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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.
Just before that, he had felt a faint tingling at the back of his head — that familiar spark signaling the birth of a truly great idea. The thought was powerful, almost electric. He had to capture it somehow. But how?

Panic set in when he realized that paper wouldn’t be invented for another three hundred years. Still, somehow, this bearded fellow on his seaside rock managed to preserve that one sentence — that shimmering thought — for us to rediscover in the twenty-first century.
So, the origin story is settled. What about the sentence itself? It goes something like this:
“Nothing is as constant as change.”
It’s unclear how much the rhythm of the waves that day in 530 BC contributed to Heraclitus of Ephesus’ revelation, but the result was magnificent. This double-edged sentence — permanence and transformation — was love at first sight.
For me, as a teenager, it became a mantra. We were terribly slow thinkers but lightning-fast actors. In short: you can always rely on change.
Need proof?
A single glance in the mirror at six in the morning is enough to confirm it beyond doubt. I face my transformation with curiosity and — most of the time — with good humor. It wasn’t always that easy. When my face and body started to change, I wasn’t thrilled. Those folds — especially the ones around the belly — were mysterious newcomers.
And that first gray hair blinking back at me? Pure horror. But digesting my own evolution turned out to be no big deal. Perhaps that’s why I never developed a midlife crisis. My brothers did. I’m still waiting. Well — maybe it doesn’t have to happen.
Why do I accept the changes in my appearance so peacefully? Simple: I don’t want to get bored looking at myself.
Change itself is a constant dance of cycles — ever repeating, yet never identical. At first glance, these cycles seem like endless repetitions. But watch closely, and you’ll see — the difference lies in the details.
That’s why I love spring so much: green returns, life blooms anew, and transformation becomes visible.
Our present, and especially the generations to come, will have to confront change — and its constancy — more dramatically than ever before. Climate change is the ultimate test of our flexibility, our will to adapt.
I often stumble over the question of whether I should already adapt my life to the shifting times — or whether I should resist and live against the tide of change. I don’t particularly enjoy the shift from democratic to fascist or autocratic systems. I prefer the kind of change that grows within democracy — the transformation of shared humanity.
Yes, yes — the old Hippie philosophy again.
But I do love change in thinking. That’s called learning — or rethinking. No, it’s not cowardice or inconsistency. It’s fascination — that wonderful moment when you read or hear something that reframes your old perspective in a completely new light. That’s what we call a learning process.
It’s also what drives science — the willingness to question its own findings, over and over again. Science does this voluntarily, because it’s not a religion; it’s applied curiosity. And curiosity is, by nature, change-loving.
Of course, a little stability wouldn’t hurt either. A steady, human relationship — one that remains adaptable — is a beautiful paradox. Infatuation becomes love, love becomes trust, and trust remains love. Or something like that.
So, my dear old, long-departed Heraclitus — thank you for your brilliant thought there on your rock by the sea.
We could use more of those today.

Not that anyone would want to.
I have a thorough understanding of the confusions and illusions that arise from the minds of those who are confused and their restless synapses. I see it nearly every day in my dear and loyal friend Don. He can no longer get certain things together; his thoughts get lost along the way. About what, exactly? That’s hard to say, because Don often struggles to find his words.
Does that make him mad? In that ugly, degrading sense of the word?
No.
He is exceptional — and “ordinary” people often wear that puzzled look when they meet him.Don is not mad. He is simply a man whose brain, after a stroke and an aneurysm, was stripped of some of its abilities. He is, therefore, a man harmed by nature.
Period.
The truly mad ones — in the negative sense — are the conscious ones. Those who parade their madness in politics and power.
We have plenty of shining examples these days, performing on the world stage like actors in a farce. How high the level of insanity truly is, no one can measure. And that’s already quite mad. But I don’t want to write about those people today. They already live rent-free in my head most of the time. No — I want to break a lance for the extraordinary ones. The creative, the visionary, the loud and colourful souls who changed the world in their own strange ways.
Yes, the hippies, for example. They turned the old, bourgeois world upside down in the late sixties. It wasn’t just a creative revolution of music — it was a revolution of thinking. With the hippies, the commune experienced a resurgence in community living, marking its return to life. I spent some time in one myself and found it wonderfully refreshing, though sometimes a little nerve-racking. However, I learned a great deal — about consideration, empathy, and what it takes to make a shared life work.It was no longer “I want,” but “We want.”
Sex!
That so-called scandalous, natural, joyful act between people — or with oneself — was still tightly regulated until the hippie era.Homosexuality was barely spoken of, monogamy was mandatory, and freedom in love or sexuality was condemned as filth and shame.
Freedom of love. Make love, not war.
Ah, yes, and then there was this word “sustainability,” which didn’t even exist in the public vocabulary back in the Seventies. Respect for nature and the planet was likewise part of the hippie philosophy. Back to simple living — away from the stress of luxury and lifestyle. It was incredibly liberating.
And today, it is again. Because overstimulation through endless consumption becomes tedious — and exhausting. And there was something else — not Spirit in the bottle, but Spirit with a capital S.
The search for spiritual happiness.
Whether in Indian culture, the religious performance business, or sect-like communities, we were searching for that elusive thing called bliss. Still are. But the search itself was joyful. No spiritual movement was safe from me. But after two weeks at most, I’d always had enough — too many rules, too many moral straightjackets. Yes, society called us mad — the “normal” ones did. But that wasn’t hurtful. It was a compliment.
When the respectable citizen twisted his face and muttered a few insults, we smiled. Because the lifestyle itself was mad. Some of that easygoing philosophy stayed with me. Other parts I’ve dug back out of the old, flower-painted VW bus in my mind.
What I remember most fondly is the absence of racism and sexism. We made no distinction between skin colour, body shape, political views, or social class. My entrance into that flower-power paradise happened in Amsterdam in the seventies. I spent ten days in the Vondelpark, surrounded by sweet-smelling smoke and thousands of people from all over the world. We had nothing to do — except talk, make music, smoke, and take the world apart into its philosophical pieces. We wanted to create everything new. And better.
That was mad. We were mad. I am mad.

