Two figures. Both me. Both armed. My ammunition? Just those words. Spoken aloud or inner monologues. Or in other words: Self-defense or self-destruction. That‘s the choice I face every damn day. For 885 days now. Well aware that the result has always been the same so far. It's tearing me apart. Like pulling the trigger on myself.

Part I: Bullets in my little world

The place where I decided to remain silent was my cell. A shed, my safe space when the world becomes too much. Maybe they were all right. I'm the troublemaker. Day 1 was supposed to be temporary. A few weeks, maybe. Just until things calmed down. Day 884 in my cell tells a different story. And the story of how I got here doesn't matter for this essay. What matters is the pattern. The dynamic. The choice. The knowledge that you have acted morally correctly. That I raised my voice. Didn‘t step back. The realisation that, in the face of a masterclass in power dynamics, I am simply nothing. Every word in defense of myself became a bullet.

So I chose silence. But silence doesn't mean no words. Just words only in my head now. Mine, yours, his. 885 days of a potpourri of reflections, accusations, insinuations, and demands. Until everything cooks down to a pulp. And you can cast one bullet after another. With the ones that pierce deepest, of course.

Now it‘s just the two of us left. You belong to me.

Not past tense. Present. Even though I stopped fighting publicly 885 days ago, it continues. Because there is simply no reason to stop.

And just like on the world stage, Denmark became the strong shoulder in my little world. As soon as I cross the border I can breathe. I can walk without checking over my shoulder. If something happens there, I can call the police without thinking twice. Geography becomes freedom, not because the system is inherently better, but because his influence ends.

That border is metaphorical and literal. It's where one story ends and another can begin.

Part II: The Pattern Scales

At Davos this week, Mark Carney spoke about maintaining convenient viewpoints. About how we protect comfortable narratives even when evidence contradicts them. About how systems perpetuate themselves by refusing to see what's inconvenient.

I felt my skin crawl with recognition. Because that's exactly what I've lived for 885 days.

Power doesn't ask. Power announces. Power tells a story so loudly, so confidently, that the burden of proof shifts to those without platforms. And when you try to correct the record, the machine mobilizes – not to seek truth, but to protect the narrative. "Just following procedure." "Let's not rush to judgment." "There are always two sides."

Convenient viewpoints, indeed.

Systems protect themselves. Not by seeking truth, but by deciding which voices to amplify and which to silence. And those within the system? They protect it too. Not out of malice, necessarily. Just... convenience. Comfort. The path of least resistance. The answer narrative gives you in one second. It's easier to look at someone like me and think: "Well, if it was really that bad, surely something would have happened." Or, my absolute favorite in arguments: "That can‘t be true." "We‘re not in some movie." "It can't have happened that way."

Something did happen. A story was written. His version. And it stuck

Because that's how power works. It doesn't just control resources or territory. It controls narrative. It decides what's true by deciding what's heard.

Part III: Why Code

Over the last 885 days, counting has become my companion. Whenever panic strikes or fear takes hold, counting is my safe haven. It became more than comfort. It became language. Being human meant being vulnerable. Being Six means being certain.

1 + 1 = 2. Always. No matter where I am. No matter what's happening. No matter whose voice is louder. Numbers don't negotiate. Numbers don't lie. Numbers can't be twisted to mean something else. And from that certainty, Six-Code emerged.

An algorithm that transforms text into numbers, numbers into colors, colors into sound. Every message I encode carries my story – but encrypted. Translated. Removed from the system that failed me.

When I encoded "self-defense" and "self-destruction," the algorithm generated their colors without knowing what the words meant. It just processed letters, positions, Fibonacci sequences, modulo operations.

Self-defense RGB(134, 169, 154). Self-destruction RGB(129, 169, 154). Both colors are integrated into the composition in exactly the same way.

Even code knows which path has more power, which I should choose.

The colors aren't aesthetic choices, they're mathematical inevitabilities. Deterministic. Reproducible. Verifiable. No one can argue with the output. No one can twist what the algorithm produces to mean something else.

This is why the two figures in my artwork exist: they show why I had to abandon words for code.

Code became my self-defense. Not words. Code.

In Web3, I found what physical space never gave me: a room of my own. And yet everyone can watch. Not a room that could be entered, controlled, or taken away. A space that exists on-chain, permanent and unerasable. no one can rewrite what's encoded on-chain. can't erase it. can't claim ownership over it the way they tried to claim ownership over me.

Part IV: The Irony of This Article

The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, using words to explain why words failed me. Why I had to turn them into numbers, colors, sound. Why I had to encode everything just to survive speaking.

I'm publishing this on-chain. On a platform built for permanence, not virality. Not because I distrust words, but because I've learned what happens when your story can be edited, deleted, or rewritten by those with more power. Blockchain doesn't forget. Code doesn't rewrite history. This is my permanent record. Proof I spoke. Proof that can't be disappeared when it becomes inconvenient.

I have no idea where this journey will take me. The only thing I know: silence isn't an option. Silence keeps me in that hole of self-doubt and self-pity. While time flows past you and eventually you regret not getting up. Pixels and code are my first step outside. The first step toward trusting words again.

Like the words that generated the sound for the clip: We will finally break free.

I'm still in my cell. Day 885 and counting. But every piece I create, every message I encode, every permanent record I mint on-chain is me choosing the visible weapon. Choosing to be seen. Choosing to refuse erasure.