is that what I miss? The audience? The fans? Or is it that I want someone to be for me as I am for others? Perhaps I just can't find the direction, or I don't quite feel where this flow between me and others is heading. Or maybe it's just old reflexes knocking, seeking some attention to take control of things. Perhaps it’s control that I miss.

Is the security of control more important than the freedom of flow? I can control. I know I can. I can even manipulate. I have enough knowledge, experience, and willpower for it. If I control, the world will be as I want to make it.

But my freedom has always been more important to me—freedom to decide, to act, to exist—than my security. Or at least that's what I've always told myself. But back to connections. What does all this have to do with how I am present today? In this great flow—between me and others—I am now more of a giver than a receiver. When it comes to attention, to support, the flow is mostly outward.

Is it safe? It is. Because I decide what I give, to whom, and with whom I talk. I regulate it. So, what I am in now is still a world I created, directed, and controlled. These rules limit me. They are safe, but they build walls that make it hard to see reality clearly. All this while I hide behind the freedom of flow. This is what I say. This is how I see it, because I want to see myself as free.

But what will make me free, how and from what can I let go of control?

Perhaps receiving is already freer than giving? After all, I don’t know what I will receive. But receiving can also be controlled. Because I can regulate what and from whom I receive. I can’t let just anything in… can I? Where is the line between safety and freedom? How far can safe freedom stretch, and is freedom without safety even conceivable? Can we exist in such an environment? Can I? That is, could I be present for someone as others are present for me? Do I want that? If I did, would there already be someone?

Where is the boundary between when I need to act and actively shape the world, my world, and when I need to let things happen, to trust life? Just like a fetus entrusts itself to the mother in whom it grows and develops.

Did the things that happened to me in life happen because of who I am, or am I who I am because these things happened to me? In life’s chain of cause and effect, what is the logical order?

I’ve been thinking about this for a while.

The past year or two of my life has been strongly about giving. Of course, I receive as well, but perhaps my outward channels are more open. I focus on others, because maybe in their stories, I’ll find the path I want to follow. Maybe. Or maybe not, maybe I won’t find anything. Maybe it’s my task to create one for myself. A path of my own. To somewhere. But where? Perhaps that's what I’m missing today.

The direction for where this great flow should go. The flow between us. But is that true? Is it really between us? Could it be that this is a mistake? Perhaps I should understand, should believe, that in my life I am the flow, that I move the things life’s storms or gentle breezes bring my way—people, opportunities.

Because if we are the flow, then we understand that this whole freedom versus security question makes no sense, because the concepts of freedom and security become one. Quietly.

And in that silence, nothing can be heard.

Still Life

A selfie is a self-portrait, a picture taken by the person of themselves. It’s a picture we take of ourselves. But this picture isn't just a digital imprint taken with a camera; there exists a selfie within us as well. A picture that doesn’t only appear on Instagram or Facebook, but in every segment of our lives. In every conversation, every decision, in our possessions, in the way we walk. In our words. But what is this picture? What are the filters that sharpen, blur, or color every tiny pixel of our lives?

I think this question has occupied me since childhood. No, I don’t remember my childhood answers at all: maybe a firefighter, or a soldier, or a shepherd... or simply the dreamer little Balázs. But I don’t remember what I might have answered as a young adult either, and honestly, I’m still searching for the answer today.

But where should I search, where have I searched? Where can I even begin to look for the answer to this simple question? Somehow, I always end up realizing that my actions provide the clearest answer most of the time. So, what have I done in the past to find the answer to this question? Because maybe, if I can’t find the answer within myself, I can try to build an image of myself in the relationship systems of others. I’ve always liked competition, somehow I’ve always been prone to comparing myself with others. Maybe because that’s what I grew up with, that was my environment, or perhaps I was just geared toward it—I don’t know.

I think we all know who we really are, but somehow, over the years, we try to become what we think will best meet the expectations of those important to us. We want to be accepted, to be loved, to belong to someone, to some people, to somewhere. So that we are not alone. The world is so big, and alone we can feel small and lost. So, deep down, we know who we are, but as part of our survival strategy, we try to become what we think will make us more successful in life than being who we really are. We act on this, even when it’s not conscious.