Today, the troll of old is practically extinct. The once amusing, clumsy troll has migrated to the Internet — and mutated into the toxic, venom-spitting Internet troll.
These modern trolls are known for posting provocative, disruptive, or even harmful comments and content online. They behave like that little green imp from the Asterix comics, constantly provoking people into arguments.
The troll thrives on provocation without offering real value to the conversation, and proudly pats itself on the back for doing so.
What’s the point? Well, they seek both negative and positive reactions to bask in the light of attention. Some comments are politically charged, but most of the time, it’s simply about spitting poison for its own sake.
Fun has many facets, and for some, chaos in other people’s minds is apparently one way to make life feel meaningful. But that’s anything but trollish.
Click.
A thought about another kind of “troll” surfaces in my memory: the Trolley Problem.
And no — I don’t mean the buses connected to overhead wires, but the philosophical thought experiment that forces a more or less deadly decision.
Philippa Foot, a philosopher, first outlined this idea in 1967. She imagined a scenario in which an out-of-control tram is heading toward a switch.
If it continues straight, it will run over five people who are tied up and immobile on the tracks. On the side track lies one person, also bound and unable to move. Nearby stands someone who can operate the switch.
The question: which decision is the right one — morally, philosophically, legally, or in terms of consequences?
This thought experiment on cause and effect, and the consequences of action or inaction, presents a fascinating model of moral choice. Foot’s original question has since found new relevance in the age of self-driving cars, buses, and trains. After all, an automated vehicle must make split-second decisions in thousands of different situations.
Take this scenario: the car’s cameras detect a group of people standing motionless on the road. A single person stands still on the sidewalk. What should the vehicle’s digital brain do?
What brings this Trolley Problem back to my mind these days is the war between Israel and Palestine — or more precisely, between the government of Benjamin Netanyahu and the terrorist group Hamas.
The comments in both mainstream and social media are filled with absolute “solutions,” harsh criticism, and supposed ways to end this human tragedy.
Everywhere I look, I find the same black-and-white framing of this crisis. And that isn’t comforting.
Why? Because this conflict has existed since 1948.
The current tragedy began two years ago, on October 7, when Hamas killed over a thousand people at a music festival. Since then, a war of unimaginable scale has raged.
It is above all the civilians in Gaza who suffer as the situation worsens daily. All hospitals have been destroyed; food and water are scarce; the territory is sealed off.
When Greta Thunberg began advocating for the Palestinians — about three years ago — she was erased from much of the media. She approached the humanitarian suffering of civilians as a call to action. She became one of the co-founders of the Flotilla — a civilian fleet attempting to break the blockade with medical supplies and infant formula.
She has now been arrested for the second time, along with 496 other volunteers.
I’ve supported this action by sharing and commenting, because I cannot and will not accept that people must suffer deliberately, subjected to what increasingly looks like a planned genocide — the systematic extermination of an entire population group.
Now voices are rising that call the Flotilla action misguided and the recognition of Palestine premature. The argument: Hamas still determines Palestine’s fate.
And so I sit here, thinking. Back and forth. Who wins in my head — the politically “correct” reasoning, or the ethical, humanist perspective?
The Trolley Problem is immense.

