Morning Stories

“Who’s in the mood for a celebration?” Mood? Oh right — that mysterious state of being that can change faster than a Canadian weather forecast. Mood is an emotional lightweight, true, but it lasts longer than any passing feeling. It’s often confused with spirit — and that’s perfectly fine.

When two atoms share an apartment, the landlord is almost certainly called Molecool or Molecule. These living units are highly electrified but mostly neutral. It’s now officially known who inhabits these molecules: on one side, the group of “birds of a feather flock together,” and on the other, those who live by “opposites attract.”

Wishful thinking isn’t just a holiday tradition — it’s a year-round mindset. All year long, there are people who’ve made thinking itself their norm. Why, you ask?

German words are rarely made for Scrabble. Especially those that march onto the board in large, intimidating groups of letters. Take Ausnahmezustand — “state of exception.” That word alone could sink a vocabulary ship.

The long road of evolution is, in truth, a never-ending test track. Some tests pass with flying colours. Others crash and burn. So far, so evolutionary.

Once upon a time, a curtain meant one of two things: a belly proudly spilling over a belt, or a piece of fabric designed to shield the private from the public. The curtain stood – or rather hung – for privacy.

Your average Homo sapiens loves to form groups. It doesn’t take much—three people are enough, and boom, you’ve got a group. How educated that group turns out to be is another question entirely. But once formed, evolution takes over and the show begins.

“I’m counting on you.” A simple phrase — and yet a tricky one, especially if you take it literally. Because to be left or to leave usually comes with tears and trouble.

If the bells are ringing sweeter, how loud, then, must the cookie tin sound? We, the noble tribe of Homo sapiens,are well-equipped and properly wired.

Two hundred and two years ago, the Monroe Doctrine was introduced to the American people. No, this Monroe has nothing to do with the dazzling Marilyn — though both versions had explosive potential.

“I’m not moving forward anymore.” That’s usually the first sentence when stagnation sets in — or is quietly installed. When a nation’s economy stands still, and technology stops surprising anyone, stagnation is in full bloom.

“This will go down in history.” Well, practically everything alive goes down sooner or later. But whoever goes down in history — that person stays there, forever and ever, carved into the chronicles of humankind. Now, if that isn’t an exquisite kind of immortality, what is?

The air is ringing with frost. The lights are glowing with warmth. The shop windows sparkle with glitter and gold. And the people—oh yes—are full of expectation.

It’s practically impossible to avoid them. They’re everywhere. Sometimes coming toward you, sometimes walking away. They move through the days — sometimes loud, sometimes in groups — but always present: people.

“I know that I know nothing.” A line that sparkles with meaning — and, once again, a few old, very old men are involved. Socrates, they say, never actually said those words — certainly not in English — but the spirit of his philosophy is right there.

Madame Melan Cholie lived in ancient times — in an age overflowing with philosophers. Especially in Greece … and southern Italy.

The word itself already gives it away — my opinion. In that little word hides a whole universe of individuality.

Old Shakespeare really has very little to do with this sentence. William, in this case, is entirely innocent. So much for the facts.

“Advent-ure? Sorry, I don’t speak Italian.” No worries — it’s not Italian. And it’s not two words either.

The driver drives — and leads — a moving something from a real point A to an imagined point B. Once upon a time, such people were called coachmen, train engineers, or captains.

When the knee was invented — one for the left leg and one for the right — the instruction leaflet read: “Move frequently.” A truly moving recommendation.

If there’s a question, it’s not a trap — it’s a letting go. What pretends to be a quote here isn’t one. Or not yet.

Ah, how soothing melodies can be when they wash through both ears into the sensorium, spreading pure delight. To lift that delight to higher spheres, technology long ago gave birth to a word — and a wonder — called Stereo.

Ouch. That wasn’t my intention. And I truly mean that. But somehow, the headline slipped through my fingers — effortlessly, almost mischievously. I can’t quite explain how. And perhaps it’s better not to try.

The woman looks at the two powerful men without batting an eye. She knows exactly who they are. She also knows what her duty as a journalist is.

The path of least resistance is hardly worth mentioning. It’s forgotten the moment a new object of curiosity comes into view. Or, to put it more bluntly: the path is gone.

Those three little letters — PRO — sound like a declaration of approval. Pro Paganda almost seems like something positive, as if one were for this kind of communication. But that’s an illusion. “Pro” is neither good nor bad; it’s merely directional — for or against something. Nothing more. No judgment, no virtue, no quality seal attached.

Television formats have flooded our screens for decades—some inspiring, others instantly forgettable. Light entertainment has a peculiar talent: it lulls its audience into a gentle, lasting slumber.

Some words are born with heavy baggage. “Decision” is one of them. When a word carries that much emotional mortgage, life is hardly sugarcoated. And to make matters worse, even the word itself can’t hold together.

Does intelligence need a PhD? Or is it enough just to be inventive — to find solutions where others see walls?

“This surgeon really messed up,” someone in the audience said. “And what about that nurse? She’s even worse!”

“Don’t play with the dirty words!” That’s what the German singer-poet Franz-Josef Degenhardt warned sixty years ago. Back then, he wasn’t talking about words, but about the so-called Schmuddelkinder — the “grubby kids” of society.

There are certain words that never sound good to teenage ears. Tradition is one of them.

Once upon a time, there was that one story — the one where a camel was told to pass through the eye of a needle. Clear as mud, right?

I don’t see stumbling as an accident — not when it makes your feet lose rhythm or your routine take a detour.

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.

One of those smoke-filled, gloomy people sitting on barstools in the shadows has always been a magnet for me. People travelling alone or in pairs enjoy themselves at a bar. That’s because there are few barriers to contact with the person next to you on the right or left. Many a conversation would never have taken place without a bar.

Moreover, this is not a single play, but a constant repetition of a bizarre performance. Act One: The parties ( They only have two parties) refuse to compromise. Act Two: All government services are shut down. Act Three: Everyone tries to get the wagon rolling again. The script of this play never changes.

I have never regretted my time as a psychological wastebasket. On the one hand, I got closer to these beauties than many other male contenders, and on the other hand, I learned a lot about the innermost thoughts of people afflicted with beauty.