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Friendly Addiction - Culture Is Not Tradition — It Means Showing Up

Don’t talk culture to me when you don’t have the emotional quotient that goes with it. When people speak about culture, they often point to traditions, religion, heritage, or social identity. But to me, culture is something far deeper than rituals or backgrounds. Culture is the act of showing up. It is the willingness to be present when no one else is there — when trauma is difficult to process, when loss creates an endless vacuum, when grief has the capacity to swallow the life out of someone. Culture reveals itself in the moments when life is at its most fragile. After death. After accidents. At funerals. During interventions. During rehabilitation. After emotional breakdowns. After panic attacks. After meltdowns. In such moments, human beings do not need lectures or explanations. They need presence. Souls need connection to face the unknown. Yet often people confuse culture with very different things. They measure culture by professional achievements, by the titles they hold ...

A Prison Filled With Smoke

 I drew with a pencil

that broke in the middle

I drew with the shorter half

that choked on the riddle

I knew it was going to be harder

to hide my fiddle

I drew on top of a scar

that had been ripped open too far

I drew the stitches

to cover the leakage

in rage I made the lead to break

I drew dark glasses

to hide my eyes

from lies that cover my face

I drew empty classes

where I teach freedom

I knew no one would come

and take the risk that it encompasses

I drew the bucket 

that has holes everywhere

I drew the station

that never sees a train

only the pain of everything

passing right through the empty tracks

I drew a relation

that is always in tension

what should I say

how should I pay

what should I do not to stay

I drew a blanket

to cover my soul

I drew a bullet

to destroy the ghoul

I knew someone will call me out

I knew someone will shout

I drew a chair

where I can sit

and think about being fair

I drew a floor

filled with gravity of good time

smoke gathered around me

suddenly, I became a

part of the drawing

I choked coughing

I wasn't able to draw

the clawing

tried to scratch the door

but the score was unsettling

without the handle

I knew death

was sore

I drew a prison

trapped myself

alone with

the reasons

that still

kept me alive







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