Right now, humanity — meaning all of us — is living in the most intense storytelling age ever. On every possible (and impossible) channel, stories of every color, creed, and quality are being told.
That’s a wonderful thing. In principle.
The slightly bitter aftertaste comes from the sediment of “truth” at the bottom of many of these stories. And no, that’s nothing new. Someone — probably Aristotle — invented the fairy tale. It’s basically a polite way to tell lies beautifully. Fairy tales are often far more exciting and imaginative than real life itself.
The authors of the Bible, the Quran, and other sacred texts followed that same human instinct — turning belief into narrative. So it’s no wonder fairy tales have such long lives. They keep being told, retold, and reshaped.
Once upon a time…
But back to the present — to social media, traditional news outlets, and the audience on the receiving end.
Sometimes I have the joy and the honor of talking with friends about these enduring narratives. Politics, especially, is full of them — the same old stories recycled for new generations. One of the longest-running hits: the myth of the evil, greedy, lazy immigrant or refugee.
It’s the eternal tale of fear and suspicion — of “us” versus “them.”
Some of that fear is ancient biology. When early humans met the unknown, suspicion kicked in as a survival instinct. After all, Neanderthals didn’t exactly rush to befriend saber-toothed tigers.
But when people today close themselves off from others simply because they might be a threat, it becomes absurd — and ugly.
History shows again and again that the real danger often comes from within — from our own familiar circles. Fear doesn’t carry a passport.
After years of travel, I still can’t understand why anyone would choose to hate strangers. I’ve met wonderful, loving, fascinating people — and a few awful ones — in every country I’ve visited. But the good ones outnumbered the bad by far. And they still do.
Yet I keep stumbling upon narratives that fan the flames of xenophobia.
You know the lines: “Refugees get more money than our own seniors.”
Or, here in Canada: “The government gives refugees free houses and guaranteed income.”
Let’s make it short: No.
Refugees in their first year receive only a small start-up allowance — barely enough to pay rent and buy the basics. I’ve checked the data. The same is true for other defamatory myths about “those foreigners.”
So why are these false stories spread — and believed? Some have been around for decades.
One major reason lies in our tribal wiring: us against them. We convince ourselves that “they” are taking something that belongs to “us.”
Another driver — especially in media — is the outrage machine.
Clicks sell. Outrage sells faster. Sex and crime trigger our brains’ primal circuits, and have done so for millennia.
That’s why stories often go to print before facts are verified. And that’s disastrous.
Then come the populists — or as I like to call them, Po-pulists — who use hate speech as political currency. They pose as protectors and problem-solvers while exploiting fear for power.
Add to that the strategic and economic players who thrive on division. Polarized societies are easier to manipulate.
But here’s the good news: facts — and real stories — can undo these false narratives.
How? By telling new ones.
The more local stories we share about real refugees, real lives, real faces, the less “foreign” these people seem. And the less room there is for hate.

Most people don’t enjoy hating. It’s toxic, exhausting, and bad for the soul.
So I’ll keep counting on stories — the kind that heal, enlighten, and connect us.
Stories about humans. And, why not, about the other animals too.

Could I even imagine that humans existed at all during the great ice age about 23,000 years ago? Or animals? For a long time, the scientific hypothesis was that the first humans migrated to North America via the Bering Strait. And that was about 10,000 years later than the people of White Sands. The remarkable thing is that these humans coexisted with mammoths and ground sloths. During an ice age, obviously. How did these humans survive?

What led scientists to come to this conclusion? Four years ago, fossilized footprints of an entire group of humans were discovered in White Sands. This group consisted of adults, children, and babies. The conclusion suggests that the social structure of humans already existed 23,000 years ago. So what enabled these people to survive back then and there in what is now known as New Mexico? Well, the magic word is adaptation. In other words, adjusting to changing situations. Adaptation is a clear statement in itself, because we all constantly adapt to new circumstances in life. It’s called the will to survive.
These people apparently developed sophisticated hunting tools back then, as evidenced by the remains found. Additionally, they likely roamed other areas as a clan or family group, depending on the situation.

I have engraved the word adaptation into my brain. Without a willingness for change, the only thing left is probably extinction.
But this is unlikely to be a pleasure trip for our children and grandchildren—quite the contrary. However, examining earlier human cultures and their ability to survive gives me hope. With one restriction: people in the past had much more time to adapt themselves to such changes. Today’s global climate change has eliminated this advantage. 

