The Journey of Sound Last night, something stirred deep within me again. My wife and I went to see The Wanderer — a band I’ve listened to countless times in the car, but hearing them live is something else entirely. They don’t just play music; they create space. From the moment you step into that old theatre in Kampen, you feel it — the atmosphere changes. There’s no rush, no scanning of tickets, no tension. You simply walk in. They trust that if you’ve paid, you belong there. And somehow, that simple act of trust sets the tone for the whole evening. It’s how the world should be. They call it not a concert, but a journey. You’re invited to sing along if you feel moved to, or to close your eyes and just listen. Between songs, there’s no clapping, no noise, just silence — a living, breathing silence that allows the music to settle into your bones. And then… the cello begins. The moment her bow touches the strings, something happens inside me that I can’t explain. My nostrils tingle, my chest tightens, and tears rise without reason. It’s not sadness, nor joy — it’s something deeper. The cello vibrates at a frequency that feels like it’s made for the soul. It’s the sound of being human. They once played without the cellist, replacing it with a violin. Beautiful, yes — but it didn’t touch the same place. The violin sings to the mind; the cello speaks to the heart. It’s grounded, earthly, yet infinite. Last night, they said it themselves: “The cello is the instrument of the soul.” And I believe them. Every note feels like a prayer. Every pause, a breath. You don’t just hear The Wanderer — you travel with them. It’s not a performance; it’s communion. A shared space where everyone, knowingly or not, is searching for something real. And what moves me most is their humanity. They know my wife is ill, and they’ve told us that she’s always welcome — even if the show is sold out. That’s not business; that’s love. That’s the kind of world I still believe in. When I sit there, eyes closed, I feel a rare kind of stillness. The cello vibrates, the voices merge, and for a brief moment the walls between sound and silence disappear. There’s no stage, no audience — only presence. That’s why I go back every time. Not for entertainment, but for remembrance — to remember what it means to feel alive. #thewanderer #sound #soul #cello

“Cold Showers, Warm Hearts — and the Biology of Meaning” We spend billions searching for the cure to cancer, yet somehow forget the simplest medicine of all: being alive on purpose. Not surviving — living. With taste, with sweat, and, occasionally, with a scream in an ice bath. At a recent lecture on psychoneuroimmunology (PNI), the message was clear: the body doesn’t just respond to pills, but to purpose. A strong immune system is not only built in the lab — it’s built in the heart, the gut, and the stories we tell ourselves. It thrives on laughter, good food, shared effort, and the feeling that life still has something worth doing. When people have no purpose, their biology drifts. Inflammation becomes chronic, sleep becomes shallow, and the immune system starts acting like a bored teenager — distracted and moody. But give that same person a reason to get up, someone to care for, a garden to tend, or even a dream that sounds a little crazy, and something magical happens: their cells listen. The immune system straightens its back and says, “Alright, boss, we’ve got work to do.” Researchers now confirm what our grandmothers already knew: A walk with friends heals better than a pill taken alone. Singing in a choir can lower inflammation more than arguing on Twitter. And yes, purpose — that mysterious sense of “why” — can shrink tumors, or at least grow courage. So what’s the secret formula? It’s not hidden in a pharmaceutical vault. It’s in the simple rituals that make you human: Eat real food that makes you smile. Work your body until it remembers it’s alive. Breathe the cold air until it bites — and then laugh about it. Surround yourself with people who remind you why it’s all worth it. Because in the end, health is not the absence of disease — it’s the presence of meaning. So yes, go to the gym. Jump into that freezing lake with Wim Hof and a few mad friends. Cook something delicious. Make a mess. Live a life your immune system can believe in. #wimhof #cancer #eenzaamheid

