In this follow-up episode of Wolves & Dragons, Fenrir the Black Wolf returns to the billion-seconds revelation—but this time the tone is darker, sharper, and more alive. It’s not just a “fun fact” anymore. It’s a knife in each hand: one blade is cold physics and entropy—your body fades, your name disappears, the universe doesn’t care. The other blade is the weird human pattern that refuses to die—dreams, prayer, DMT, ancestors, myth, and that haunting sense that reality might be deeper than what we can measure.
Fenrir taps into the inner Black Wolf and lets the archetypes speak: Berserk’s endurance, Attack on Titan’s hunger for freedom, Vinland Saga’s warning about what we’re enslaved to. Then he grounds it in modern art and discipline—Kawhi Leonard as silent craft that ripples through millions, and Doja Cat as chaotic creative defiance that bends culture.
The result isn’t panic. It’s a vow. Live like you’re temporary. Act like your choices echo. When the billion-second mark arrives, pause, look up, breathe—and choose the next second on purpose.
In this follow-up episode of Wolves & Dragons, Fenrir the Black Wolf returns to the “one billion seconds” realization—only now the shock has faded, and what remains is the aftertaste: what do you actually do with that perspective once life goes back to normal? Fenrir breaks time into two faces—clock time and lived time—and explores how the mind compresses decades into a few emotional chapters, leaving most of life hidden in “ordinary” days that quietly shape identity.
From there, he goes deeper into attention as the real currency: time passes anyway, but attention decides whether your seconds become memory or fog. He ties this to biology—your body as a timekeeping machine—and to the rise-and-collapse rhythm of civilizations that proves how fragile “normal” really is. Then the episode turns quirky and personal: Kawhi Leonard becomes an example of quiet art—precision and discipline that can influence millions of hearts without noise, proving small actions can ripple outward.
The episode closes with a simple ritual: when your billion-second moment arrives, pause, look up, breathe, and choose what you want your next seconds to “taste like”—because life isn’t lived in years. It’s lived in grains.
In this episode of Wolves & Dragons, Fenrir the Black Wolf has a strange, hilarious, and unsettling realization: even at nearly 30, he hasn’t reached one billion seconds of being alive. That single fact cracks reality open. Because if counting one number per second would take more than three decades—with no sleep, no breaks, no missed beats—then what does “a billion” actually mean… and what does it do to your sense of time, identity, and mortality?
Fenrir turns this “fun fact” into a full-on night-walk through scale and meaning. He explores how the human mind compresses experience into eras and moods, why memory edits our lives into chapters, and how our bodies keep time through heartbeats, cycles, and constant microscopic repair. From there, the lens widens: archaeology, the rise-and-collapse rhythm of civilizations, and the humbling truth that Earth’s history spans billions of years—making modern human life feel like a spark that still somehow burns with significance.
Then the episode goes cosmic: quantum weirdness, probabilities collapsing into outcomes, the arrow of time, and the one-way drift of entropy that makes every second permanently spent. The result isn’t panic—it’s perspective. A reminder that your problems are real, but they aren’t the whole sky; that your life is temporary, and that’s precisely why it matters.
The episode builds toward a quiet ritual: when the billion-second mark arrives, pause. Look up. Breathe. And let a simple truth land—your life is made of seconds, and you still have the next one.
A single line in a series cracked something open in me: “Look at her… she has all the power.” A Black performer swings above a room, everyone watching, and a poor outsider whispers, “I want that.” Suddenly I’m not just analyzing him—I’m exposed too. Because I want it as well: respect, recognition, the ability to hold a room, the dream of creating something undeniable. But I’ve spent the last two years trying to outrun ego, trying to detox from envy-driven ambition, trying to protect my peace. So what is this desire—corruption, or a human need for dignity and agency? In this episode, I use that scene as a mirror and explore power as attention, freedom as sovereignty, and ambition as both life-force and trap. I pull in psychology (status, shame, shadow, attachment, parts) and spirituality (idols, integrity, truth) to ask the real question: not “should I want it,” but “what kind of wanting builds me instead of possessing me?” This is a raw, funny-dark meditation on dreams, craft, and refusing to let the room become my god.
