What is left when I don’t post anymore?
Not on LinkedIn, not in blogs,
not on Instagram, not on Bluesky.
When I stop telling the world
that I exist—
alive, performing,
bragging in pictures, words, arguments.
What is left when it is only me?
Myself,
and the life that presses close—
every minute, every second.
A life without likes,
without shares, without reach.
Yet a life I can touch,
that touches me now:
on this old train along the coast,
window open,
the sun on my skin,
the wind in my hair—
grey now,
but still,
still.
Can I bear such a life?
With all its cracks
no longer hidden.
With all its vibrant silence.
A life fragile in its worth,
priceless in its seeming worthlessness.
I want to dare it.
I do.
by chance 