DABOISASTRGLEDT – by Ivaniel “Ivo” Georgiev
DABOIS, your never-stopping, always-getting-in-trouble-with-life blogger is back again. The days pass, the months blur, the years pile up—but the difficulties only deepen. I don’t know how deep, but I’m certainly at least a couple of pairs knees-deep in life’s glorious shitstorm.
Somewhere on social media, I once wrote, “The more I grow, the more miserable I get.” Or maybe it was “The more questions I ask, the less happy I feel.” I’m not sure which one it was, but it doesn’t really matter. There are different ways of saying the same thing—the point is, life constantly punches you in the liver.
Some might disagree with that sentiment—and that’s fine. What matters more is why I said it. Because, truthfully, it’s not meant to be negative—quite the opposite. I don’t feel less happy as I grow; I just see it differently. Maybe more distantly. Words can’t fully hold emotion, but I still try to use them to provoke reflection—mine and yours.
Whether I’m right or wrong doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I feel freer now. Happier, even. Not because the world got easier, but because I chose a path that makes me feel whole—even when it hurts. The misery I mentioned comes from what I can’t control. The more I understand, the more powerless I feel to change anything out there—and that dilutes the joy I used to find so easily. (Still, I’m a pretty happy person, no matter what others say.)
Personal happiness—that’s something you can work toward. It’s personal. It’s attainable—maybe not easily, but with time and some brutal honesty, it is indeed.
But happiness with the world around you? That feels impossible. There are too many forces out there—unfair, ruthless, often evil—that you can’t do anything about.
And then there are other people who simply don’t care about their footprint—including myself to a degree. And knowing that… it poisons the joy.
But what are you gonna do? That’s life, and struggle means freedom, and every time it gets worse, something better follows.
I was born an Orthodox Christian, but never lived like a true believer. Over the years, I’ve seen too much hypocrisy from people who claim to represent God. I read the children’s Bible once. Don’t remember much, but I kinda recall Jesus—his image, his story (partially) and his purity. A being too unique, too consistent, too kind to be anything but fiction. We’ve never seen anything like him repeated—and we probably never will. Maybe because it’s too good to be true.
In the last few years, I’ve wandered through all kinds of teachings—ancient and modern—that try to answer the same questions. Epicureanism. Stoicism. Asceticism. Skepticism. Buddhism. Shintoism. I am less of all, but none completely. Yet strangely, I feel more whole now than I ever did in the past—yes, they all patched my soul (in their own twist). And just as misunderstood—even more nowadays.
There’s a restlessness in me that won’t go away. A need to find balance—not just within myself, but in the world around me. (I know that’s impossible, but I’m a hopeless romantic for things that may never be—but I will still see them clearly in my mind… no matter what.)
Let’s talk about sex for a moment. I haven’t had much of it in my life. Not because I couldn’t—though insecurity and confusion have played their part—but because I haven’t found someone I truly wanted to share it with. Maybe romance movies infected my head, or maybe I’m just a weirdo who can’t decide what he wants. Probably both.
Still, I’ve always felt that sex—real sex—mean something. It’s not just pleasure. It’s not just reproduction. It’s two people. And for centuries, it was all about men, dominance, and control. But now it’s something else. More complicated. Maybe more honest—maybe…
If I’ve deprived myself of sex for the reason of having that intimate act when I feel I have to—and I haven’t felt it many times (and even those times when I thought I felt it, it wasn’t what I was thinking it would be). It’s true when I said I’ve dodged sex—not because I’m a monk, but because I really want it to mean something, not just a quick dopamine hit. Sounds sappy, but fuck it—I’m a that kind of a weirdo. (I don’t see anything attractive/sensual about having sex like a quadruped.)
However, I haven’t deprived myself of other destructive impulses. I’ve lied. I’ve stolen. I’ve sabotaged. I’ve given in to my habits. I never wanted to hurt anyone, but I have. Repeatedly. And yet… when it comes to who I lie down with, I’ve never allowed myself to be dishonest. I can’t explain why. Maybe because, in that moment, there’s no hiding. No mask. And maybe that’s sacred to me—to a degree I can’t explain (or maybe the truth is somewhere between the lines).
When I’m alone, I’ve often lacked the strength to resist the things that hurt me—or what we call today “the simple pleasures/fast dopamine. I wasn’t aware at the beginning, but with time passing by, I became fully aware—and still couldn’t stop. I still can’t—though I’ve got better at it. What I’m trying to say is, now, with understanding comes a bit more resistance. And that matters.
