SEVEN THOUSAND DAYS LATER

“The man who asks how to live instead of simply taking life as it comes,

is automatically an outisder “

Colin Wilson

We live in the age of the universal outsider. In a perfect paradox, being outside has become the norm—everyone, from conservatives to avant-gardists, sees themselves as a voice against the system. But what system? If everyone feels excluded, who is included? The word outsider implies a margin, a beyond that presupposes a within. But does the inside still exist? The machinery of modern society has absorbed every narrative, turning even rebellion into a marketable product. Dissent has become a commodity, otherness an aesthetic. What was once marginal—the nihilist, the bohemian, the subversive—is now packaged, labeled, and sold as an experience.

An answer to the question

"Who are today's outsiders?"

---

"Seven Thousand Days Later"

Clara: “There are two wolves.”

Sergio: “I don’t get it.”

Clara: “How can you not get it? There are two wolves!”

Sergio: “What are you talking about?”

She was referring to Hesse’s two wolves.

Clara: “There are two wolves, do you understand? One is the good side—positive emotions, hope, happiness. The other is the side of negative emotions: anger, revenge, hatred. Which one do you believe in?”

Sergio, the poor guy, hadn’t done much in his life. He’d shoveled shit on the outskirts of Paris. He’d emigrated after losing his parents—wages are better in France, and they need labor. He thought about it for a moment. He was trying to reflect, but the answer was obvious—and he knew it. The bad wolf.

Sometimes, lying can be the one thing that brings you luck.

He said, “The good wolf.”

Clara was spontaneous and sharp. Life had made her street-smart. She loved being happy—and maybe that was her obsession. Deep down, she knew Sergio was lying, but she believed him anyway, with the innocence of a child. The way it happens when you’re in love.

There was a storm of movement in his mind—thoughts rising up, forming, and lining up every time Clara spoke. He didn’t even know where he was anymore.

Sergio, you’re done for, my friend.

He looked mesmerized. Just a simple guy, a beautiful idiot.

What the hell are you smiling at, Sergio, with that dumb look on your face? Say something!

What are you doing?

Are you a COMPLETE IDIOT?!

She laughed. “I’m the bad wolf, though.”

---

They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in twenty years. Like that old song says: “Call me, call me in twenty years.”

And that’s exactly what they did—seven thousand days later.

When the phone rang, Sergio instantly knew who was on the other end of the line, even though she hadn’t said a word. I don’t know how, but some things you just feel—and he knew, just from the silence.

They were talking like people who truly know each other, who’ve never really been apart, not even for a lifetime. Like people who already know everything. Like two animals in love.

Sergio felt twenty years younger.Suddenly, there was no more pain, no more exhaustion, no more dullness. Life—raw, electric—was pouring out of his chest and forehead. His muscles felt like they were finally absorbing and using the nutrients his body had been feeding them all this time.

Jesus, he’d fallen apart over that woman years ago. And now, after seven thousand fucking days, here she was—letting him back into her life. Again. Still. Like when they were kids.

Life flashed before him. The weight pressing down on his chest wasn’t just gravity anymore. There was something else. Anxiety? Dread? No—just fear.

Sergio lived differently from everyone else—those who had all gradually blended into the relentless flow of time.

In a world where even nonconformity had become standardized, things seemed to have settled into a perfect balance. Sergio had never known balance. Maybe that’s why he often talked about feeling like an outsider. But every time he said it, he felt foolish—because no one really was, not anymore.

He had always wondered which groups still remained outside the logic of power. The answer always came easily: women and the young.

In sports, underdogs are the ones least likely to win. In economics, they’re the ones left out of deals and cartels.

Sergio wasn’t young, wasn’t a woman, didn’t even own a company—and yet he was one.

The truth he hadn’t yet realized at the time was this: no one’s truly excluded anymore.

---

Extreme fragmentation has led to the creation of billions of minorities. Now, everyone was “alternative,” existing somewhere between the lines, outside the headlines.

The modern world had wiped out the madmen, the true eccentrics, the artists, and the elite.

Sergio—what a fine idiot. He felt different because he was a dreamer, an idealist. He had challenged every convention. One of his greatest joys was freedom: not being bound to the structures of power meant he could pursue his vision without compromise, without privilege.

Those who operate within systems of power are forced to conform. Sergio lived his life staying true to his values, trying to build something new—free from the historical weight of morality.

The modern world has created a flat reality, one that represents all of us through our Western systems and models. Everyone was expected to live by some kind of rule—social, moral, or worse, political or religious doctrines. Everything had become “inclusive” by default, leaving no room for true otherness. Everything had already been mapped out, and all we could do was follow protocol. We already had all the solutions we’d ever need.

So, the wolf could be anyone. In this case, it was Sergio. A regular man who hadn’t lived as an “outsider” but rather as an underdog.

He had always struggled with where to direct his efforts. He’d been knocked down over and over but always got back up—because he believed no one could ever fully defeat him.

He had often felt ashamed.

Yes, because most of the people he’d met in his life were doing something else entirely. They had “made it” —careers, families, homes.

Not him. He lived for something else. He was moved by different things—not that they were wrong. But he had always lived on a different frequency.

Someone once told him, “Don’t worry, you’ll find a good job, you’ll get married—there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

But at forty? It felt even worse at that age than it did at twenty.

Fear was holding him back.

His dreams, his ideas, his way of thinking—completely paralyzed.

And that fear... it was deeply, profoundly nonconformist.

It wasn’t the fear of external threats—it was the fear of discovering what lies within, once you let go of your masks and your certainties.

That’s the threshold of freedom—and it’s terrifying.

But that day, Sergio wanted to feel that fear.

Too many times, he’d silenced it, forced that restlessness out of his mind.

“Not today,” he thought and decided to let it in.

He was ready to live again, to break free from the slow death of a secularized peace.

With only courage to guide him, he said to Clara:

“I’ve spent so many years imagining you, wondering who you’d become. Whether you were a mother now, if you had a dog, or if you were still mine,

You weren’t. You aren’t today.

And you never will be.”

Going back was what truly terrified him. Sergio was an outsider—he couldn’t let his mind trick him into retreating.

He needed to feel a new kind of fear.

To dream, to have ideas and live for them—that’s what made Sergio an outsider in this world.

It gave him neither strength nor joy. It simply made him feel aligned with his ancestors.

He had been part of humanity’s noblest matter—the matter of ideas.

---

Clara: “Are you still a dreamer? I loved you for that when we were young, and you know it.”

Life can feel absurd sometimes—like a raging sea churning inside you. All you can do is watch and take the hits.

Sergio had made up his mind.

Too much time had passed—seven thousand days, to be exact.

That nostalgia was gone now.

The feeling, the softness, the delicate ache that had infected his memories for all those days—it had all faded. Now, there was only the awareness of eternal return.

Of living every moment as if it were eternal.

And in fighting against the inevitability of time, they drifted apart—

never to find each other again.

SEVEN THOUSAND DAYS LATER - L'IDIOT DIGITAL