#existentialvibes

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He learns the rule the hard way.

Distance matters.

Not in the vague, poetic sense ghosts like to talk about—but in something measurable. Trackable. Painfully real.

Too far, and he starts to unravel.

Edges blur. Thoughts scatter. The world goes thin and distant like he’s being tuned out of existence.

So.

That’s a problem.

Gotham is very far from where he died.

The solution is… inelegant.

But effective.

The bones don’t weigh much.

That’s the first thing he notices.

For something that used to be him, they’re surprisingly light. Fragile, too. Charred black in places, cracked along the ribs, one arm not quite sitting right unless he adjusts it carefully.

He wraps them. Packs them away.

Zips the bag shut.

Problem solved.

Mostly.

He moves cities with a backpack slung over one shoulder like it doesn’t contain what’s left of his body.

No one questions it.

This is Gotham.

People carry worse.

The thing about being anchored is that it works both ways.

He doesn’t drift anymore. Doesn’t fade.

But he also can’t leave it behind.

Not for long.

Not without that same awful, unraveling pull.

He gets used to it.

The weight.

The quiet, constant awareness of it.

The way it grounds him, in a way nothing else does anymore.

Someone notices.

Of course they do.

It’s not the weirdness that gives him away—again, Gotham. Weird is baseline.

It’s the care.

The way he never lets the bag out of reach.

The way his posture shifts when someone gets too close to it.

The way, once, when it’s knocked over, he reacts too fast. Too sharp.

Like something important almost broke.

The man watching him files that away.

Observes.

Waits.

It happens on a rooftop.

Because of course it does.

“You’re protecting something,” the man says.

Not a question.

Danny doesn’t bother denying it.

“Yeah.”

“A weapon?”

“…Not exactly.”

A pause.

Wind moves between them, cold and restless.

“…A body?” the man tries.

Danny glances at him.

Considers.

Then shrugs one shoulder.

“Close enough.”

He doesn’t expect the man to understand.

Doesn’t expect him to stay.

Doesn’t expect—

“Well,” the man says after a moment, voice steady in a way that feels intentional, “you’re doing a good job protecting it.”

Danny blinks.

“…That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Huh.

Later, when the bag rests beside him and the city hums below, Danny thinks—

Maybe Gotham isn’t the worst place to exist.

Even if you have to carry your own remains to do it,

Ein süßer Gedanke. Fast schon romantisch.

Dann hat mein Gehirn sich gestreckt, gegähnt und gesagt: ‚Ach stimmt, wir hassen ja alles. Weiter geht’s.‘

Also sitze ich da, trinke meinen Kaffee, der mehr nach Verzweiflung als nach Bohnen schmeckt, und beobachte, wie die Welt wieder versucht, mich mit ihren täglichen Überraschungsangriffen zu beeindrucken.

Spoiler: Es klappt.

Ich bin beeindruckt.

Negativ.

Aber beeindruckt.

Auf dem Weg zur Arbeit habe ich mich gefragt, ob ich vielleicht in einer dieser Serien lebe, in denen der Protagonist ständig Prüfungen bekommt, um „stärker zu werden“.

Falls ja:

Ich würde gerne kündigen.

Ich habe genug Charakterentwicklung.

Ich bin fertig.

Ich bin durch.

Ich bin ein DLC, der nie erscheinen sollte.

Und dann, mitten im Chaos, merke ich:

Ich funktioniere trotzdem.

Irgendwie.

Wie ein alter Laptop, der bei jedem Öffnen fragt, ob er nicht lieber sterben darf, aber trotzdem hochfährt, weil er weiß, dass niemand sonst den Job macht.

Und genau das ist der Plot-Twist des Tages:

Ich lebe weiter.

Ich mache weiter.

Nicht, weil ich motiviert bin.

Nicht, weil ich Hoffnung habe.

Sondern weil ich zu stur bin, um aufzugeben.

Passiv-aggressive Existenz nennt man das, glaube ich.

Also ja — die Welt brennt, mein Kopf brennt, mein Kaffee ist kalt, und mein Wille zu leben ist irgendwo zwischen „geht so“ und „lol“.

Aber ich bin noch da.

Und manchmal reicht das…

Have you ever felt

as if you don’t belong?

You stand in a place,

yet at the same time

you are absent.

Have you ever felt lost?

You sit among people —

laughter, conversations, noise —

and inside you

only silence.

And suddenly the question

rises in your head:

“Do I truly want to be here?

Or am I here because I must?”

And that question

haunts you for years.

Gnaws at you.

Weighs on you.

Becomes a stone

you carry within.

But fear of the unknown is stronger.

Because here you have built —

friends,

a career,

a whole life.

And still…

it feels foreign.

You want to leave,

but your legs won’t move.

Something holds you.

Something unfinished

binds you to this place.

But you don’t know what it is.

You don’t know how long it will take.

You don’t know

if you will ever understand.

Have you ever felt lost?