Nevertheless, the scientific and technical possibilities of today – including AI – will open other opportunities. I constantly observe technical and scientific developments that demand only one thing from us: to change our living situation and step out of our comfort zone. That is a small price to pay for the survival of humanity. Much smaller than living with the new, trendy fascism. 
Yes, people are creative and capable of adapting and changing. Mainly at the very last moments, but at least it’s something.

Thank you, folks at White Sands, for this hopeful insight.

Conclusion: A bar is entertaining. In case you didn’t know. 
But I’m digressing again from the beginning of my improvised morning story because I want to write about a completely different bar: the Thinkable Bar.

Oh yes, it’s not only thinkable, but also entirely feasible.
Ever since I learned to write—which feels like a hundred years ago, but was actually 65 years ago—I kept hearing the term “writer’s block.” Who on earth would block a writer from writing? Oh yes, it happens in dictatorial regimes. But voluntary, non-state-imposed blocking of writing? Unthinkable.

This state of the famous blank white page that hypnotizes me into a break from thinking, which I am waiting for just as unsuccessfully as for that renowned wall at kilometre thirty in a marathon. That wall, too, never showed up or made itself felt.
It’s clear to me how much I miss out on in life, as other people seem to receive things for free and without effort.
On the other hand, what I constantly find on my plate are these digressions. This may be related to straightforwardness. I appreciate straightforward, firm principles that form the foundation of ethics, but I also enjoy these small or larger digressions. Or in my case, rather the detours. This means that my brain twists and turns in every direction and often doesn’t know where exactly it is. But at least it means lively and intense activity, which impresses me, so when I digress. 
Hang on, I need to check the title. Oh yes, Writing is Thinkable.

It took me many years to come up with this phrase. Actually, many of my endeavours take years, which means I tend to rebel in short periods.

Well, in the absence of writer’s block, I always enjoyed writing down stories and letting my thoughts run free, more so than some of the free-range chickens. 
The fact that I never realized my dream of becoming a writer rarely bothered me. Back then, that was, anyway. I was busy with other important projects.

But this one thought kept coming back to me: “Where do the ideas for the writing come from?” I remember very clearly how I used to write the stories for the Neubad magazine. I had a topic and a few notes. And then I always set myself a 30-minute limit to write a story. After half an hour, I would abandon the story and then hope that it would eventually grow.
Yes, like bread dough or cake. This weird technique is how the morning splinter stories were born. I get up, make myself a coffee, and sit down at the computer. I glance at the blank page—usually white—and type a headline. Without thinking. Well, without consciously thinking. The first word that pops into my empty morning brain provides me with the headline. 
And the story follows as I write. Yes, with seemingly barely active brain cells. No, I’m not showing off, I’m just amazed at how well the morning snippet stories work. 

Today I know: writing animates thinking. Oh really?
During the darkest time of my life, I was buried under an avalanche of problems that needed to be solved.
That’s when I discovered the miraculous medicine of writing. I remember waking up in darkness, my thoughts clouded, usually drenched in sweat, and asking myself hundreds of thousands of questions. I sat down and began to write down an overview—in my case, a laying out of disorder. The questions were no longer “How am I ever going to get out of this mess?” The question was usually “What’s this all about, buddy?” 

Often, I would then hear that soft clicking sound as my synapses got to work. I wrote without hesitation. A staccato of words and sentences raced past my eyes.

And in the end, when the rush of rhetoric had subsided, I saw the result of the story. And lo and behold, the narrative was honest, often structured, and at the end, there was usually one thought as a conclusion: “Hey, I see an opportunity here.”
Writing sets my thoughts in motion.

Thank you—whoever you are—for making me a writer.

The actors learn nothing. The audience continues to pay for a show they never wanted.
What is often forgotten is that in this lousy play, lives—real lives—are at stake.
No, we in Canada are not perfect. We simply avoid the drama. We don’t shut down. We vote them out.

I love my Canada. Because it is imperfect, but willing to learn.

Oh yes, I am nurturing my empathy more and more intensely again. Because I increasingly observe the fading of this remarkable trait. These enormously chaotic and threatening times in 2025 no longer allow us to think about friends or neighbours. After all, I – yes, even I – am more intensely occupied with my own mental life. Fear for the future of the children and oneself can become a full-time job.
Oh, I wish this time would motivate us humans to stand together again. Because, as a lone fighter in times of fear, it is a hopeless battle.
When people come together and exchange ideas, then this dynamic of community takes hold. History repeatedly demonstrates the success of effective group dynamics. I simply say that human rights, women’s rights, animal rights, and labour rights are just a part of the achievements that were only and exclusively achieved by a large number of brave, peace-loving fighters.
Yes, that sounds like the life of a hippie commune.

And I like to hear that. Somehow.