Savannah felt different than what i felt in other places.

Savannah is one of the few American cities that kept most of its historical structure. Its cemeteries, squares, houses, and streets remain intertwined with daily life. In many places in the U.S., older or uncomfortable history gets demolished or hidden. Savannah didn’t do that.

So subconsciously, when you walk there, you feel a place that accepts its own story instead of pretending it never happened. That creates a strange sense of psychological honesty.

Savannah was built around 22 garden squares. Every few blocks you run into trees, shade, benches, and quiet space. That layout literally lowers stress levels because your brain keeps moving between streets and small parks. It’s nature.

Your nervous system interprets it as safe, calm territory. That’s why it can feel cosy or even intimate. Because it’s considered part of nature in your mind.

Old cemeteries and monuments sit right within the city. Instead of pushing death to the outskirts, Savannah allows it to exist alongside everyday life.

That tends to create a subtle feeling that people there are more comfortable with the cycle of life and death. When a place doesn’t hide mortality, it often feels more emotionally grounded.

The Spanish moss, humidity, live oaks, and slower coastal air create a sensory environment that naturally feels reflective.

It’s almost like the whole city runs on a slightly slower emotional frequency.

Places like Charleston, Wilmington, or Madison can be charming, but they often feel more social, commercial, or performative.

Savannah feels less like it’s trying to impress you. It just exists. And that authenticity is what many sensitive people pick up on immediately.

Places amplify what you’re already carrying inside. In other words, the city didn’t create the emotion — it made space for it.

And when a place does that, people remember it for the rest of their lives.

Honestly, I should never have been to Madison.

A couple of months ago, we travelled to Savannah, Georgia.

Savannah has one of the most beautiful cemeteries. Early in the morning, the light pours in, and the chirping of birds and the wind moving through the trees echo all around. Savannah seems at peace with its own past. It hasn’t tried to erase anything; it has accepted everything and preserved it as part of its culture and history. That’s why it’s easier to express what’s inside you there.

The smell of moss and dampness rose from between the graves, and each grave stood close beside another. Statues could be seen throughout the cemetery, and each of them seemed to be telling a story—about themselves or about the families they belonged to.

Most of the graves were family plots. A thin line of brick had been laid around them, and the family name was written on it. In many of them, even those bricks had not yet been placed.

While I was there, I looked at my husband and said: this man is truly someone I would want to die beside when I’m at home with him—and to be buried next to him.

I have to say—if you truly love someone, deeply and honestly, Savannah is the kind of place where you take them to tell them so.

And I did. I told him how much I loved him. I told him that before I met him, I had never loved anyone like that.

I didn’t have many interactions with men for most of my life. I was usually too busy surviving. The men I encountered were often controlling, shallow, or painfully self-absorbed. Small in spirit, and sometimes cruel. I know that certain cultures and environments raise men like that.

But the man I fell in love with—the first man I ever truly loved—was none of those things.

He carried a kind of innocence in him. He never lied to me, and he never tried to intimidate or threaten me. Sometimes it honestly felt like he had arrived from another planet. Whatever he had, he gave freely. Whatever love he felt, he expressed openly. And to me, that kind of sincerity was rare.

So yes—if life has been unkind to you, wait. The right person may still appear.

Savannah was simply the place where I told him all of this again… probably for the thousandth time.

He feels like someone from my own tribe, as if we were somehow raised in the same village—even if only telepathically.

People like my husband don’t come along often. They’re rare.

And the more you’ve suffered at the hands of the wrong people in the past, the more fiercely you hold on to—and protect—the right one when they finally arrive.

The rest of the city felt the same. It was calm, almost hibernating, and cosy. Everyone smiled. It felt as if people there were at peace with the idea of life and death. Unlike Charleston, Wilmington, or Madison, this was a city whose air I actually wanted to breathe.

Autumn has arrived in New Zealand!!

It’s beautiful!

Arrowtown is all about the colors!! Leaves are sparkling yellow and orange on the trees!

It is getting cold, again; in late February!

Universe, thank you!! Please keep this in between -10 and 15 the whole spring and summer!

