Morning Stories

The word justice carries weight. It’s a heavy one — serious, loaded with consequence, never to be handled lightly. When you fall into its machinery, you’ll either pay the price for what you’ve done — or finally receive the fairness you’ve been waiting for.

Words don’t always like being taken apart. They claim it’s an invasion of privacy — at least, that’s what a few words from the Ministry of Justice have been whispering.

I don’t remember the exact moment, but I do remember the feeling. It happened one morning when I checked the weather. 29 degrees — feels like 34. Excuse me?

“Wanted: a dynamic, focused individual to lead…” Dynamic and individual? What exactly is this company hiring? Dynamism sounds energetic, powerful – something’s clearly moving. But what, exactly, is moving?

Ah, look at that: a two-seater word. “Believable.” It splits neatly into belief and able. That’s what I’d do—believe, I mean. Or at least, I think I would.

“Don’t say that!” “Hey, you can’t say that anymore!” Remember when free speech was still free of panic? When talking came with a hint of manners, maybe even ethics?

The first word that appeared to me this morning, around half past five, lingered only for a few seconds before fading again. The word was “Hunger.” Not the kind that growls before breakfast, but the raw, existential hunger—the kind Palestinians and, lately, Americans are starting to feel in real life. I’ll write about that another day.

When a German word meets an English one, they usually start with a polite little “Hallo” or “Hello.” Then, naturally, they study each other: What do we have in common? And where exactly do we part ways?

Signs of the times? Yes, that too. But signs were probably the first messengers of language itself. Just ask the ancient Egyptians — they told their entire history in symbols and painted walls.

Politics? No, Thank You. Few professions today suffer from a reputation as battered as politics. Once upon a time, it was used-car dealers, insurance agents, and investment brokers who carried the public’s mistrust. Now it’s politicians — too often seen as the self-serving representatives of a few citizens, rather than the responsible stewards of all.

The call “Women to Power!” sounds brave, catchy, even romantic — but let’s be honest: it’s not the full story. Using gender as a battle cry may feel righteous, yet it’s only half the truth.

Nobody really knows when focus was invented. Thousands of legends pass the torch, whispering that it was born somewhere between curiosity and caffeine.

An inkling is, by definition, the state of not knowing — a suspicion at best, supported only by faint traces of evidence. Last night, I was haunted by inklings. Two of them, actually: “I don’t really understand baseball,” and, “I have a feeling the Blue Jays will win.” Both stood in my living room like slices of Swiss cheese — full of holes and hope.

Oops — November is here. The most unloved month of the year, dressed in fifty shades of grey and minor chords. Even its name — No Vember — sounds like a refusal of joy, a month that says no to sunshine, no to cheer, no to colour.

Can you believe it? The barrel — that humble, round invention — is ancient. Its makers were Celtic craftsmen, back in the days when “recycling” meant using the same goat twice. Unfassable, as the Germans would say — unfathomable.

Disputes are the daily seasoning of human existence. Empathy, respect, and humour — those are the better side effects of being Homo sapiens.

The third season of the year has, since the dawn of humankind — and probably a bit before that — been the dull cup among the four outdoor states of being. What, I ask, is not dreary about this ghastly, cold-creeping, fog-drenched time of year?

For four quiet years, the house next door was perfectly peaceful. The elderly couple who lived there were hardly noticeable — except for the occasional chat over the garden fence. No loud parties, no drama, just classical calm. It was bliss.

The old Greek sits on a rock, staring into the waves of the Mediterranean Sea, lost in thought. At least, that’s what his posture suggests — deep reflection, the kind that shouldn’t be interrupted, because once you disturb reflection, it loses its very meaning. As he sits there in his meditative trance, his face suddenly lights up.

Oh yes, they are. People make mistakes. And people are often mad. Those with unusual behaviour or strange ways of thinking are one kind of the mad ones. The other kind are those with a medical condition — people who could, if they wanted to, pick their diagnosis from a vast catalogue of brain malfunctions.

In earlier times, the troll was one of those fascinating figures of Scandinavian folklore. They were often described as large, strong, and not particularly clever, living in remote places such as mountains or forests, and avoiding daylight, which could turn them to stone. Very troll-like creatures indeed.

Storytelling — the art of shaping experience into narrative — has an extraordinarily long lifespan. Before writing and printing existed, storytelling was the only way humans could share knowledge. It’s also one of humanity’s greatest inventions — a gym for the imagination and the mind. Reading or listening to a story remains one of the purest forms of entertainment.

Dystopian narratives about the future of climate change are depressing. Scientists’ scenarios depict a world in chaos, under fire and water, in heat and cold, offering little chance of survival. However, a closer look at the past, i.e., history, reveals that while the scenario is undoubtedly accurate, the chances of survival are greater and more diverse than models suggest.