I don’t know if any of this will make sense to you. Sometimes I don’t even understand myself. But there’s truth in these words—I feel it—and that’s enough to keep going.
So no, I don’t want to be cynical. But I often am. Not because I believe in nothing, but because I’ve seen too much. Felt too much. Thought too much. I never fully subscribed to any one belief system, but I’ve borrowed bits from many. And here I am: less of all, yet none completely.
More whole. Still lost. Still hopeful. Still searching. Still living, thus struggling—in my own way.
I’m wrestling cynicism like it’s a stray dog—bites hard, but I’m not letting it win.
What about you, BOIS and GALS? Where do you stand? What destroys you—and what keeps you going?
Honestly, I hate being cynical, but the world’s a jungle—hypocrisy, greed, folks who don’t give a fuck. Yet I’m still here, chasing hope, screwing up, dreaming big—and you perhaps, are not so different; fighting your own shadows, searching for the poison’s antidote, laughing at the absurd, and scraping every inch for something real.
Let’s find out together in the lines that follow.
Before we dive deeper, thank you—truly—for coming back for another week. Your time is precious, and the fact that you share some of it with me means everything. DABOISASTRGLEDT is slowly becoming what I always hoped it would be: a space for honesty, effort, forgiveness, and above all, understanding.
If you missed last week’s edition, or if this kind of chaos speaks to you, check out the archives. Otherwise, here’s a link to the last post: Things Are Great; Until You Start Chewing With Your Mouth Open…
And if you like the type of content I’m sharing here, you can definitely check out my daily newsletter for some more interesting twists about different aspects of life (and some free goodies) – Subscribe to My Newsletter.
Check point here: Spain was great. The tour around Europe is everything that I thought it would be and more. We are cruising the coast of Portugal now and heading to Lisbon. My dad is having the time of his life, and so am I. Will be in touch.
Now, back to being cynical-but-not-super-cynical.
I Hate Being Cynical
That’s right—I hate being cynical. Because there’s nothing noble about it. Nothing to aspire to. It’s a heavy lens, always tilted toward the worst of what makes us human. When you’re a cynic, you don’t just see the jungle—you become part of it. Pointing out the chaos, the cruelty, the blind instinct in everything. Even beauty starts to feel like camouflage.
But here’s the thing—I wasn’t born to be like this. I wasn’t made to spend my days observing what bothers me, analysing it to death, asking why people do what they do, and spiralling into frustration. And yet, I can’t help it. Because when I ignore what I think and feel, I inevitably become the very thing I despise. Passive. Complicit. A cog.
I’ve always been a people person. Or tried to be—no matter how much I lied throughout the years. I always thought the world’s a scam—because everyone lies through their teeth (me especially).
However, I make an effort to respect everyone—even those who probably don’t deserve it. (But then again, who am I to say who does?) I try to see the beauty in the misunderstood. To believe in second chances—in third, etc. Still, I’ve learned the hard way: there are battles you simply can’t win. Not because you’re weak—but because the war isn’t winnable. Not like that.
Take Marx, for example. His teachings reveal a truth that haunts me: if the many realised their collective strength, they could tear down the powerful few in an instant. But they won’t—because each individual is too busy chasing the position of the few. That’s how the system survives. We hand them our freedom because we dream of wearing their chains.
So, how can I not be cynical when we allow the same tragedy to replay every generation? Yes, history doesn’t exactly repeat itself—but it does follow a very similar trajectory.
And yet… I think about the collective. I think about doing good. I think about how I’ve dedicated this space—DABOISASTRGLEDT—to sharing my thoughts, my struggles, my experiences. But then a voice inside whispers: Am I just fooling myself? Is this really for others? Or am I just performing therapy on the page and calling it virtue?
Still—I try. Because I believe, deep down, that people are complex. That no one fits neatly into any single box. Life throws us crises and clarity, euphoria and emptiness. That’s why no single philosophy can explain everything. And why, at different moments, we find ourselves in different systems. Sometimes stoic—when we grit our teeth and cling to control. Sometimes epicurean—when we revel in the small, sensual joys. Sometimes ascetic. Sometimes indulgent. Sometimes spiritual. Sometimes sceptical.
We are, all of us, walking canvases. Life keeps adding layers—memories, trauma, joy, fear, failure, forgiveness. Philosophies aren’t answers. They’re brushes. They give us shape, color, and contrast. But none of them alone can paint the full picture.
That’s why modern life demands a hybrid philosophy. A personal blend. A tailored way of being that lets us survive—and maybe even thrive—within the chaos. Because today’s world? It’s a performance. Most of us live lives so artificial, so distanced from nature and truth, we forget what it even means to be human. Some were raised that way. Others never cared to find out. And some, like me, care too much—and burn out trying. (But don’t do enough. And then again, what is enough?)
