ENVY

Envy is not a blade but smoke: a way back into your body

Envy is not merely a whisper in the dark. It is a blade without fingerprints, moving inside you like shame with an upright spine. And by the time you notice it, it has long been writing your story. Yet envy is not the villain. It is the smoke that shows where the fire went out.

Envy is not ugly it is sharp. It cuts silently and bleeds in secret. Where it stings, there is hunger. Not weakness. Not pettiness. A hunger with memory.

This cut exposes longing. In a world that organizes success as competition, envy is treated as shameful. Yet it is a signal: a body memory of unresolved needs.

Envy thrives where you are told you are running late. Love is not a slot machine. Meaning has no expiration date. What expires is the lie that you must become someone else in order to count.

You do not need to steal someone else’s blueprint. You are already architecture.

This lie seeps in through algorithms and expectations. It whispers: Look at them perfectly built while your foundation crumbles. Strength does not lie in imitation, but in your own design. I stopped climbing other people’s staircases and began reading the cracks in my walls as maps.

Envy arrives before thought. The jaw tightens, the chest locks, the scroll reflex kicks in. The screen becomes the trigger. The heart reacts long before the mind moralizes.

Envy can taste like relapse. Same hunger. Same itch. Healing never lives outside. The body is the first witness. While scrolling through polished feeds, the sting becomes physical.

I was not jealous of him. I envied the stillness around him. The clean routine. The staircase without missing steps. I mistook order for safety. I tried to enter a house that was never built for me. I drew blueprints on trauma and called it love.

The envy was not about him. It was about the home I never had. When that became clear, I did not want his life. I wanted mine.

It is not the shine of the other that works, but the illusion of wholeness. Envy is projection. A call toward one’s own imperfect home.

Feeds turn wounds into shop windows. Their highlights against my healing chaos. But healing is not an image. It is craft, breath, truth. One must build before envy builds a story.

Social media does not show reality, but curation. Chaos is edited out; comparison is amplified. Envy sometimes disguises itself as contempt, as distance, as superiority. Beneath it lies the same desire.

Real love does not evaluate. It roots.

Envy says: I hate that you have it.

Admiration says: You prove that it’s possible.

One is fear. The other is direction.

I do not want their life. I want mine. Even with cracks in the walls, even with drafts through the windows. It is my home. It smells of struggle and tastes of truth.

This is where freedom begins.

Samu