Freedom on Prescription – How the System Decides Who Gets to Live Something is profoundly wrong in a world that claims to protect “freedom,” yet decides who may live — and who may not. We live inside a system that calls itself humane, but has traded every trace of humanity for protocols, insurance codes, and control. A system that says “We want to heal,” but truly means: “We want you to obey.” Those who refuse to march along the chemotherapy path, those who choose natural or alternative ways, suddenly lose their right to care. Doctors look away, clinics close their doors, and words like “responsibility” and “science” are used as smoke screens for fear and obedience. What was once a health system has become a belief system — and anyone who questions its doctrine is cast out as a heretic. The Hypocrisy of “Free Choice” We proudly proclaim that everyone is free to choose. But what does that freedom mean when the system determines the consequences of each choice? Freedom without consequence is an illusion — and it’s precisely this illusion that keeps people compliant. You are free, yes. But if you choose differently, you pull on a rope that leads to silence: no guidance, no help, no support, no coverage. Freedom ends where the system begins. And that system was never designed to heal people — only to sustain itself. The Price of Humanity A vitamin C infusion in Germany can cost hundreds of euros. Not because vitamin C is rare, but because the system that decides what counts as “healthcare” refuses to pay for anything that cannot be patented. There’s no profit in what works if no one can own it. So research stalls, people remain dependent, and the word “evidence” becomes a shield for power rather than a search for truth. The irony is that those defending the system wash their hands in innocence. “We just follow the guidelines,” they say. But who writes those guidelines? Who decides what is “medicine” and what is “alternative”? Who gave anyone the authority to define survival by the boundaries of corporate profit? The Power of Obedience Our healthcare system is a mirror of our society: built by humans, governed by fear. Fear of being wrong. Fear of liability. Fear of stepping outside what’s approved. And so doctors obey — not out of malice, but out of their own instinct to survive within a cage of rules. We, the citizens, the patients, the loved ones — we are the fuel of this machine. We complain about bureaucracy, yet still believe that “the rules are there for a reason.” We follow, because following is easier than feeling. And those who do feel, who dare to ask, who sense that another way might exist, are labeled as difficult, irrational, or naïve. The Real Disease The real disease of our time is not cancer, nor fear, nor ignorance. It is dehumanization. We have learned to obey rather than to understand. We have technology, but we’ve lost our soul. We measure everything, yet we no longer know what value means. We call it progress, but it smells like regression. And still… Beneath that thick layer of control and fear, something remains unpatented: humanity. Compassion. That quiet force of love that says: “I help you not because it’s allowed — but because it’s right.” That is the kind of healing no hospital provides, but every human carries within. Conclusion A society that claims to be free while deciding who gets to live is not a civilization — it’s a machine. A machine powered by obedience, profit, and fear. And as long as we keep feeding it, it will continue to grind people into numbers, protocols, and files. Freedom begins the moment someone dares to say: “No further.” Not with violence, but with awareness. Not with hate, but with truth. Because the greatest act of resistance in an inhuman system is, and always will be: to remain human.

Sick Cities: From the Bijlmer to The Line — How Humanity Lost Its Pulse In the 1960s, Amsterdam’s Bijlmermeer was hailed as a utopia. A perfect, modern vision of the future — light, air, and concrete order. It was meant to liberate people from chaos, but it became the opposite: a maze of isolation, crime, and decay. The failure wasn’t architectural; it was spiritual. The planners built apartments, but forgot to build belonging. Half a century later, we are repeating the same mistake — only bigger, glossier, and more digital. Projects like Forest City near Singapore, The Line in Saudi Arabia, and countless “eco-smart” utopias across the world promise paradise through design and data. They call it sustainability, but it’s really control wrapped in green glass. These cities are monuments to a sickness — a global fever that mistakes perfection for progress. Money flows into artificial islands and desert corridors while millions have nothing to eat. We engineer skylines, but not compassion. We optimize life, but forget to live. The Bijlmer was a warning: A city without soul collapses, no matter how rational it looks. But the lesson went unheard. Now we build whole nations like that — private states run by corporations, governed by algorithms, marketed as heaven. Humanity has outsourced its moral compass to profit and PR. We have concrete instead of community, innovation instead of empathy, and “smart cities” designed by people who have never walked barefoot on real earth. There’s a single word that captures this era — a word that’s half disgust, half despair: Sick. Sick of watching technology masquerade as wisdom. Sick of seeing empty skyscrapers rise while children go hungry. Sick of progress without humanity. Until we rediscover the pulse — the messy, imperfect heartbeat of real life — our cities will keep gleaming, our towers will keep rising, and our souls will keep dying. Sick. #power #system #ghosttown

