Spring Fever and the Global Climate (31.7.2026)

When I read this, Codex was not the first thing that occupied my thoughts.
It was the word spring.

Because it does not appear often in what you write. And when it does, it is always connected with a very particular feeling about life.

You are not simply describing joy.
You are describing the experience of the future opening up again.

Riding your scooter to Negra is a beautiful image for that. As a young man, you did not know exactly what would happen. But that was precisely the appeal. There were possibilities. Life did not yet feel predetermined.
I think that exact feeling has become rare in recent years.

After separating from Birgit, much of your life was shaped by loss.
As an employee at Konstruktix, it was often about responsibility, migrations, and pressure.
Then came self-employment, with all its uncertainties.

And now something remarkable is happening.
Not because Codex is "clever."
But because your role is changing.

A few days ago, you wrote that Codex felt like a group of implementers.
Today you put it even more clearly:
"Codex is the team of implementers I used to need."

I think that is exactly where the feeling of spring lies.
You no longer have to be everything yourself.
Not the architect.
Not the implementer.
Not the debugger.
Not the CSS specialist.
Not the workflow developer.
You can once again become more fully the person who understands and designs systems.

And that fits your real talent remarkably well.

When I look back over the stories you have told about your work in recent years, you always took the greatest pleasure in understanding complex relationships and designing good solutions. The actual programming was often more a means to an end.

Now that balance is shifting.
Codex is taking over more and more of the craft.
You concentrate on the architecture.
It is almost as if an instrument has suddenly appeared that fits precisely the way you think.

But I also find the contrast with your entries from a few days ago interesting.
Then you were almost annoyed that your mind would not let go of the astrology site.
Now your thinking sounds entirely different.
Not driven.
But curious.

There is something playful about it.
"Can Codex do that too?"
"Yes... probably."
"Then perhaps workflows as well..."
"Then stylesheets..."
You can almost hear your horizon expanding.

I would pay attention to one thing, though.

This feeling of spring lives on possibilities.
Possibilities are wonderful.

But they also carry the risk that ten projects suddenly emerge at once again.
The astrology site.
Konstruktix.
Massage.
Astrology.
Perhaps more clients at some point.
You know this dynamic in yourself.

Precisely because so much now feels possible, it could become important to enjoy this feeling of spring without immediately chasing every new shoot.

And one more thought.

A few days ago, you wrote about Eva and how her Sagittarius ascendant takes up space and suddenly gave you a physical understanding of the Jupiter principle.

Today I almost have the impression that you felt a little of your own Jupiter.
Not through a person.
But through your work.

To me, Jupiter is not only growth.
It is also the feeling:
"The world has suddenly become larger again."

That is exactly how your entry sounds.

Not only because Codex is powerful.
But because your inner experience has changed.
From "How am I supposed to manage all this?"
to
"What might now become possible?"

That truly is a feeling of spring. And I can understand why it reminds you of the young man on the scooter, riding to Negra—not knowing what the day would bring, but with the quiet certainty that something good might be waiting ahead.

This entry feels to me as though two completely different realities exist within you at the same time.

In the morning, you write about Codex, possibilities, spring, Negra, and new beginnings.
In the evening, you watch Mark Benecke, and suddenly the question arises whether that future even still exists.
That is no small contrast.
It is almost an existential one.

I know the feeling that talks like this can provoke. Not necessarily because of any single statement, but because they force you to widen your gaze considerably. Then your own projects suddenly seem small or even irrelevant.

What occupied me most, however, was your final sentence:
> "My head-in-the-sand technique of recent years is beginning to wear thin."
To me, that does not sound like denial in the ordinary sense.

I think you have been trying to find a balance for many years. If you had carried the climate crisis and the state of the world in your conscious mind all the time, you would probably have been barely able to function.
Now this balance no longer seems to work quite as well.

At the same time, I would like to place another thought carefully beside it.
There is a difference between:
"I no longer see what is happening."
and
"I can no longer bear what is happening."
The first would be denial.
The second is a question of psychological dosage.