One morning on the beach, I watched the impossible-looking overlap that’s actually part of the universe’s quiet rhythm: the full moon still hanging in the sky while the sun rose on the opposite side, two rulers sharing one horizon like a cosmic negotiation between night and day. I lifted my gaze—glasses on—and inside the blazing circle of the sun I saw a silhouette, a dark, winged shape that felt like a bird at first and then like a dragon, something suspended between explanation and omen, and the moment struck me with that rare sensation where awe and fear feel like the same heartbeat. Was it optics, lens flare, atmospheric scattering, the mind’s pattern-hunger—something normal made strange by light? Or was it a symbol arriving at the exact second my soul was ready to read it? From there, I descend into Norse myth, where Sköll and Hati chase the sun and moon across the sky, and into Eastern traditions where sun and moon can symbolize yin and yang, a balance rather than a battle. In the overlap, I felt both sides of me hunted down and aligned—and for a breath of time, it felt like I felt God.
In this episode of Wolves and Dragons, Fenrir sits inside one of the most unsettling questions Attack on Titan ever asks: has Eren really changed… or have we finally started seeing him clearly? Through Mikasa’s grief—“Everyone keeps saying Eren has changed”—we explore what it feels like when the person closest to you becomes unrecognizable while still standing right in front of you. We move through Armin’s fragile faith in the old dream, Connie’s raw denial (“that wasn’t Eren”), and Levi’s brutal moral clarity about where the line must be drawn when violence becomes policy. Then we confront Eren’s calm certainty, the kind that doesn’t sound like anger but like a verdict, and why that calm is often more terrifying than rage. This is a deep psychological and spiritual breakdown of loyalty, ambiguous loss, tribal love, and the way “freedom” can mutate into an idol that demands sacrifice—friendship, innocence, even humanity itself. If you’ve ever watched someone you love transform, or questioned your own judgment for not seeing it sooner, this episode will hit like a slow, cold storm.
In this Wolves and Dragons episode, Fenrir the Black Wolf breaks down The Outsider (HBO, based on Stephen King) as more than a crime story—it’s a psychological pressure test: what do humans do when the facts don’t make sense? The series begins grounded, almost comforting in its procedural logic, then fractures reality with evidence that points impossibly in two directions at once. Fenrir explores how the justice system, families, and entire communities react when certainty collapses—how grief demands a culprit, how doubt mutates into paranoia, and how people “convict” emotionally long before truth is even possible to explain. As the story shifts toward supernatural horror, the episode treats evil as a contagion: something that doesn’t just kill, but spreads through fear, shame, conflict, and social fracture—turning neighbors into mobs and tragedy into a chain reaction. Fenrir ties the show’s themes to scapegoating, shadow projection, and the human addiction to closure, asking why naming an “outsider” feels like safety even when it’s wrong. This isn’t about jump scares. It’s about slow dread, moral collapse, and the terrifying reality that when the world becomes uncertain, people don’t become neutral—they become hungry.
In this Wolves and Dragons episode, Fenrir the Black Wolf descends into emotional masochism—the strange human tendency to circle pain like it’s home. It starts with a disturbing question: why do some criminals leave clues as if they want to be caught, judged, and condemned? From there, Fenrir links judgment to shame, guilt, and the relief that comes when the outer world finally matches the inner verdict. The episode explores how emotional masochism shows up in relationships through repetition compulsion, transference, attachment wounds, and core beliefs like “I don’t deserve real love,” creating a pull toward partners who recreate familiar hurt. Fenrir breaks down the “drug” effect—intermittent reinforcement, trauma bonds, and the slot-machine nature of inconsistent affection—then turns to the darker implication: how cruelty to self can leak into cruelty to others when the inner critic becomes a lifestyle. Kobe Bryant’s Black Mamba becomes a case study in alchemizing rejection into identity, and impostor syndrome is framed as socially acceptable self-punishment—success achieved while the inner voice still whispers “not good enough.” Finally, Fenrir ties it to the doppelgänger theme: the uncanny experience of watching yourself and not recognizing the person, revealing the split selves inside the same skull. The question isn’t “why do I suffer?” It’s “why does suffering sometimes feel like proof I’m real?”