🧰 From Mechanic to Parts Replacer — and from Machinist to Knob Turner Once upon a time, machines were alive. Back then, troubleshooting meant listening to a pump’s rhythm, smelling burnt insulation, and feeling if a relay was just a bit too warm. You could tell a cable’s mood just by looking at it. Today, that’s called wasted time. The modern technician doesn’t think — he scans. An error code tells him what’s broken, and he replaces a module. Done. No spark, no insight, no magic. And so, the mechanic slowly became a parts replacer — a man who knows his way around boxes, but not what’s inside. A technician proudly swaps a €400 module when the real problem was a three-cent layer of oxidation. “Time is money,” they say. But apparently, understanding has become too expensive. And it’s not just mechanics. The old-school machinist has been reborn as a train operator — a title better suited for an amusement park ride. The veterans who could feel the engine through their seat have been replaced by button-twisters with tablets. Where there used to be craftsmanship, there’s now firmware. Humans have become spectators to their own tools. Everything must be faster, safer, easier — and dumber. Fixing something can no longer be an art, because art can’t be measured — and therefore isn’t efficient. But there’s still hope. Some mechanics can still hear the difference between a bearing that spins and a bearing that complains. Some machinists still know that a train should rattle, and that silence is far more dangerous. Because a true mechanic knows — once you stop listening, that’s when the real trouble begins. #money #oldkills

Don’t Trust, Verify — or How I Outsmarted the Fake Bankers It always starts the same way. Your phone rings. Unknown number. A serious voice says, “Good afternoon, this is the fraud department of the Rabobank.” And right there — before the coffee even hits your lips — you’re the star of your own crime thriller. Apparently, someone transferred money from my account to a “German recipient.” He even knew my name, my account number — impressive! But something felt… off. Maybe it was his tone, or maybe it was the fact that real bankers don’t sound like they’re sitting in a call center above a kebab shop. So I asked him, very calmly: “What’s the secret verification code I have with the Rabobank?” He paused. “Uh, I can’t tell you that, sir.” Of course he couldn’t — because it didn’t exist. I made it up on the spot. That’s when I knew: the hunter had become the hunted. I could almost hear the Windows XP error sound in his head. Click. Game over. ⸻ A few months earlier I’d had another “bank expert” on the line. This one claimed to be from the Rabobank’s IT department. I decided to have some fun. Me: “That’s funny, I don’t even have an account with Rabobank.” Him: “Oh, I see that now. You’re actually with ING.” Me: “Yes, that’s correct.” Him: “Well, we work together — Rabobank and ING.” At that moment, I laughed so hard I nearly reset my own firewall. These people have an answer for everything… except logic. So I kept him talking. For one whole hour. An hour in which he couldn’t scam anyone else. An hour of pure digital community service. ⸻ The moral of the story? Fraudsters don’t fear technology — they fear awareness. Their greatest enemy is not antivirus software; it’s a calm mind armed with a single principle we Bitcoiners live by: Don’t trust, verify. So the next time your phone rings and a “banker” claims to save you from fraud, smile politely, ask for your “secret code,” and enjoy the moment when their script crashes #Bitcoin #fraud #bank

