Niklas Anderson's Blog

My Personal Echo Chamber


Optimism is the unfinished sentence.

Pessimism is the forced punctuation: an early end.

The slow burn of painful motivation:

“I have not done enough.”


It used to be the opinion of historians that the mass of men do not enter into history as a good event.

A massacre, rebellion, an earthquake: The mass of men did not surface in our collective memory in association with anything positive.

What was good to a historian? The few and endearing who overcame the masses to reorient, reach out and pull the rest of society forward.

Now it is common to write histories of “the people,” the way they lived, felt, and resisted the tides of power. All histories are now histories of “peoples”, in the most collective and averaging sense.

What can be concluded from this development?

Very little. History is now a common practice for commoners. The great men of history are easy and cheap targets, now the common historian scratches at dirt and clay for something to publish.

“In the future, there will be one science: The science of history,” or so says Marx. How could that science, of all sciences, persist under such circumstances? That the mass of men participate so actively in history that they know themselves as history. The great person does not go unacknowledged and unrecognized, but is immediately remembered in its full context.

A better challenge for the truly great men: become a posthumous in such a time.


The function of a military is to bring the worst out in a person,

Then direct it towards the enemy.


There is release in finding a way to write what one feels now. Better yet knowing that no harm will be done as no one will read it.


At times, all people, places, and things serve the exclusive purpose of being a temptation for suicide.

At best: An opening for parasites.

The longest pain is finally knowing someone who understands you. Who not only intuits you and predicts you, but can talk back to you and challenge you more deeply than anyone before or after.

To have someone who can make like clay out of you, and mold you into something better.

To have this person reshape you and allow you to completely change your views and your behaviors. To watch with minimal to no judgement as you completely reverse course on yourself and worm out of every shell.

To have person who feels that integrated – Leave you and find you not worth the cost of you.

That pain stays like a small rock in the middle of your chest and mind. Its weight a million times greater than its size.

Perhaps not me, but the parts of me better forgotten.

Every moment in our past is never truly forgotten. Not anymore, not these days. Every moment, experiment, mistake, becomes a relic for someone to uncover at a later moment.

Perhaps what I found is you, perhaps it is not. I am near doubtless it is, but what is the point in reminding you?

You are not quite forgotten. There are too many relics of your past for me to stumble upon entirely by accident. Too many relics that dig up parts of myself that I had wanted to forget.

Some things are better left reburied where found.



I want little more than to live lightly, and unburdened.

Unburdened by the expectations of family, friends, and strangers: to live by my own conscience.

To live by my own conscience is my only requirement.

The predicament is thus, as my conscience demands:

“Live by your nature, and yourself. Give yourself entirely to others as others are what make you. Make your family as you would make yourself, and work to make your peers expect more from themselves than they are themselves now.”

I want to be, more than anything else: myself. In being myself, I leave myself little of myself.

I am killing myself to be myself.

And I am sorry for those around me that I am not otherwise.