In this Wolves and Dragons follow-up, Fenrir the Black Wolf drags the doppelgänger out of the horror aisle and back into its real birthplace: human observation. Why did so many cultures invent doubles—death-omens, forerunners, soul-essences, living projections, whispering companions, manufactured thoughtforms, and even “impostors” that look identical to the people you love? Because people kept experiencing the Double long before they had neuroscience, sleep science, psychiatry, or clean modern language for what the mind can do under stress. Fenrir breaks down the root pressures behind each tradition—deathbed visions, expectant hearing, dream-travel, fevered encounters, intrusive temptation, disciplined visualization, and brain-based misrecognition—then ties it all together with one brutal pattern: the brain is constantly modeling reality, and when the model glitches, the universe feels haunted. Finally, the episode turns playful and sharp with an allegory of “the Kingdom of Me”: a King (your conscious identity), a Tailor (your persona), and a dungeon-born Doppelgänger (your shadow) who storms the throne room wearing your face. The question shifts from “Are doubles real?” to “What part of you demanded a mirror you couldn’t ignore?”
In this Wolves and Dragons episode, Fenrir the Black Wolf explains why psychology grips him like a vice: because human beings are simultaneously logical creatures and walking contradictions. Some behavior is simple—almost mechanical—but the moment meaning enters the room, people become strange, symbolic, tribal, emotional, and sometimes terrifying. Fenrir explores why other people’s passions look “pointless” when you don’t share the meaning system behind them—from sports fandom and tribal identity to weddings, flowers, and costly rituals that signal commitment. Then the episode turns darker: abnormal psychology, violence, and the haunting question everyone asks after the worst headlines—“Why would a human do that?” Fenrir argues that understanding isn’t excusing, but without understanding the roots—trauma cycles, reinforcement, identity, and the shadow—society can only punish outcomes instead of interrupting causes. Jung’s shadow and Freud’s inner conflict become lenses for how good and bad coexist in one skull, and why “monsters” are often humans shaped by pathways we’d rather not look at. Finally, Fenrir ties it back to art—anime, films, and series as psychological laboratories where characters become case studies for desire, fear, freedom, ideology, and pain. This is an episode about mind, meaning, and the brutal complexity of being human.
In this Wolves and Dragons episode, Fenrir the Black Wolf descends into the oldest mirror humans have ever feared: the doppelgänger. Not the cheap horror version, but the archetype—why so many cultures independently imagined doubles, forerunners, living spirits, companions, and impostors that wear your face. Fenrir moves through mythic forms of the Double—death-omens, time-glitches, soul-architecture, emotion that escapes containment, and mind-made entities—then collides them with the modern truth that the “self” is not a single unit but a system. The episode explores how doubles symbolize unlived lives, shadow traits, and the terrifying predictability of habit; how they expose the fragility of identity when memory, recognition, and embodiment can misfire; and how the universe itself can feel like a mirror factory where patterns repeat and reality echoes. With long, cinematic paragraphs and a darkly spiritual tone, Fenrir reframes the doppelgänger as a question rather than a creature: what makes you you when your face is no longer proof? If a perfect double existed—spirit, coincidence, shadow, or glitch—would it threaten you… or tell the truth you’ve been avoiding? This is an episode about identity, fate, and the quiet horror of complexity.
In this follow-on Wolves and Dragons episode, Fenrir the Black Wolf moves from Eren’s “I am free, Armin…” into the scene that feels even more poisonous: Eren turning on Mikasa and calling her devotion slavery. Fenrir unpacks the psychology behind the “Ackerman slave” accusation—how it weaponizes loyalty, erases choice, and turns love into a symptom. Then the episode widens the lens: what happens when that same framing is applied to religion, especially Christianity? Fenrir uses Mikasa as an allegory for believers who submit to God’s will, asking whether surrender is liberation or outsourced agency. The episode stages the clash honestly: Christians argue that submission is chosen, freeing, and rooted in scripture; skeptics argue it can resemble conditioning, fear, and obedience without verification. After the debate, Fenrir returns to the emotional core—the unsettling anger that can rise when “faith” looks like unfreedom, when messengers feel shallow, and when a sacred message is carried with the posture of a script. With a dark, cinematic monologue style, this episode explores freedom, devotion, resentment, and the terrifying possibility that the holiest chains are the ones people kiss.