I tried to think about what things I’ve done over the years to show myself in a better light. Maybe if I understand who or what I wanted to be, I’ll also understand who I really am. What were the things that, in retrospect, I did to show that I’m worth something, all for the sake of connecting, for the feeling that I matter. Because the more important I am, the more I connect, the more others will want to connect with me. But what makes me important, what do I need to have, what do I need to become?

Wealth, status, possessions. Are they important? Yes, they can be important. There’s no need to be spiritual about it; we live in a material world. I remember around the time I started my entrepreneurial life, I wanted a big car. A big, black one with light leather seats. So it would be clear that I could afford it. If I could afford it, it meant I had money, and if I had money, it meant I was doing something right. If I was doing something right, then people would trust me to do what they needed. Many people define us by external things. Your car, your house, your vacation destinations, the labels on your clothes—all signs of how much you own. But are we really defined by what we own? If we define ourselves by wealth or material success, we measure our personal worth by them as well. And we don’t recognize their value, but rather their price. Would my worth be higher because the price of my possessions is higher? Does a luxury car, a beachfront house, or an expensive watch really define me? And if so, how do I feel when someone else has more, better, or more expensive things?

Many of my acquaintances had bigger, flashier, more luxurious stuff. I felt this wasn’t the right direction to show I’m the king. You only need money for expensive stuff. Money can come from anywhere, not just from good work, and no one asks where it came from, as long as you have it. So what else could set me apart? What will define me, what will make me unique? My performance and achievements! Successes like how quickly you complete the Kinizsi 100, the GR20 in Corsica, or whether you finish the Ironman, or run a marathon—they will show it. It’s objective. No corruption, favoritism, or cronyism; it doesn’t matter who your father is or which party you vote for.

You have to perform! So I ran, cycled, hiked, hit the gym. But it wasn’t enough, I didn’t have the time to make up for the years I had missed in my youth. I performed well at the beginning, lost weight, made visible progress, but I couldn’t keep going... from a sporting perspective, my results were unremarkable...

Not from a sporting perspective, but from an average person’s view, yes. There were the praising comments, casual encounters with people who mentioned they started doing something because of me. Fame. That’s it! Isn’t that what matters, that people say: Balázs, you’re the king! Isn’t that what wealth and performance are all about? Isn’t that the ultimate answer to the question? It doesn’t matter if you have it or not, if you did it or didn’t... the point is how the people important to you judge it. And how can you convince them? By getting recognition from people who are credible to them. THAT’S IT! So bring on the accolades, the awards. International competitions, international articles. And they came. An American Forbes article, an English competition, an American competition, an Asian magazine article. It was like they were pouring awards and recognition on me. I enjoyed it, I devoured the flood of reactions and comments on Facebook and LinkedIn posts. More and more people wanted to befriend me, even people I had never met in my life.

Success is a magnet. It attracts everyone. The successful come, because we successful people stick together, after all, we belong to the same group, having been through the same battles. The learners come, the supporters come, those who want to push your cart with you come, the freeloaders come, the onlookers come... and those who see opportunities in you come. Opportunities to get to where you are. They come as long as they believe you are so successful that you possess things that can help them achieve things more easily, things that will help them attract the friends they imagine you have. We bask in success, in the sea of abundance.

As I sat there and looked at my inner Instagram, my heavily filtered self-images, I somehow felt empty and impersonal. My profile felt like I had bought the "successful entrepreneur" 2019 model year, complete with fellow rising star manager types, with whom we had all surgically engineered our lives to look the same, meticulously following the Central European macho handbook. We sculpted our faces to look alike, driving the same cars, becoming artificially confident, push-up-faced success men.

Yes. Did I succeed? Yes. Check. Got it. Was it okay? No. Somehow, things still didn’t work. My friends mocked my car, saying I could have bought a proper one, not just something for clumsy guys like me. And anyway, why don’t I buy myself a decent watch? Where are you vacationing? No way, that place is for retirees. And besides, my life felt all wrong, I couldn’t find my place. That’s why I sold my company, because I didn’t believe in it anymore; surely it was starting to fail, that’s why I bailed out. I got lucky. It was easy for me.