We are flexible. Adaptable. But that same flexibility can make us shallow. We get so caught up in our own performances, our own needs, that we forget we’re part of something bigger. Something shared. Something sacred.
Yes, we’re free to pick and choose from every system, every belief, every tradition—to build something personal and true. But sometimes, that freedom feels more like a curse than a gift. Especially for those who never fought for their freedom—It’s hard to respect and value something you haven’t suffered for.
And yet—what else can we do? That very synthesis might be the only real tool we have to face the mess of being alive. To learn. To evolve. To hurt and heal, again and again, until something makes sense. Or at least stops hurting.
I don’t want to be a cynic. But the world—and my own mind—keep dragging me back there. Still, I fight it. Every day. Even in small, strange ways.
I try to pet stray animals. Sometimes I do. But often I don’t—because I’m afraid. Of being bitten. Of germs. Of being vulnerable to something I can’t control. I try to understand people who can’t even understand themselves. But doing that drains me. Leaves me numb. And when I’m numb, all I want to do is gorge on food and lose hours watching something meaningless—or meangful, but can’t focus my attention, thus making it meaningless.
All that to escape them. Or maybe just to escape me.
Cynicism’s a trap, but hope’s a middle finger—in other words, it’s the antidote.
I’ve tried many things. But I’ve avoided even more. There’s beauty in the small things, sure—but the bigger picture? It’s often cruel. Often disappointing. Often soaked in cynicism.
So I ask you, BOIS and GALS:
- Where are you on the lifeline?
- What daily practices help you embrace the unknown?
- What blocks your way?
- What irritates your eyes and ears so much that you can’t ignore it—even when you try?
- What’s some absurd hope you’re clinging to?
Let’s not just scroll past these questions. Let’s sit with them—and answer, no matter how hard it is to admit the truth.
Yet I Am
I talk so much about how much I wish I wasn’t—but inside, I still am. I cannot escape who I am—and I shouldn’t.
I’ve told myself I would change. I’ve made promises in silence. And still, I catch myself doing the very things I fear, the things I claim to resist. I’ve often sat in judgment—quietly—of someone doing something foolish or self-defeating… only to later make an even more damaging mistake myself.
So, who really needs to be cynical? It doesn’t seem to offer much.
And yet, maybe it does. After all, to reject or condemn something is to admit that it touches you—that you’re not beyond it. Cynicism is often just disillusionment in disguise, a protective shield wielded by those who’ve tried to care and failed.
As much as I’d like to align with Marx’s ideals, I remain an individualist—complicit in the very system I critique. A product of capitalism, and a quiet sustainer of its patterns. Even if Marx condemned individualism for fueling capitalism’s power, I can’t deny that I live within it. I benefit from it. I hate it. I feed it.
Like a bacteria that thrives inside a host, it slowly destroys. I operate within a system that rewards selfishness and punishes unity—the problem here is that I’m the bacteria both in the system and for my own self.
People should come together—for common goals, for shared futures. When united, people become a force powerful enough to shake institutions and break barriers. Collective effort can change the course of history.
It has before. Still… the cynic in me says: What’s the point?
So I retreat to my projects, my thoughts, my tiny world. If any of it reaches others, that’s a win—for them, more than me. Until then, I remain cynical. Maybe not proudly—but usefully.
I won’t claim any doctrine. I don’t live by a strict set of rules or ideologies. But I can admit how far I am from what Marx envisioned—and how much I wish I were different. Then again, if I truly lived that way, I wouldn’t be thinking like this.
That’s not a paradox. It’s a kind of madness. A split. A dissonance. A double self.
Not a diagnosis—just a reality.
Marx argued that individualism enables the ruling class to preserve control. Divide and rule only works when people don’t believe in “together.” Collective will, on the other hand, leaves no room for elites to manipulate the system for personal gain.
But here I am. And here, I assume, are most of you—unable to escape the cycle. Is it that we don’t want to? Or that something within us keeps us trapped?
Historically, the most meaningful progress came through unity: workers’ rights, civil rights, and revolutions of justice. Change was won by those who put the collective above the self.
That’s where Marx’s vision carries hope: that united, we might overcome the constraints of the system and reimagine our world.
But…
- Where do we stand in relation to that vision?
- Why can’t we be what Marx described?
- And more importantly—what if even that system wouldn’t work?
I doubt any utopia could hold, because humans are unpredictable. It’s one thing to talk about an ideal. It’s another thing entirely to live it—for years, for lifetimes.