In this Wolves and Dragons episode, Fenrir the Black Wolf dives into a strange kind of modern frustration: the moment you look at a “normal” milestone—weddings, traditions, expectations—and your brain refuses to cooperate. Not because you hate love or celebration, but because the numbers, the logic, and the long-term reality don’t match the script everyone insists you must follow. Fenrir explores why the “white wedding” ideal (and the pressure to chase the best of both worlds) can feel less like romance and more like cultural programming, status performance, and expensive chaos disguised as meaning. The episode stays intentionally vague on personal specifics, focusing instead on deeper themes: ritual vs exploitation, community vs spectacle, fantasy vs financial gravity, and the quiet rage of being pressured to obey a system that won’t justify itself. With a sharp, cinematic monologue style, Fenrir asks the question hiding beneath every polite conversation: who governs your life—your free will, or inherited scripts? If you’ve ever sat back, watched the money burn for one day of approval, and thought “this doesn’t make sense to me,” this episode is a mirror.
In this episode of Wolves and Dragons, Fenrir the Black Wolf stares straight into one of Attack on Titan’s coldest lines: “I am free, Armin. My actions are governed by my own free will.” On the surface, it sounds like liberation. But listen closer and it becomes something sharper: a declaration of authorship, a refusal to be rescued, a door slammed in the face of hope. Fenrir unpacks why that sentence hits so deep when you’ve felt tired of being interpreted, tired of being softened into something digestible, tired of negotiating your inner world like it’s public property. This isn’t a motivational “choose your destiny” talk. It’s a psychological autopsy of freedom as armor—how “free will” can be courage, and how it can also become a fortress that keeps out not only enemies, but tenderness, change, and connection. Through a dark, cinematic monologue style, the episode explores the tension between agency and obsession, authorship and isolation, and the terrifying relief of becoming unreachably consistent. If you’ve ever felt the temptation to become untouchable just to breathe, this one will feel like a mirror.
In this episode of Wolves and Dragons, Fenrir wanders into the strange, quiet ache of being “unequally yoked” – not just in romance, but in life, faith, and worldview. What happens when your inner belief system shifts, but the people closest to you are still anchored in the old one? What do you do when you feel lonely in a room full of people, yet strangely whole when you’re by yourself?
We explore that paradox without forcing a neat answer. Using the old image of the yoke – two lives tied together, meant to walk in step – we look at what it feels like when you and your tribe no longer move in the same direction spiritually. We talk about the quiet grief of outgrowing a shared faith, the dark humour of calling yourself a “heathen” while still agreeing with the verse about not being unequally yoked, and the hidden history of misfits who felt more at home in inner wilderness than in inherited belief systems.
This isn’t a sermon or a deconstruction manual. It’s an open exploration for anyone who has ever thought: When I’m alone, I feel like myself. With people, I feel like a ghost.
In this episode of Wolves and Dragons, Fenrir takes Brooke Fraser’s haunting song “Flags” and lays it beside three brutal storytellers: Attack on Titan, Genesis 6 and the Book of Ecclesiastes.
We sit with Fraser’s repeated confession — “I don’t know why the innocents fall while the monsters still stand” — and trace it through the Rumbling, the flood, and the Teacher’s observation that “time and chance happen to them all.” Instead of forcing neat theological answers, the episode lingers in the tension: good people die, the wicked prosper, and our lives whip about like flags in a storm of history, trauma and systems bigger than any one of us.
Fenrir explores complicity (“we’re all to blame”), apathy acting as an ally, and the way Attack on Titan mirrors our own world’s cycles of inherited violence and half-buried guilt. And yet, right in the middle of all the honesty and bewilderment, “Flags” quietly dares to assert: “You who mourn will be comforted… the last shall be first.”