I did everything to become what I thought would be important to others. Important because I had what they had, or what they desired. Important because I had achieved things that few could claim. Important because I believed they would say, think, and share with me that they respected and admired me.

An alpha who stands out, who has an impact, who doesn’t need to say anything, and people still know he’s the king. Respected. But what if all this is taken from me, if I lose it? Or what if I just realize that this whole thing is nonsense! An illusion. It’s there, but it’s not. Like in the tale of King Matthias, where the clever girl brings a gift, but not really. Years went into this. I worked for years, struggled, and at times made sacrifices to get all of this. I have it, but I don’t.

Stripped bare. Without car keys, title, or Forbes article. What am I like when stripped down? Do I dare show this? Would I dare post such a selfie of myself? Even the algorithm would instantly ban me. So, is wealth important? Yes. Are achievements important? Yes. Does it matter what others say about me? Of course. Are connections important? Naturally. So why all the lamenting? What am I philosophizing about?

I always end up realizing that my actions provide the clearest answer most of the time. What I do. And what’s the motivation behind my actions? I think what has matured in me is the understanding that I am not someone because these things—wealth, achievements, recognition, important connections—are present. My actions aren’t about having more and more of these things to justify who I am. I’m not working to prove the significance of my existence.

I think I’ve come to understand that cause and effect are reversed. These things are there because I am who I am. And I’m working to be as much of that person as I can be. The person I am. That’s why I search within myself and try to peel off the layers that life and the people important to me have put on me. So I can clearly see my inner selfie.

My self-image. Without filters and retouching.

Selfie

Here I sit in front of the computer, with a pile of thoughts before me that I want to write about. I actively collect them—during walks, before bed, while working out… anytime a thought pops up that I like, I jot it down. I write down the topic and the few lines that come to mind at that moment. All good thoughts, waiting to be fleshed out, to turn into stories wrapped in words, so they can start living, growing, and strengthening as they pass from reader to reader, seeking the soil where they can take root, joining with new ideas to grow into theories, then ideologies, and finally live on independently with the hope of becoming immortal.

Here I sit in front of the computer, and these hopeful thoughts are quiet and waiting. No one wants to step forward from the notebook today to begin this journey. Why? Are they afraid? Tired? Looking inward for their own meaning? Or are they just waiting for a leader, a guiding thought to show them the way, to arrange them in direction so they don't have to figure out the next step themselves? A guiding thought that will instill in them the belief that the struggle with other thoughts during the journey from person to person will not be in vain?

Could our thoughts be like us, humans? Is it possible that there exists another world where human names are listed in the notebooks of thoughts, with a short chain of words outlining their life plan? In whose mind were Aristotle, Descartes, or Freud conceived? And how did they grow up, gain strength, and spread in the realm of thoughts, as more and more small thoughts gathered around them, leading Descartes to write:

So, do I exist if I have thoughts? But what does it mean to think? Perhaps we are merely giving space to this other form of life? Are we the habitat for thoughts? Petri dishes, incubators, or natural soil? Is that why we are born, so they have a place to exist? And are there more and more of us because the multiplying thoughts demand larger and larger living spaces? And in this rapid growth, the quality of people declines just like our mass-produced tools.

Blessed are the poor in spirit! And meanwhile, our thoughts become just as impatient and exclusive as we are. One thought no longer tolerates the other; they honk at each other nervously on the thought highway that is the internet. Influencer thoughts post pictures of people to each other, showing where they've been, in whose mind they vacationed, or drank, or graffitied someone’s dream with some nonsense.

So here I sit in front of the computer, with a pile of thoughts before me that I want to write about. Last night’s conversation with my son, where we talked about his plans, how he wants to build his life, what his strengths are, where he’s stuck, and how he would deal with it. About how good it feels to be present as a father during such moments and what it means to me to be present as a father. Or there’s the question of how I should approach my business, what I desire, what I’m looking for in the new company, how I can achieve it…

They don’t move. I just look at them, but nothing happens. They don’t come, they don’t go. Only this philosophical nonsense camps inside me. But let's face it, this is also a thought. What does this thought want from me? How will it help my decisions, how will it change my actions, how will it affect me? I’m sure it wants something from me, as it’s been working inside me for over an hour. And it was present earlier too, during a walk, during a conversation. But back then, it only showed itself briefly. It came and went. But now it’s the only one here, so it has the space and time to clearly affect me. What if this thought is the truth?

