Masculinity Canceled: Finally, You Can Live in Peace Without Saving the World on Schedule

He’s sitting in the kitchen. In his underwear, in socks, of course — for no reason and, most importantly, with no master plan to save the universe.

On the table: a cup of tea, the same temperature as the chair he’s sitting on, a can of olives, and a phone, utterly lifeless.
On his laptop, the cursor blinks in Google: “what to do if you’re not…”
And this time, he didn’t even bother to finish typing.

He’s 32. Or 27. Or 41 — who even cares about those trivial details.
As a child, he was told: “be a man.”
As a teenager: “don’t whine.”
In college: “come on, you’re a man.”
At work: “we’re counting on you, you’re…”

And you know what? He was. He tried. He bent himself, kept silent, heroically “carried the load.”
Now — he can’t. He doesn’t want to. And, cherry on top, he doesn’t understand why.
He desperately doesn’t want to be a “man” in those delightful shades the TV and toxic comments paint the word with.

He doesn’t want to be: a support if he’s falling apart himself, a provider if the spoils exist only in fantasy, a tank if there’s no one to carry.
He wants to be a person. With anxiety, with fatigue, and with the incredible luxury to say, “I can’t handle it.”

He remembers how he once cried — and that was considered a crime. He remembers how he couldn’t say no — because “you’re a man, don’t embarrass yourself.” He remembers looking at his father, who, instead of “it hurts,” preferred “I’m fine,” clenched between his teeth.

Now something in him has finally died out.

Not his soul — strangely enough, somewhere under the rubble of “pull yourself together,” it still shows signs of life.
The template died. The caricature. That advertising phantom from glossy magazines and military drills, where a man is an emotionless bearer of pain. And, believe it or not, he doesn’t miss it. He doesn’t want to be that perfect cardboard cutout: with a loan, a mortgage, and the duty to always be as tense as a door spring.

He wants to be soft, vulnerable, wants it to finally be quiet. Wants to hug, not guard. Wants to listen, not prove. Wants to sometimes say “I don’t know” — and not be labeled weak for it.

You can call him “soft,” “the generation without balls,” “a victim of feminism.” But you haven’t seen how every morning he glues himself back together from fragments just to play “that guy.”
And if he finally sends it all packing — that’s not weakness. It’s, believe it or not, recovery.

For the first time, he stops playing a role from someone else’s script.
He’s a man. Not a “real man.” Not a “true man.” Just a man. Just a person, not a universal function.

And if you’re reading this — and there’s something stuck in your throat, chances are, you’re also tired of being someone’s projection.