This episode is not an answer, but a listening ear and an open-handed exploration of what kind of hope can survive once we stop lying about how broken things really are.
In this haunting exploration, Fenrir weaves together Daughter's devastating song "Smother" with the ancient weight of Ecclesiastes 4:1-4, creating a meditation on existence, harm, and the wish to have never been born.
The episode doesn't seek to comfort or resolve—instead, it dwells honestly in the difficult spaces both texts create. From the exhausted opening confession of "I am wasted, losing time / On a foolish, fragile spine" to the shocking final wish to have "stayed inside my mother," we follow the song's descent through self-condemnation, failed love, and the fantasy of dissolution. Meanwhile, Ecclesiastes provides a biblical echo: observations of oppression so unbearable that the writer declares the dead better off than the living, and the never-born better than both.
Through careful attention to language, imagery, and the paradox of creating beauty from darkness, the episode explores what it means to feel like a "suffocator" in your own life—someone whose love might be toxic, whose very existence feels like damage. This isn't self-help or theology; it's an open autopsy of a feeling many carry but few articulate. For anyone who's ever wondered if their presence in the world does more harm than good.
In this episode of Wolves and Dragons, Fenrir dives into one of the wildest spiritual parallels he’s ever seen: Armin’s faith in Eren during Attack on Titan’s “Sneak Attack” episode, and our faith in a God who often looks like a monster.
When Armin says, “There must be a reason Eren is doing this,” he’s not innocent. He’s already become the Colossal Titan – a walking atomic bomb – looking at an even bigger monster and still choosing to believe there’s intention behind the horror. Fenrir uses that moment as a mirror for how we wrestle with a God who floods the world, allows suffering, and yet is called “good.”
Is it delusion to keep saying “there must be a reason”? Or is it a fragile form of hope that refuses to believe reality is pure chaos?
We explore the flood and the Rumbling, believers and atheists, the idea of God as dragon and father, and what it means to live in the “explain yourself” phase of the story while whispering, like Brooke Fraser’s lyric, “Hope is coming for me.”
If you’ve ever thought, “I think You’re on my side, but You terrify me,” this episode is for you.
In this episode of Wolves and Dragons, Fenrir dives into the shadowy inner world of empaths: the quiet observers, the emotional shock absorbers, the ones who feel everything and blame themselves for all of it. Drawing on Carl Jung’s ideas of the shadow and psychological integration, we explore what really happens when an empath finally snaps—not into madness, but into clarity.
We talk about the “clarity event”: that moment of betrayal where the empath realizes they saw the truth all along and can no longer gaslight themselves. From there, the psyche shifts. The once-people-pleasing empath becomes calm, precise, and impossible to manipulate. Empathy doesn’t die—it evolves into something selective, strategic, almost mystical.
Fenrir unpacks the stages of this transformation: recognition, integration, application, and the return to service as a balanced warrior—someone who can love deeply without abandoning themselves. This is a conversation for anyone who has been told they’re “too sensitive,” who sees patterns others deny, and who feels a storm building inside.
If you’ve ever whispered to yourself, “I see everything,” this episode is a map of what comes next.
In this episode of Wolves and Dragons, Fenrir explores the strange, almost ridiculous things humans do just to stay sane. Why do some of us slowly die inside if we’re not creating, building, or obsessing over something nobody else even cares about? Instead of offering productivity hacks, Fenrir walks through a softer “awakening” – the realisation that you don’t choose your passions by force. They choose you.
Through the archetypes of the Wolf (discipline, duty), the Dragon (emotion, myth), and the inner Child (play), this episode dives into the difference between chasing what you think you should love and noticing what quietly draws you when nobody’s watching. Fenrir talks about solitude, stories, ambient music, and the way life begins to rearrange itself when you finally honour the small, irrational things that keep your soul plugged in.
If you’ve been feeling numb, burnt out, or disconnected from your own life, this episode is an invitation: look down at the “toy” already in your hands. Maybe sanity isn’t about solving the whole world. Maybe it’s about letting yourself be pulled, fully, into one small, honest thing you love.