What if the reality is that our thoughts really exist? They exist, and they don’t need us, they exist independently of us? What can I do, how can I shape myself so that thoughts that are capable and willing to be more, better, bigger reside within me? What do I have to be like for thoughts to visit me that will change me in a way that other similar thoughts also want to come here?

If I assume that our thoughts strongly determine what we are like—rather, how we act, how we live our everyday lives, how we see things—then I assume it’s worth grouping them based on their impact. Which thoughts make us curious, open, brave, and enthusiastic?

Open-ended questions are certainly open. That’s their name. So I try to attract many questions, and when a question arrives that I like, I start dealing with it. Everyone likes attention; attention gives energy, makes you feel important, interesting, beautiful, exciting if someone pays attention to you. So I pay attention to my questions.

Which are those that have faith and passion? Perhaps the thoughts about action. Because in action, there is a desire to do, a decision, energy, movement. To be open, to do, to act, to be in motion toward the unknown. The unknown can bring anything. Even something you don’t even know what it is.

And maybe thoughts also like to explore new spaces. To see what life is like somewhere else. And maybe they like places that help them get to new places. They don’t like to be locked up, hidden away.

We must not lock up thoughts. Because if thoughts are not us, if thoughts are not our property, if they just come to us, isn’t the best thing to do to let them move on? While they become a little different, a little more, a little like us. And as these thoughts, which are partly built from us, move on to someone else and then back to us, and so on, we always receive, and give something a little new, more, different. And with this, we also get into the flow.

And not only do you feel alive, but you also feel useful. Useful even if you’re just letting things flow, and useful even if you yourself are the flow. It doesn’t matter to me whether I’m the subject of shaping my own world, or just a tool in a world that is being shaped.

I love the ever-expanding space where more and more people share what they think of the world, where more and more people ask me what I think of the world. I love questions. I love them even when they open painful doors. Doors behind which are cold statements, painful or angry shouts. Commands, orders, rejections. Thoughts that sometimes try to suck the life out of me like parasites, sometimes like scavengers.

In the flow, these also come and go. They are no more than passersby. But if there were no flow, they would stay. Trapped inside me, trying to gnaw their way out of the hidden corners of my soul, desperately clinging to a little attention.

As they build in me or build something within me, as they come and go.

Thought-Provoking

I see how the system regenerates the tension. Again and again. I see it because I'm in it. I see it because I'm not the one doing it, I'm just there. If I were the one doing it, I wouldn't see it. Or it would be much harder to see. If I were the one doing it, I would rather think, "This idiot doesn't get it." I see how the tension builds up, slowly moving towards the point where someone will need to release it on someone else.

It's like when you get caught in a whirlpool while swimming. You're in the flow, running your business, taking care of your affairs, focusing on your creations, your process, your goals. The sun is shining, the water is refreshing. But out of nowhere, there's the whirlpool in the water before you. You didn't ask for it, you didn't call for it, you didn't do anything to bring it there. But it's there. The source of joy instantly turns into a deadly, suffocating environment.

I've been in a situation like this once. In water. In tension, many times. I had no idea what to do. The person I was with said, "Stay calm! If you don't panic, you'll conserve your energy, and then you'll be able to make conscious decisions." What a great sentence :) I get it, but how can I stay calm when there's a whirlpool in front of me? How can I stay calm when I see the tension growing, the conflicts sharpening?

I'm watching because maybe I'm wrong. What if the situation is really what the other person thinks it is? They're right, the other is the fool. Am I the fool? No, not me, I'm not in the tension. Not yet. And even if I were the fool, this isn't about me. I think. Not yet. But soon it might be because I'm there. I'm in it. Neck-deep. The whirlpool is starting to pull me down too. Should I swim upward? But it's pulling me down, I should resist it. Should I? Whirlpools pull downward, that's just how they are. The whirlpool is probably stronger, the mass of the water bigger than you think. I won't go against the tension; in this situation, it will only tire me out and increase the resistance. Mine and the system's too. If I tire out, panic can easily follow. If I panic, I won't see things clearly. And then comes the thrashing. Nothing matters but one thing.