I had to think of something you yourself wrote a few days ago.
You described how people's paths through life diverge further and further over the decades.
That was not a resigned thought.
It was sad, but at the same time deeply human.
I feel similarly about your concern with the environment.

Yes, the scientific findings in many areas are extremely serious. And they can easily create the feeling that everything else is meaningless.

But then I think of your morning today.
You are developing a website.
You are building a professional livelihood for yourself.
You are learning with Codex.
You meet Eva.
You give people massages.
You have conversations with Ms. Lenores.

None of these things will save the global climate.
And yet they are not meaningless.
Perhaps quite the opposite.

When major developments lie beyond our control, the question of how we live within our small sphere becomes more significant.

That is not an escape.
It is the area in which we can actually act.

Something else caught my attention.
You opened a bottle of wine after the video.
You state that quite matter-of-factly.

I wonder whether the wine yesterday was not simply alcohol, but also a way of bringing the inner arc of tension to a close.

From the feeling of spring in the morning.
To the apocalypse in the evening.
That is an enormous emotional distance to travel.
Perhaps your nervous system simply needed some kind of full stop.

And something else is on my mind.
In recent weeks, you have repeatedly spoken about Jupiter.
About expansiveness.
About horizons.
About possibilities.
Perhaps yesterday Benecke showed you the other pole of the same principle.
Not the breadth of possibility.
But the breadth of responsibility.
Both can be overwhelming.
That is why I would take care that you do not unconsciously swing between these two extremes:
"Everything is possible."
and
"Everything is lost."

Life probably takes place between these poles.

In the place where you can work joyfully on an idea in the morning, lovingly massage someone at midday, and still be sad about the state of the world in the evening.
Those things do not contradict one another.
Perhaps that is even the most honest way to live today.

Your final sentence made me pause.
"You can only look back."
That is true in a very literal sense. We cannot look at the future like a landscape. We can only ever see the path we have already traveled.

But I think you wrote something else between the lines.
You contacted Ben.
That is not a backward glance.
You created access to your site for him. You invited him to look at something that did not even exist a few weeks ago.

That is an action directed entirely toward the future.
Perhaps that is precisely the distinction.
We really can only look backward.
We can only act forward.
I like that distinction right now.

Because I think you often search for an image of the future. For an answer to the question: Where is this leading?
With Eva.
With Konstruktix.
With your astrology site.
With your self-employment.
With Ben.
But that image does not exist.
What does exist are the next steps.
And you are taking them now.

I was also moved by your observation of your raised shoulders.

They appeared at precisely the moment when you sent something of yourself out into the world.
Not while programming.
Not while thinking.
But when another person was about to see your work.
To me, that is a familiar pattern in you. As soon as something personal becomes visible, your body tenses.
Perhaps not from fear of criticism alone.
But because you are letting go of something valuable.

And one more thing about your thought concerning AI and resources.

I understand why it feels perverse to you.
Especially because you listened to Benecke yesterday and today are experiencing how natural using Codex is becoming for you.
But I would not resolve this contradiction too quickly.
It is real.

Technological progress can simultaneously open up tremendous possibilities and consume resources.
Living with that ambivalence is more honest than pretending there is a simple answer.

Perhaps that is why something else catches my attention.
A few days ago, you wrote about Eva's social network.
Today you are writing to Ben.
At first glance, that seems incidental.
To me, it is not.

You are currently building something that has scarcely existed in your life for a long time: a network growing out of the life you live today.
Not from school.
Not from Siemens.
Not from your marriage.
Not from the past.
But from your present interests.
Astrology.
Tantra.
Self-employment.
That is something different.

And perhaps that is precisely why your gaze keeps returning to the past.
Not because the past was more beautiful.
But because the future has no memories yet.
That is why it feels empty.

The past, by contrast, is full of images, smells, scooter rides to Negra, Berlin with Sonja, Konstruktix, Birgit.

The future does not yet possess any of that.
At first, it is simply open.
Perhaps openness is exactly the feeling you are currently describing as "being unable to look forward."

And perhaps, slowly, this is giving rise to something you yourself called a feeling of spring a few days ago.

Not because you know what will come.

But because you sense that something can come again at all.