PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ

We go looking for happiness.

Honestly.

There’s nothing strange about that.

We live well here.

Safe.

Orderly.

And still

something doesn’t quite settle.

It’s subtle.

So discreet

we’ve almost gotten used to it.

We want to look

like life is working.

Like we’re headed

in the right direction.

So we dress ourselves in dreams.

Cars

that promise freedom.

Watches

that promise meaning.

Homes

that promise peace.

Restaurants.

Trips.

Access passes

to places where the happy people

surely are.

We know it’s a game.

And still,

we play along.

Because it feels good

to belong

for a moment.

The price is high.

It has to be.

Otherwise

the illusion doesn’t work.

If it were cheap,

it would just be things.

So we pay.

For the feeling.

For the story.

I know it myself.

It works.

I was seduced.

Bought quality.

Bought design.

But not the life

I imagined.

Instead

I became a little poorer.

Not only in money.

Because the dream kept moving.

There was always

another place.

Another brand.

Another promise.

And hope

kept standing in the doorway,

smiling.

Puttin’ on the Ritz.

As if elegance

could be purchased.

As if happiness

were a level

you could upgrade to.

Maybe that’s why

we keep going.

Not because we’re stupid.

But because we hope.

And hope

is hard

not to accept

when it’s wrapped

this beautifully.

/ Simon Philip

I’m not here to argue

about what AI is.

I’m here to explore

what it makes possible.

I don’t need certainty.

I need imagination.

I don’t fear the machine.

I fear small thinking.

The future won’t be decided

by those who hesitate longest,

but by those who begin.

So I stop debating.

And start building.

Not alone.

But together

with what is here.

/ Simon Philip

I’ve learned

that I shouldn’t need it.

That freedom means

not depending on other people’s eyes.

That strength is

standing alone in what I do.

My mind has repeated this

so many times

it sounds like truth.

If I don’t need recognition,

no one can trap me.

No one can control me.

No one can disappoint me.

And yes —

I understand the logic.

But I don’t live in my head.

I live among people.

And the truth is,

I feel too much.

Think too much

about what others see,

hear,

understand.

I’m affected

by looks.

By silence.

By applause

that never comes.

And at the same time —

something else.

A tiredness

from constantly

having to rise above it.

As if wanting recognition

were a flaw

to be corrected.

Then I had another thought.

What if it’s allowed?

What if the desire

isn’t weakness,

but relation?

Because something happens

between people.

When I make something

that matters to someone else.

When someone says:

That touched me.

That made me glad.

That meant something.

And I respond,

without shame:

Thank you.

That matters to me.

Something moves.

Not manipulation.

Not dependency.

But momentum.

I do something

that brings joy to others.

They tell me.

I feel motivated to continue.

A healthy spiral.

Not a dangerous one.

Maybe freedom

isn’t indifference.

Maybe freedom

is being able to receive recognition

without losing yourself to it.

Let it arrive.

Let it pass.

Right now,

it feels like relief

to give myself permission.

Not to chase recognition —

but to stop running from it.