If the few united, they could do whatever they wanted—then why are we still solo, chasing clout? Because we’re idiots, that’s why. But idiots with dreams—I only hope those dreams are realistic and connected to who we are.
- What do you think, DABOIS?
- What does our community see as inevitable?
- What do we consider necessary—not just to build a society on paper, but to live it, feel it, and believe in it for real?
How To Be and What To Be
I should answer the question I pose in the sub-title—but the truth is, like with many things in my life, I don’t have an answer. And this time, I won’t pretend I do just for the sake of offering an opinion.
I’ve said enough already, and I’ll add a few more thoughts, but from a neutral point of view—if such a thing even exists. (It’s no lie that I often see neutrality as cowardice, a form of weakness—though, ironically, strength sometimes lies in stepping back from the fight altogether.)
Everything is a paradox, without the paradox itself.
From where I stand, Marx’s idea of collective power holds a deep and painful truth: meaningful change almost always comes when people unite around shared goals and common dreams. Collective consciousness can break down divisions and erect new foundations for justice and equity.
Yet, in doing so, we must not lose the individual. It’s within our differences that true societal strength hides. That’s where other doctrines come into play—each defending its own vision of the world. And perhaps only democracy, as broken and corrupted as it often becomes, offers the chance for the individual to grow freely within a diverse society—it’s a cruel, twisted world, isn’t it?
In order for a person to reach their full potential, they shouldn’t be tested through force or fear, but rather guided—if they are willing to listen—toward understanding that real strength lies not in climbing over others, but in making decisions that elevate without harming.
Is this vision even possible in a world of eight billion minds, divided by borders and governed by conflicting systems?
Maybe not.
But a person’s life is both much more than a political identity, and at the same time, much less than the needs of the community surrounding it.
Today, we see a hybridity of values: fragments of religion, philosophy, nationalism, science, spiritualism—all floating in the same pot. This fusion reflects how complex our modern world has become. Still, collective thinking remains a potent tool for unity and change—but only if it respects individual freedom, voice, and imagination.
There is no single answer—and I doubt there will ever be. And whether you are a Scientologist, Epicurean, Muslim, Hindu, etc.—it matters little if you cannot respect those who stand opposite you.
Not the kind of respect enforced by constitutions, but the kind that doesn’t require law to exist—the kind that comes from choosing to see another person as real.
The cynic in me will probably live in my head until my final breath. But I won’t let him take over. He is necessary—as long as he helps more than he harms.
But to give him full control? That would be the end of everything I still hope to build.
The Cynic in Me
I want to love, I want to care, I long to fix,
yet I can’t help but see—and can’t help but say:
That everyone’s to blame—I get the chills;
I hate to be a filter, to speak the truth, to decay.
The cynicism inside me is fierce, relentless—
judging every error, every naïve on display.
Yet the human heart knows that’s brainless—
we are moulded of the same old flawed clay.
He seeks the good that hides under wood and stone,
trying to offer even a shard of his own light.
He sees life as unique—beautiful, rough, and short—
waging his inner war until he fades in time…
A Cynic With a Lovely Face (Haiku)
He accepts, yet hates;
chasing freedom bound by duty—
he loves, yet can’t.
I believe I’ve said all I need to on this. But I’d be truly grateful if you—the community, DABOIS—would take a moment to join in, reflect, and add your voice. There’s nothing more important than expressing yourself in your own way—not in the way society expects.
Be yourself.
Whether you follow a faith, a theory, or neither—time will teach you, life will mould you, and you’ll always have the chance to rewrite your past… if that’s what you truly want.
Nothing will be good for the individual if it only pleases the community—and likewise.
A cynic or not, the world needs you at your best (truest form)—even if you harm those who fear what you may say or do. That said, don’t harm intentionally, but do whatever it takes to poison the world with goodness.
Whatever the noise is—“hustle, win, flex”—sells shallow, but I’m crafting my own mix: a bit of Marx’s collective fire, a dash of Epicurean joy, a pinch of sceptic’s squint. I’m a hot mess, BOIS and GALS, but I’m fighting for the whole.
I’m not Marx’s hero, not a Stoic sage—just a guy scribbling, loving and flopping. I judge, I fail, I judge my failing. But here’s the kicker: owning my screw-ups—lies, theft, sabotage—makes me freer. I’m not the cynic king; I’m just Ivo who’s trying.
Chase the spark at all costs!
Thank you for your time and attention!
Yours sincerely,
Ivaniel “The Cynical, But Not a Cynic” Georgiev
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