After AMY&PINK disappeared, I shifted my attention to a smaller, more personal space. I started this new blog - quietly, without grand ambitions or expectations. Here, I find the freedom that had been missing for so long. It’s simple again. I write about topics purely because they interested me, unconcerned about how many readers might find or like them. This blog becames an intimate reflection of myself, free from the external pressures that had once governed my content.
Writing became enjoyable again. It doesn’t matter if anyone else cares about my favorite Japanese bands or understands my fascination with movies about the end of the world. Each piece feels genuine, each word meaningful. Occasionally, I’ll maybe even revise old articles from AMY&PINK, choosing to preserve those that fit this quieter space. It feels like recovering parts of myself I’d temporarily forgotten, welcoming them back without anxiety or expectation.
Through this modest project, I learn to appreciate the small pleasures of authentic creation. Each post is a small exploration, an opportunity to reflect and express freely. This humble approach allows me to reconnect with writing in a way that had seemed lost forever. Instead of spectacle, I aim for subtlety. Instead of provocations, sincerity guides my words. This blog offers room for contemplation, discovery, and reaching new horizons.
I recognize the value of stepping back, embracing simplicity. The chaos and complexity that had defined AMY&PINK taught me valuable lessons, but they no longer dictate my creative process. Now, clarity and peace become guiding principles. My days get calmer, structured around moments of genuine curiosity rather than frantic attempts at engagement. This blog is more than just a project. It’s a quiet reflection of who I truly am, an honest space free from compromise.
My small blog aims to be an ongoing reminder that personality matters more than popularity. It reflects my evolving interests, allowing room for growth and change. Letting go of AMY&PINK was difficult, yet necessary, to rediscover this simpler, quieter way of expressing myself. I finally understood that true happiness in writing comes not from audience size, but from the freedom to be exactly who you are, without trade-offs or explanation.
When We Became the Past
No matter how far we wander - to New York’s crowded streets, Australia’s hot coasts, or beneath Berlin’s high ceilings - we occasionally return home. To our small town. Here, time seems frozen. When we walk its familiar paths, we feel superior because we think no one else here dared to achieve what we did. The streets remain exactly as we remember them from childhood. Every corner, every shortcut imprinted clearly in our minds. Every step evokes memories, lingering close, ready to flood back.
One sunny summer morning, I stroll along the main street, empty and silent. My thoughts drift upward, charting the layout of houses, roads, fields. Memories pop up everywhere, replaying scenes from the past that define who I am today. At twelve, we broke into that caravan, inhaling helium to mimic cartoon voices. At thirteen, we panicked, calling an ambulance when Maria smashed into the swimming pool fence, her face covered in blood. At sixteen, we sat atop the playground slide as Paula defiantly flashed the neighbor who had chased us the day before.
Coming back to reality, I find myself standing on a small bridge near abandoned garden plots. The sun shines in my face, sweat stinging my eyes as a stream trickles gently toward the next village. Watching the water flow clearly beneath, I suddenly realize something heavy and undeniable, something that fills my heart with sadness and brings tears to my eyes.
Once, we ruled this town. We made it shake with our noisy nights, bold kisses, laughter, and tears. We thought our deeds would echo for generations, believing in our immortality through vivid stories. But now, our graffiti fades, our stories quieted, our marks erased. The young generation roaming these streets has no idea what we risked or who we touched. Our past doesn’t matter to them. Our joys, our sorrows, our songs - none of it remains relevant. We finally understand that we have no reason to feel superior. Nothing we did endures permanently here or anywhere else. Everything we valued dissolves the moment we turn away.
Our memories persist merely as vague shadows drifting through town, proof only that we have been replaced. The young ones now write their own legends in places that served as our backdrop. Yet someday, they’ll also return to stand here, weeping on this very bridge, realizing their youth is just another copy of previous generations. Everything collapses eventually. Our comfort lies solely in chasing experiences no one else has lived before, venturing to places like New York, Australia, or Berlin. We avoid thinking our lives are repetitions. Instead, we believe fiercely in uniqueness, filling the emptiness left by faded legends with new adventures, ready to return home again, feeling momentarily superior, even if it’s fleeting.
