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We Are Coming
Freedom from Forgiveness:
The Bank’off Circles
​
They taught me — oh yes, with all the solemnity of a choir in woollen robes — to be good.
To forgive. To understand. To reconcile. To offer a second chance —
and a third, should the gentleman be going through a so-called difficult patch
(for we must, of course, be endlessly understanding).
I was schooled in this by parents, teachers, mentors, soft-spined books,
and judges in long black robes — who had certainty in abundance, but not a dram of doubt.
But no one — not a soul! — taught me how to be bad.
Not wicked, mind you, not a scoundrel — not that sort of bad.
But bad for someone in particular, when all the choices are gone —
save one: to destroy yourself, or to get up quietly and leave.
Even if the door creaks.
Even if he mutters after you —
“You cruel, heartless bastard.”
No one showed me how to preserve my self —
when it’s no longer possible to preserve the relation.
I suppose I’ll have to figure that out myself.
And yes, I’ll be the one to rescue myself too.
As ever.
— Vasco Bank’off, 2025
A FOREWORD — Or, better yet, a WARNING.
​
If you’re not ready — then, by Heaven’s sake, do not read on!
(And if you are — I suspect you’re already too curious to stop. Which means: it’s already too late.)
Now, dear Reader — you may close this book at once and get on with your day.
I shan’t be offended.
In fact, I encourage you to do so. This book contains no anthems to forgiveness, no poetic exhortations to “heal and let go,”
— and if that’s what you came looking for,
you’ll find yourself — how shall I put it? — sorely disappointed.
This book, I’m afraid, has the rather vulgar ambition to upset the well-arranged furniture of your inner sitting-room.
It asserts (and rather loudly, too):
— That many of our so-called rules for relationships are society’s cheap imitations,
— That the past, noble as it may have seemed, has no divine right to dictate who sits beside us now,
— That pain, once inflicted, does not — I repeat, does not — entitle the inflictor to lifelong residence in your soul.
Still reading?
Good Lord — if you’re already bristling, that’s a rather good sign.
It means this little book has touched a nerve — and perhaps that nerve needed touching.
But I say again, with utmost tenderness:
If you’re not ready, do not go further.
Unless, of course, you are.
(And if so — well, let us proceed.)
BUT WHY ON EARTH DID I WRITE THIS BOOK?
​
First — and let’s not pretend otherwise — I wrote it for myself.
Not out of vanity (though I must confess: I do enjoy a well-placed semicolon),
but because, like any gentleman who’s tripped over the furniture of his own thoughts,
I wished to put things in order.
I wrote it to clear out the attic of my mind — to dust off old assumptions,
to sweep out the cobwebs of inherited beliefs,
and to finally evict those pesky little emotions that had been living rent-free in my head since, oh, about the age of seven.
Second — I simply like the way ideas look when they’re wearing proper sentences.
Writing them down is a bit like dressing unruly children for dinner:
they behave better once buttoned up.
And third — well, it’s good for the brain.
Keeps the mind from going soft — like old cheese left out in the sun.
So even if not a single soul reads this (except perhaps you, and here you are still turning pages, my brave companion),
I will have gained something: clarity, mischief, and perhaps the faint pleasure of having told the truth — at least once —
in reasonably acceptable prose.
​​
NOW — AS FOR YOU, DEAR READER — WHO IN HEAVEN’S NAME ARE YOU?
(Or, at the very least, who do you suspect you might be — when no one’s looking?)
​
Permit me — with all the subtlety of a tea-stained philosopher — to propose that mankind may be (broadly, absurdly, and with full allowance for exceptions) divided into two species:
1. THE KEEPER.
The Keeper — steadfast, sentimental, possibly exhausted — believes that one must never sever a tie.
That forgiveness is always noble, and that loyalty is best measured in years survived, not peace preserved.
Keepers stay in touch the way people keep old umbrellas: bent, broken, but “still useful — you never know.”
They say things like, “We’ve known each other forever,” as though chronology were a moral compass.
2. THE NAVIGATOR.
The Navigator knows (or at least suspects) that our surroundings shape our days — and, worse, our minds.
They’ve begun selecting their companions the way a seasoned traveller picks fellow passengers — avoiding, if possible, the one with too many opinions and no sense of volume.
The Navigator drifts — not out of coldness, but clarity.
They understand that presence must be chosen, not endured.
— So: which of these lives closer to your spine?
If the Keeper sounds familiar, you may wish to set this book gently aside and return to the comfort of your well-worn obligations.
But if you hear the quiet stirring of the Navigator — however small, however unpracticed — then by all means, turn the page.
There may be something here for you.
(And keep your compass handy.)
A CANDID INTRODUCTION — WRITTEN TOO LATE (WHICH IS WHY IT’S TRUE)
​​
This little passage was not meant to be here.
It arrived — as important things often do — long after the party had ended and the coat had already been buttoned.