Erin in the Office is just like I was six years ago. Kind, innocent, simple, always wanting to help everyone. When she’s wronged, she stays quiet and watches.

It’s clear she’s never had proper support. And especially when men throw themselves at her, pressuring her to date or marry them, she politely rejects them but doesn’t resist. She knows resistance is useless, because she’s tried it before and it changed nothing.

People exploit her kindness and solitude. Yet when she meets the right person—Pete—her life improves, her confidence rises, and she stands her ground before others.

Even when Kevin wants to date her, and Michael urges Erin to go out with Kevin, she agrees with a disinterested shrug. But she does it, anyway.

When she tells Michael she likes Andy, and Michael tells Kevin he has no chance with Erin, Kevin begins insulting her. But Erin says nothing. She simply stares at him in utter disbelief. The difference between Erin and girls like her compared to other girls is that they give everyone a chance, yet they never look back, never grant someone a second opportunity.

For instance, she can hardly believe that Andy likes her. And if you pay attention, Erin is more sought after than any other girl in the office—by most men, or perhaps I should say, by every man close to her age.

The wind chimes have been playing incessantly today and yesterday. The wind blows plenty here.

Yet, yesterday and this morning, when I stepped outside, I noticed that they responded even to the gentlest of breezes.

It seems as if they are brining news to me, like a messanger.

In the late 1700s, Australia and America were both tied to Britain — but the people arriving there had very different stories.

Unlike America, Australia began as a penal colony. Starting in 1788, ships arrived carrying convicts sent by the British Empire to places like Sydney. Many had been convicted of crimes such as theft, burglary, forgery, or even stealing small items like food or cloth. Some crimes were serious, but many were surprisingly minor by today’s standards. These people didn’t choose to go — they were transported as punishment and forced to build a new life under strict control.

Unlike Australia, the American colonies were mostly made up of people who chose to go. Colonies such as Virginia and Massachusetts attracted farmers, religious groups, traders, and families looking for land and opportunity. Some Europeans also escaped to America simply because they disliked their governments, were involved in corruption, wanted to avoid debts, or had committed crimes but hadn’t been convicted. They saw the colonies as a fresh start — a place to disappear and reinvent themselves.

So while Australia was largely built by people sent away as punishment, America was largely shaped by people who ran toward something — opportunity, freedom, or sometimes just a clean slate.

In the early 1800s, Australia was still carrying the weight of its beginnings. Ships continued to arrive under the British Empire, bringing convicts who had been sentenced for crimes like theft, burglary, or forgery. They didn’t come by choice, and life was still strict and controlled. But slowly, something began to change. As the decades passed and transportation faded away, new people started arriving—not in chains, but with hope. During the gold rushes in places like Victoria, miners, families, and workers flooded in, chasing fortune and freedom. Australia was no longer just a place people were sent—it was becoming a place people chose.

Across the ocean, the United States told a different story from the start. By the 1800s, cities like New York City were buzzing with arrivals—Irish families fleeing famine, Germans escaping unrest, and others searching for land, work, or a second chance. Unlike Australia, they weren’t sent there as punishment. They came on their own terms. Some were honest and hopeful, others a bit more questionable—people dodging debts, scandals, or trouble back home—but they all shared one thing: they chose to come.

So while Australia slowly transformed from a land of forced arrivals into a land of opportunity, America had already been running on that idea. One was rewriting its story, leaving its prison past behind, while the other kept growing as a place where people arrived chasing something new—even if they were also running from something old.

By the 1900s, both Australia and the United States had left their rough beginnings behind—but they handled immigration in their own ways.

In Australia, the days of convicts were long over. No one was being sent there as punishment anymore. Instead, the country became selective about who could come. Most immigrants were from Europe—especially Britain—and later, after World War II, many more arrived from places like Italy and Greece to help build the nation. They were workers, families, and skilled people, all choosing to start fresh. Australia was no longer a place people were forced into—it had become a place people were carefully allowed into.

In the United States, immigration was bigger and more constant. Places like Ellis Island saw millions arrive—people from Europe, and later from Latin America and Asia. Most came looking for work, safety, or a better life. The country did check who entered, turning away those with serious criminal records or illness, but overall, it welcomed far more people than Australia did. Some newcomers were escaping trouble or difficult pasts, but they came by choice, not by force.