When the Voice of an Entire Generation Fell Silent
Even now, strangers still occasionally reach out, asking the same familiar question about what happened to AMY&PINK. Emails arrive unexpectedly, letters appear, and voices drift through open windows, each wondering where it all went. AMY&PINK once stood vibrant and loud, a place for youth to gather, a digital destination for endless nights and days filled with reckless laughter and defiant mischief. Yet, when I try to pinpoint exactly why it vanished, I find myself without a clear answer.
When AMY&PINK first came to life, it was a simple extension of myself. I shared personal stories, intriguing discoveries from the internet, and music videos fresh enough to feel alive. Quickly, it grew from something personal to something larger, gaining attention and visitors. Without realizing it, AMY&PINK became an essential part of a collective identity, a digital home for those unwilling to grow up or conform. Companies noticed, invited us to parties and events around the world, and somehow, this irreverent attitude became marketable.
But things changed subtly, then all at once. The atmosphere shifted, and something crucial began to fade. The pressure to maintain an edge intensified. Provocation was no longer natural—it became a requirement. We chased increasingly absurd ideas to hold onto our audience, and in doing so, lost our genuine voice. Advertisers began to demand moderation, and AMY&PINK struggled to balance authenticity with profitability. The once-free internet transformed into a regulated landscape, and spontaneity gave way to constraints and legalities.
Contributors departed one by one, each taking away a unique perspective. The balance of provocative imagery and thoughtful writing evaporated, replaced with superficial attempts to shock or entertain. Eventually, the content became empty gestures, articles written for clicks rather than genuine connection. I spent years struggling to keep it alive, believing it could regain its past vibrancy. I experimented, doubted, and debated endlessly, trapped in cycles of hope and frustration. Yet nothing truly revived it.
One morning, I finally recognized the inevitable truth. Sitting quietly with my coffee, I understood that AMY&PINK had long stopped being something I enjoyed. I made a backup of the site and then simply deleted it from the server. I waited for a sense of loss, regret, or relief - but felt nothing at all. Its disappearance felt natural, perhaps overdue. Without ceremony, without nostalgia, I stood up and walked away, leaving behind an era that no longer resonated with who I had become.
The Wandering Mind
Sometimes I question whether the world around me is real. I scrutinize every detail, hoping to discover a glitch, some subtle error overlooked by whoever or whatever created this existence. But after hours, days, weeks, I always surrender, frustrated, left only with disappointment. It seems no matter how determined I am, I am not permitted even the smallest peek behind the curtain of reality. Despite this, I swear there were countless moments in my life when everything should have simply ended - yet here I remain, lingering in the aftereffects of my own persistent thoughts. Perhaps forgetting me is forbidden, both for others and for myself.
I was born during a bleak winter morning in a mundane town in southern Germany, in what some called a year of dystopia. My mother raised me alone, though her family quickly became mine. I was neither particularly diligent nor ambitious. Homework was something to be ignored, replaced by daydreams. My attention was captured instead by the bright worlds of television shows, video games, and fantasy novels. Life in my small town was comfortable enough. Capturing Pokémon, watching anime, sharing kisses with girls who laughed easily. Eventually, this became insufficient, and I decided to venture outward.
Soon, I found myself in parts of the world I’d only dreamed about before. Berlin, Tokyo, New York. London, Paris, Rome. China, Canada, Turkey. Most places passed by quickly, never truly holding me for long. Yet still, a question lingers at the edges of my thoughts - did I ever really visit these sceneries? Or were all these journeys merely fabrications, elaborate stories spun by my mind to fill empty spaces in my memory? I suppose I’ll know the answer only when my life finally ends.
For now, I’m settled somewhere in the southwest of Japan, wandering through streets that feel both familiar and distant. In this green city, I spend my days studying the analog and digital creations born from the minds of depressed people and even more depressed robots. These artworks are not comforting, but they offer a strange sense of companionship. The artists, human or otherwise, seem just as lost and uncertain as I am, quietly expressing their fears and confusion through screens and canvases. Each piece feels like a mirror - simple, truthful, unadorned by illusions.
After years of searching internally, desperately trying to find meaning within myself, I recently decided to abandon this introspection. Instead, I’ve chosen to embrace uncertainty, to allow myself to be consumed by the countless possibilities offered by this planet. Now, instead of hunting for hidden flaws or evidence that the world around me is false, I surrender to the idea that perhaps reality doesn’t matter as much as my presence within it. I wander, I learn, I live - hoping someday to understand not why I am here, but simply that I am here at all.
