Thought of the day #1

By Raluca Lungu

Why is it more appealing to say you’re a philanthropist ( cf. Thefreedictionarysomeone who makes charitable donations intended to increase human well-being) than a good man? Seeing a bio in which was stated that noun triggered me, but not in a social justice warrior way haha. Why would you describe yourself like that?

Does this designation gratify someone’s ego because it implies their wealth? Maybe. Not that I’m minimizing the importance of such an act, but when one gives from their colossal abundance a drop only for notoriety, is that moral? Because you only know who philanthropists are because they want you to know them. Otherwise they’ll be just good man known maybe by their family or close friends. Whenever a good deed is wanted to be acclaimed by other’s appreciation, the ego comes in and infects all of it. That is vicious. Some will say : Ugh, fuck off, why does it count if that person helps by donating capital? Well, judging like this I think we’re victims of a sophism. Should’t we also care about the decadence of character? Should’t we preserve it? What if all people would act this way, egotistically, but gilded in altruism?

It looks a lot like the antipode of the end justifies the means, where the end is the self-pride. Therefore, the intention is more valuable than the ostentatious grandeur of the gesture.

But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing. – Matthew 6:3

So let us be good people, nicer than necessary, giving more than we receive, as cringy as that sounds. To make known our humanitarianism only if it is paramount, so that it could directly guide people to follow our example. We can’t all be philanthropists, but we can all be righteous mortals.

Ergo, go with a genuine heart and make someone happy today .



It was November – month of parting birds, rusty carpets, winter scented air and wandering minds. She  lost her shadow between the pines and her thoughts along the way. Fire and gold all around, in the trees, on the ground, in the skies. She let her hazel hair down, shook it and closed her eyes taking a deep breath. Seventeen with so many ideals and insecurities. Stream of feelings rushing every minute through her little heart.

How can you feel so much and express so little? She wiped her nose.

And I dream too much, and I don’t write enough and I’m trying to find God everywhere.

The alley was gloomy and quiet.


 If feels like I’m in a music video. I might as well look particularly melancholic and pretend I’m being filmed. Ugh, I’m so autistic sometimes.

What do you do when you feel you don’t belong somewhere? Not in a cliché way, but literally everything feels deeply uncomfortable. Like when you want to fall asleep and you can’t so you change sides constantly.

Renascentist and byzantine art gives one belonging because it’s center is not here. Is outside. Those beautifully crafted paintings are the artist’s struggle to find peace outside this world of suffering. To find a home. That is the material process, the art, the mean, but not the ultimate goal. Maybe home is a state of being within oneself.

We put our joy often in people and places, little do we know that those are temporary. Friends, family, lovers can break our trust, hurt us, leave us. That’s a pretty fucking heavy burden for them to carry and they didn’t even signed up for it. All that will remain of you will be the bits and pieces of a house built on quicksand.

Places are subject to change constantly, that little house next to that river is not there anymore, demographics shift and so does the vibes and mentality. Therefore, any attempt to insert feelings into impermanent things so that subsequently you’ll vampirize, is futile and miserable. And this includes you too. You’re perishable. So an aprioric and immutable force to fuel our content seems like a good idea I guess.

Ugh, yeah easier said than done.

The leaves under her feet cracked gently under her pressure, noise intertwining with the silence of the crisp drowsy nature. Suddenly the light of the bus pierced through the fog acting like an interlude in her thought process. It was leaving without her.

Damn! she shouted running in its direction. The moist soil sprinkled with pebbles launched her into an icaric fall  from the peaks of comical existential philosophy onto the solid ground. The poorly illuminated alley didn’t help either.

The car disappeared from her sight. It was gone. Covered in dirt, she looked like little Cosette, but with too many metaphysical thoughts.

Fuuuuuuuck, fuck fuckkkkkkkkkery!!! Aaah! The echo followed shortly. One can only imagine the scream of a raging teenage girl.

Maybe the worst thing is not losing your bus, but your mind.  A guy’s voice laughed from behind.

Do you often cover yourself in mud?

She spinned angrily towards him about to unleash her fury, but his look neutralized her.

– I just like to connect with the earth. What’s your problem, Mr Sarcasm?

– I would’ve helped you, but now I don’t want to disrupt your meditation.

– I’ve just finished it, thanks. Instead of looking stupid at me you could help me get up.  He reached his hands and picked her up. What are  you doing here anyway? You just enjoy watching girls fall?

– Yeah, and then pick them up. Pun not intended.

– Very funny, she grinned, but she was laughing inside. So what are you doing here alone?

– Searching the meaning of life, he responded ironically.

– Then you’ve found it.  I’m Zoe, which means…

– …life in greek, he interrupted her. What the heck, this is freaking me out.

After an awkward silence he stutterd for a second:

– W-would you like to go for a coffee?

Her eyes lit up, um, yeah, sure, I’m cold and dusty plus I really, really have a passion for coffee.

He smirked relieved and they started walking towards the shops. She suddenly stopped.

– Wait.


-Please don’t tell me your name means coffee.

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