So while both countries were now shaped by free immigrants, Australia was more controlled and selective, and the United States was larger and more open. One carefully chose its newcomers, while the other became a place where people from all over the world kept arriving, chasing something new.

Those different immigration paths didn’t just shape who arrived—they shaped the personality of each country.

Australia had started as a place for convicts, many of whom weren’t hardened criminals at all—some had committed tiny thefts, like stealing food, or had no property to their name. Over time, the convict shipments ended, and the country began carefully choosing who could immigrate. Most newcomers were from Europe, bringing skills, families, and work ethic to help build the young nation. Because immigration was selective, Australia grew steadily and became a society that valued order, fairness, and stability. It wasn’t very diverse at first, but it built a strong sense of shared identity, gradually opening up to more cultures after World War II.

The United States, on the other hand, was a constant hub for people chasing new lives. Millions arrived through places like Ellis Island, bringing all kinds of backgrounds, languages, and traditions. Some were escaping poverty, famine, or political trouble, and a few had minor brushes with the law—but most came voluntarily. This flood of diverse people created a country that grew fast, messy, and rich in variety. There was tension and competition, but the idea of being a “nation of immigrants” became central.

So, while Australia became steady and structured first, only opening up gradually to diversity, the United States mixed everyone together from the start. Australia learned to balance order with new cultures; America learned to thrive amid chaos and constant change. One built cohesion before diversity, the other embraced variety from the very beginning.

The United States and Australia could not have taken more different paths, and it shows in how the countries feel today.

The U.S. was built fast and messy. From the very beginning, people poured in from all over—different languages, religions, and ways of living—each trying to make their own life. Cities grew wild and crowded, farms spread into untamed land, and communities often competed for resources. There was opportunity, yes, but also constant tension, conflict, and struggle. The country never had the luxury of order first; it had to invent rules and systems while chaos raged around it. That’s why today the U.S. can feel loud, unpredictable, and at times… well, a bit fucked up.

Australia, by contrast, grew slowly and carefully. Its first arrivals were convicts, often for tiny crimes or simply because they didn’t own property. Everything was strict and controlled. Later, immigration was selective, bringing skilled Europeans to build towns, farms, and cities in an orderly way. By the time the country opened up more widely, it already had strong systems, clean streets, and a sense that life ran smoothly. Australians learned to trust the system and enjoy the quiet comfort of a well-planned society.

So while the U.S. thrived in chaos, Australia thrived in order. One grew loud and unpredictable, the other calm, cosy, and steady—a difference you can still feel in the streets, homes, and rhythms of life today.

So, my dear ones, now you see why the United States has ended up the way it has, and why Australia has become the way it is. History.

University professors rarely do one thing properly: supervising a group well. Almost all of them are bad at what they do—some worse than others.

You—who don’t have management in your nature; you—who don’t have invention or creativity in your nature and got here mostly by reading and writing a few papers; you—whose motto was being a suck up to your advisor , became a professor through their recommendation and connections—why do you go and start a company?

Why do you think becoming a professor in some isolated, enchanted place—where your entire job is controlling a bunch of powerless kids—is supposed to inspire you to run a company?

You’re going to fail.

I believe that everyone should live however they choose. But—but—if you are a man, over forty-five, your hair has thinned or fallen out, even just a little, or it’s turning white, and you feel people shouldn’t see this because you think it’s a sign of weakness, so you decide to shave your head… I have to tell you: people do see it. And they understand exactly why.

I’m saying this based on more than ten men over forty-five who’ve gone bald, hit the gym every single day, and somehow managed to turn life into poison for everyone around them.

Spoiler alert: you’re going to get older, you’re going to die, and in the meantime the only thing that’s going to happen is that people will distance themselves from you because of your mindset.

People clock these things.

The evergreen branches grow so heavy that they bend; the snow falls to the ground, and then they fill again. And the same thing happens over and over. What a snowfall! Who would have thought it—here?!

Thank you, Universe!!