But not upward. I'm not going to fight against the downward pull. I need to move sideways! Simpler, more effective, smarter. I'll look at the things that are part of the tension but aren't the main issue. What might the tension really be building on, not what we're talking about. To see this, I need to look at the situation from a distance. I need to see where it's worth moving, where there are no more whirlpools. How is the water flowing, where should I try, and where not. This takes time, calmness. I'll try not to be in the main current, and maybe that way I'll tire less, stay calm longer, and perhaps I'll see something to hold onto.

A thought I can hold onto. It could be anything, anything that helps me not to drift. I'll try to stay on the surface of the water. Underwater, options are limited. Panic comes quickly, air runs out fast. If I get out of the whirlpool's center, I'll try to stay on the surface and maybe swim towards the shore. What if it doesn't work? There's one more option.

Apparently, if you don't thrash around, the whirlpool will spit you out. The system doesn't know what to do if you don't resist. How can you argue with someone who doesn't argue? Of course, this is just to prevent you from struggling helplessly while you don't even notice your head is in the mud. Let the whirlpool toss you around, you're not a victim; you chose this. Can you hold on? Wait to see how it ends? Whirlpools usually only last for a short time. Usually. In theory, if you manage to stay calm and react appropriately, you'll soon get out safely. In theory. It's hard to believe this while...

How many such situations are there in our lives, how many situations where we feel endangered. We want to live. Survive. It's the basis of our existence. This instinct is ingrained in us. And if someone, or something, acts or seems like a threat to this, we want to fight it. We have to fight it.

Somehow. When I saw a whirlpool up close in the water, I got scared. The "stay calm" phrase made the whirlpool ten times bigger, darker, and deadlier. Yet it wasn't even a whirlpool there, just some surface thing, maybe a fish showing off to its friends. But I believed it was a whirlpool. Maybe for a moment, I even drowned in it.

The water is full of whirlpools. The water is full of swimmers. What is this, a race? Why am I here? I'm not thrashing around, not panicking anymore. I'm watching. Trying to figure out if it's just some surface thing or if the current is already getting stronger down below, ready to suck me in...

And if it does, I'll try to stay calm and decide whether to swim or drift.

In the whirlpool

I did it. I did it again and again. I always felt terrible afterward, but for some reason, I never did anything about it. I kept doing it for years, maybe for so long that I thought it was completely normal. Normal, because others do it too. It’s ingrained in our culture; books are written about it, we have expressions for it, countless articles discuss it, and now people even talk about it on podcasts. We talked about it too. Sometimes, we were even proud when we shared it with each other. And there were those who didn’t talk about it, just hinted at it or smiled mysteriously when it came up. I haven't done it in years.

I remember the first time. I didn’t do it—it was done to me. I realized it. I don’t remember the feelings, but I can picture how the events came together. I didn’t do anything at the time, just tried to understand what was happening. When I left, that’s when I started to get really angry. It was like my first big accident. That time, it was my fault; I didn’t yield, even though it was clearly there:

When the other car crashed into me, I just sat in the car. There was a burning smell. The radio was playing. My glasses fell off. Everything was so slow; the movie stopped for a moment. The windshield wiper, knocked forward by the collision, was rhythmically wiping nothing. The radio was still playing. I couldn’t find my glasses. Then suddenly, everything came together, my thoughts sped up—I need to get out, check on the other driver. I need to call the police. What about the car? Wow, it’s totaled, and a sign got knocked over too, glass everywhere, oil leaking. I need a body shop, maybe two. The more convincing one can take the car. The police wrote everything down, and I could leave.

I sat there, staring ahead. The images kept spinning, my chest hurt. Not from the collision, but from my mistake. From the weight of what I’d done. From the imagined consequences. Someone could have died. What if someone had been walking there? A group of kindergarteners? Someone would have definitely died. I could have gone to jail. I could have ruined everything. And what about my family, my kids?

