Dear Reality, I was born into you. You were the container, the scaffolding of everything. You were given, not chosen. You were the world I found myself in – concrete, comforting, the dull hum of continuity. ‘Dasein’, just being there, not of our making, not to be questioned. Yet something began to shift, slowly, at first, like fog at the edges of a field. You loosened your grip, you began to erode – not vanish, but melt. The world, once firm, became soft, then shapeless. Sound turned to noise, structure to spectacle.

Dear Reality, I thought you were mine. I thought I could hold you like the memories of a summer day in childhood, the nostalgia for another time period. I thought I could shape you, write the rules, name your gods. But dreams are brittle. You are everybody’s playground, yet nobody’s game. The angry man shouts at you, furious at your refusal to obey. Where once there was ‘Heimat’ there is now a ‘Heimatministerium’. Ideology replaced belonging. We administrate what we can no longer feel.

Dear Reality, we no longer yearn for certainty and order. You are not made out of solid ground but out of water. You are not what we make, but what emerges between us. You are no longer a place to stand, but a movement to meet. You have become elastic. You bend toward chaos. And we find ourselves shaped by forces we can no longer trace.

Dear Reality, to do nothing is to let you fall into decay. To act is to care. You are not ours to define, but we are yours to respond to. In this ever-turning world, uncertainty is not a flaw to fix, but the very air we breathe – a fertile haze of possibility, where many truths flicker, where tensions remain unresolved, and the borders between things soften, blur, and fade.