The Synchromesh of Europe – and the Revision Called Bitcoin Once upon a time, the euro was sold as the perfect lubricant for a united machine. One currency, one gear, one destiny. It sounded brilliant — an engineer’s dream of harmony. But whoever built this gearbox forgot a simple truth: every country spins at a different RPM. France used to enrich itself quietly through the African franc and cheap uranium. Germany ran like a precision engine until CO₂ regulations clogged its exhaust. The Netherlands debates itself into standstill, arguing which pedal to press while the clutch burns. And Brussels, sitting behind the wheel, insists the grinding noise is “progress.” The euro was supposed to be the synchromesh — the clever piece that makes mismatched engines run smoothly together. But the sync is gone. The teeth grind, the gearbox rattles, and instead of oil they pour in politics. The result: more friction, more heat, less movement. And yet, they marvel at their own magnificence and believe they’ve given life birth. A creation so perfect it must not be questioned — a monetary Matrix where everything looks normal, as long as you don’t pull the plug. But real mechanics know better. When a gearbox sounds like that, you don’t turn up the radio — you stop and revise it. That’s where Bitcoin enters the workshop. Bitcoin doesn’t steer, it doesn’t impose. It’s the clean oil that lets each engine spin freely, transparently. It doesn’t promise unity — it guarantees honesty. Every ten minutes, block after block, it reminds the world that systems built on truth don’t need central control. Yes, some engines will seize. Some countries will stall. But that’s how you keep the machine honest — by allowing weak parts to fail instead of forcing the whole system to limp along. The euro was an attempt to synchronize human nature by decree. Bitcoin is the opposite: it lets nature run its course. Predictable. Neutral. Untouchable. The euro tried to make us one. Bitcoin lets us be many — and still connected. And if Europe ever wants to stop grinding itself into dust, it might finally need that long-overdue revision. Because if it’s grinding, you don’t add rules. You add oil. And that oil is called Bitcoin #Bitcoin #Europa #wakeup

“Too Little Hot Water” Today, the machine told me: Error — too little hot water, too cold. A clear message, even for a Monday. So I rolled up my sleeves, opened her up, and found the culprit — a lazy little valve called Y39, half-asleep behind a clogged filter. I fixed it, ran a test, and poured myself a cup of tea — fresh ginger with lemon. That’s when I heard my mother’s voice in my head again. She used to call ginger tea “stuff for goat-wool hippies.” She also used to say, “Just be normal, son. Don’t stick your head above the crowd.” She meant it kindly, the way her parents once meant it to her. It was their way of keeping life safe, predictable — lukewarm. But as I sipped that steaming cup, I realized something: You can fix a valve, replace a filter, even warm the water again. But when your own life runs cold, no system, no manual, no rulebook can tell you who you are. That part — you have to find by getting your hands dirty, listening to the hiss of your own boiler, and daring to add a little more heat. #system #Freedom #mother

⚖️ When Greed Meets Gravity: The Fall of Paper Silver For decades, silver has been suppressed — not by free markets, but by manipulation and greed. Banks and funds built a tower of paper contracts on a foundation of almost no real metal. For every ounce of silver in existence, a hundred paper ounces were promised. It worked — until reality started calling. Now, physical silver is vanishing from shelves, industrial demand keeps rising, and more people are asking the only question that matters: “Where is the real metal?” You can print money. You can print debt. But you can’t print silver. When the paper market finally collapses, it won’t be an accident — it will be gravity correcting arrogance, truth catching up with illusion. And those who hold what’s real — gold, silver, Bitcoin — will simply watch the storm pass. 🪙 “He who holds real value, sleeps through chaos.”

🏛️ The Four Pillars of Real Value In an age of endless money printing, artificial growth, and political spin, real value hides in the few things governments can’t conjure out of thin air. True wealth doesn’t live in spreadsheets or promises — it lives in things that endure: land, gold, productive companies, and Bitcoin. These are the four pillars that hold when the illusion of stability collapses. Real estate grounds you in the physical world. It provides shelter, income, and tangible presence. Gold and silver remind us that value is earned through scarcity and trust built over millennia. Equities, when carefully chosen, represent real productivity — people creating something of worth. And Bitcoin is the new pillar — digital, incorruptible, and borderless — the antidote to a system built on debt and deception. Together, these pillars form an antifragile foundation: when one shakes, the others stand. They don’t promise quick riches; they promise resilience. As the current financial order bends under its own weight, more people will rediscover what money was always meant to be — a mirror of real human effort and honest exchange.