I remember that moment. In the car, and how it felt afterward. That was the first time. It was like that when it was done to me too. It wasn’t my fault. Wasn’t it my fault? The moment I found out, it was empty. Empty and silent. The world stopped for a moment, the film slowed down. I was rational, gathering data, analyzing, observing. Everything. The silence was empty. The other’s mouth silently gaped as they told me what they had done. I left. I sat in my room, trying to understand what had happened. What had the other person done?! How did they not see that massive STOP sign? They rammed into me, no, they stomped on me.

Totaled? That’s how I felt. After that, everything changed. I went to demolition derbies. With partners borrowed for minutes, we’d smash into each other, into ourselves, into others.

Why? Was it that I might die in one of them? Or that I just wanted to understand the first one better? Or that I wanted to control things? Or was it something I inherited? I remember when my father did it. I was there. In the car. In the back seat. An inherited fate? Or maybe I just craved the adrenaline? That feeling of crashing, breaking all the rules, knowing I’d get away with it? They won’t catch me. They won’t catch me? I’m smart, alert, crafty.

I didn’t want to do it anymore. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know why. Each crash became worse. It hurt, I think. I thought about myself. About the back seat. About the inherited fate. And about the STOP sign.

I didn’t know how. How should I stop at that sign? I don’t need to stop. I don’t even need to start. If you’re where you belong, if you’re already where you want to go. But that doesn’t exist; we’re always going somewhere. These days, I prefer to walk. I have time. I walk and observe. Sometimes someone bumps into me because they’re glued to their phone. They’re on Facebook, reading something, sending messages. I politely step aside, avoiding unnecessary conflicts. I walk, and I no longer have a STOP sign. Sometimes I get a red light. I wait for the green.

We convince ourselves why we shouldn’t stop at the STOP sign. We walk in forbidden territory, whatever that means. Because we have to keep moving. Wherever that may be.

We Don't Talk About This

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about loneliness. Actually, I’ve been pondering connection—how we connect with each other, what it means to connect, what connection gives us, and what significance it holds in our lives.

And naturally, the lack of connection comes to mind as well. If loneliness is the state of being disconnected from others, why is it that we can feel perfectly content being alone?

But what does connection give us? What does it mean to be part of a network? Why do we connect more with objects today, and where does it lead when our knowledge migrates into our tools?

I’ve been alone many times. Even as a child. While my brother was hanging out with friends somewhere in the neighborhood, I’d stay home. I’d read. Or daydream. I remember really wanting a handheld electronic game. A solar-powered one where I had to shoot down enemy spaceships with my own ship. But I didn’t have one. So, I drew one on a sheet of paper, pressing the drawn buttons and making shooting noises with my mouth. I shot down all the enemies. I was really good at it…

And I remember the fall of ’94, in my second year of university, feeling incredibly lonely. I was walking home from a party, the street was empty. A homeless man walked ahead of me, quietly crying. Maybe he was drunk, maybe he just thought he was alone. He cried and kept saying, “Nobody loves me.” It was a miserable feeling—the lovelessness. Not his, but mine. He just voiced it for me. I was there, in the void, alone, abandoned. That night, the homeless man and I somehow walked together, but still very lonely. We were heading somewhere, but neither of us had a home to go to.

And yet, that wasn’t true, because I had university friends. But still, I felt like I was just hanging in the void. I didn’t feel truly close to anyone, not even to myself. Perhaps least of all to myself… Even today, I spend a lot of time alone. I actively seek out those moments, and I immensely enjoy them. I spend a lot of time at home. I have a home. I have someone to belong to. I live a secluded life; our house could be on an island, and it wouldn’t make much difference… Yet, I feel like

Somehow, I’m connected to life. I talk a lot, read, and reflect. I’m connected to myself, to my thoughts, and to the thoughts and lives of others. And I love it. My relationships have changed over the past few years; I’m now curious about people, wanting to learn more about them, and through them, about myself and life. I feel how the quality of human connections fundamentally determines the quality of my life.

Everything is About Sex
2024.11.23.

2024. BALAZS VENDLER

All rights reserved.

Everything is About Sex2024.11.23.

2024. BALAZS VENDLER

All rights reserved.

Everything is About Sex
2024.11.23.