Samuellonez

(Samuel, I’m 20 years old. I’m self-taught and a bitcoiner.)

(I like drawing manga art, realism, mystical themes, and OCs. I enjoy reading romance, action, seinens — in general, manga and books — especially on psychology and theology. I like listening to all kinds of music; my favorites are soundtracks and electronic music in general. I enjoy training with swords and doing calisthenics. I like playing — whether card games, video games, or board games. I enjoy studying philosophy, psychology, theology, history, and sociology. I like running. I enjoy writing — whether ideas, studies, poems, or feelings.)

(I can't stop thinking. I can't be without doing something.)

(https://shrouded-licorice-291.notion.site/Central-de-Estudos-B-blicos-Avan-ados-Exegese-Teologia-e-Pesquisa-a2030979b32d49f28c1f5a8e83050d2b?source=copy_link)

(I have projects for two companies. One is about automation and custom products.)

(In the morning I wake up, and right away I think... I am sad: I've lost the innocence I once lived. It wasn't just a small detail that faded with time — it was as if the last memory of purity was ripped out of me, and with it, the lightness of existing without the weight of calculation, without the shadow of guilt, without the wound that now burns in every memory. Even the little respect I had for myself, I lost. And when shame settles in, it doesn't stand alone: it erodes the heart, drags away any remaining shred of dignity, and leaves me looking in the mirror like someone facing a stranger. Ahhh... I looked for a way out, but fell into the same trap. It's a cruel cycle: I think I've escaped, but I've only walked in circles. The ground closes beneath me, and the freedom that seemed near reveals itself to be just an illusion. I can't do it. I promise — and I lie... My words betray me, my mouth announces victories that never arrive, and my hands write commitments that time tears apart with irony. I can't stand trusting myself anymore... I'm like a debtor who writes checks knowing there's no balance — only the shame of being found out. How can I have the strength to face someone who has already lost? Because the hardest enemy to confront is myself: the one who gets up in the morning with hope, and lies down at night defeated — always by the same fall, the same stumble, the same emptiness. I am in pieces; and who could put them together? I've picked up shards before, but the more I gather, the more I cut my hands. It's like trying to glue broken glass with tears: nothing holds. What if the sickness doesn't heal? What if the job doesn't work out? What if the crying doesn't stop? What if the family doesn't last? The questions hammer like iron hammers, and each 'what if' opens a new crack inside me. I find no safe shelter from this storm of scenarios tormenting me. What is the formula for a life that resists temptation? Has anyone ever discovered it? Or is it just a fable told to comfort losers like me? Sometimes I think: if I die here, will I know I've woken up? Death seems to me both relief and threat. Relief because it would silence this unceasing struggle; threat because I don't know if tomorrow would bring rest or just the echo of my own failure. And if I lose everything, if I die here — tomorrow will I be awake? The word 'tomorrow' becomes an abyss: it could be a promise, it could be nothing. And yet, one contradiction wounds me: blessed is the one who has wept upon realizing they are a sinner. But what kind of happiness is that? Perhaps it's not laughter that comforts, but tears that purify. Perhaps it's not victory that ennobles, but the fall that reveals. Still, I dare not conclude. The silence is greater than any answer. All that remains for me is to walk with the open wound, asking, seeking, bleeding — and maybe, just maybe, weeping as one learns to live...")

(No ideas)

(I usually listen to classical music, but I noticed something — probably not new, but still striking: music across the centuries has undergone an almost unsettling transformation in how composers express emotion. In the Baroque period, for example, with Vivaldi or Handel, the music seemed to radiate clarity, light, and order — sometimes even something that evoked God. Every note had its place, every phrase was organized, and even the complexity of fugues or concertos served to create a sense of natural harmony. The pieces evoked joy, nature, celebration — without a doubt, the listener was invited to contemplate beauty and perfection, to admire the ordered world and the shared experience of festivity or praise. Emotion was there, but it wasn't too personal; it was collective, almost universal, and always filtered through precise rules of form and counterpoint. I realized that. Then, listening to the Classical era — with Mozart and Beethoven — this clarity and balance still dominate, but a subtle introspection begins to emerge. Joy remains, but now there is room for shades of mood, irony, or light melancholy. Beethoven, in his early sonatas, still respects the form, but introduces tension and contrast in ways that prepare the ground for something more intense — you can see this in his melody from Moonlight Sonata, from movement 1 to 3. Music begins to reflect not only order and beauty, but the individual temperament of the composer — a unique voice among the notes. This is where I noticed the shift. With Romanticism, this change intensifies. Chopin, Brahms, Dvořák, or Tchaikovsky are no longer just creating for concert halls or ballrooms; they dive into the human soul. Music becomes a vehicle for deep feelings — passion, melancholy, nostalgia, patriotism, or suffering — some even nationalism. So we see that it's no longer enough for a piece to be beautiful or organized; it must speak to the heart, provoke intense emotion, sometimes even conflicting ones. A Brahms waltz can be light and graceful, but a Chopin Nocturne or a Dvořák Slavonic Dance shows the power of music to evoke both joy and pain, as if each chord were a mirror of human experience. Finally, in the Post-Romantic and Impressionist periods (some also include Modernism), with Rachmaninoff or Debussy, music becomes even more introspective and complex. Rhythm dissolves into clouds of sound, harmony takes on unexpected colors, and emotion becomes not only intense but often ethereal, melancholic, contemplative. Explicit joy almost disappears; in its place arise atmospheres, moods, subjective reflections. Debussy makes us feel the breeze, the mist, or the delicate dance of a waltz, while Rachmaninoff immerses us in deep sadness, tension, and existential contemplation. Music has stopped narrating the external world or the celebration, and instead narrates the soul inner conflicts, memories, and dreams. I realized that this trajectory reveals something fascinating: from a nearly collective and ordered expression, focused on celebration and harmony and sometimes even God music evolves into a profound portrait of human subjectivity. When you listen to a Baroque piece, you feel nature, festivity, and clarity; when you listen to a Post-Romantic or Impressionist piece, you feel introspection, melancholy, and the weight of the individual. It's as if, through music, humanity began by looking outward at the world, then gradually turned inward, exploring with emotional intensity the complexity of the human heart. But then, the question is: did it get worse? Or did it evolve? In my view, it worsened in terms of feeling, but evolved in terms of creation.)