It’s not part of the structure.
It’s part of the exhale.
You see, when I first began thinking about all this — there was no theory, no circles, no systems.
Just a certain familiar fatigue — the kind that sneaks in wearing slippers and asks no questions.
I couldn’t tell whether what I was feeling was closeness or just habit.
Whether I truly wanted to stay — or was simply too afraid to leave.
Then came a conversation — small, not a quarrel — and someone I called a friend said something, or did something, and inside me, quietly, almost politely, a thought appeared:
“A real friend wouldn’t do that.”
We kept talking. Nothing exploded.
But the word friend disappeared.
And I didn’t know what to call us anymore.
— — —
Once — over twenty years ago, in the age of notebooks, not apps — I wrote a line to myself:
​
“Call N. — because I’m supposed to. Though honestly, I don’t want to.”
​
And that’s when it struck me:
​
I no longer knew who belonged where in my life.
​
Everything was blurring.
And from that blur — came the unease.
— — —
So, yes.
The thought began not as an idea — but as a murmur.
Maybe what I needed wasn’t names — but layers.
Not declarations — but distances.
Maybe I didn’t need to label people.
Just to know where they stood.
Today. Now.
And that — strangely, simply — was the beginning.
​​PART I. THE REASONS (OR SO I THOUGHT): INNER FOUNDATIONS AND CORE CONCEPTS
Before I go into details, I need to stop and ask myself — once more — why I’m writing this at all, and how I want to structure what comes next.
Chapter 1 is my personal answer to that question.
It’s about the ground I stand on, the motives I’ve noticed, the goals I didn’t know I had until I started thinking about my relationships, about forgiveness, about how deeply the people around me affect my life.
Chapters II to XI will lay out the core concepts I’ll keep returning to throughout the book.
I need to define clearly what I mean by forgiveness,
what I understand by shifting or removing connections,
how I see the role of family,
what I mean when I speak of investment in relationships,
and why I’ve chosen to avoid the word love.
These chapters are a kind of foundation — not final truths, but a language to think with.
This part of the book is my way of setting things in order, so I don’t lose the thread of thought — and don’t get lost in my own conclusions.
CHAPTER 1. ON WHY I NEEDED THIS BOOK MORE THAN I DARED ADMIT
“If you truly love someone, you must endure.
Preferably in silence. Preferably forever.”
— from the bestselling course "How to Suffer Properly"
I was surrounded by maxims.
You’ve heard them too:
“People come into your life for a reason.”
“Friendship should be cherished, no matter the form.”
“Family is sacred. If it hurts — endure.”
“One does not simply erase people.”
“Forgiveness is the only path to peace.”
“No one’s perfect — learn to live with it.”
“Breaking ties means you’re weak.”
“A good person never walks away first.”
“True love (or friendship) survives everything.”
And so on, and so forth, until I found myself nodding to slogans I no longer believed.
But what if they’re not true?
Or not always?
What if holding on to people who drain you isn’t virtue — but self-deception?
What if forgiveness doesn’t set me free — but makes me a well-dressed hostage clinging to ruins in the name of “maturity”?
What if the only people who should stay — are the ones with whom it feels genuinely good?
For both of us.
This book isn’t here to urge you to delete your contact list or ghost your dentist. It’s an invitation.
To look at your surroundings differently.
And then decide.
— — —
What happens if I change nothing?
I suspect we underestimate just how much we are shaped by the people around us.
They influence our moods.
Our language.
Even our choices.
Some lift us. Some drain us.
Some people bring clarity. Some — confusion.
And I often don’t notice the difference — until it’s late.
When I don’t choose who surrounds me, my surroundings start choosing me.
And then I’m not steering the ship — I’m being pulled by the tide.
— — —
What I’m trying to answer for myself in this book:
• How can I structure my environment so it doesn’t work against me?
• How do I let go of draining connections — without guilt?
• How can I clearly understand who holds what place in my life?
• How do I stop fearing the end of relationships that no longer reflect who I’ve become — or who we’ve become?
​
I don’t want to be cruel.
And certainly not heartless.
I just want to be honest.
With myself, first of all.
And, when possible — with others too.
— — —
So here I am.
I know now why I needed to write this.
If you’re reading this and thinking,
“Well, my social life is perfectly fine,” — you may still shut the book. No hard feelings.
But if some small voice in you whispers, “Something’s off,” — then perhaps there’s something here worth hearing.
This is not a system.
Not a manifesto. Not a theory in a shiny box.
It’s a conversation.
With myself — and maybe, if I’m lucky, with you.
A book, yes — though it may read more like a notebook. Or a monologue. Or a slightly overgrown letter.
But “book” sounds better.
It gives weight to things that are, at heart, still searching for form.
CHAPTER II. FORGIVENESS AS A FINITE RESOURCE
There’s a reason this book bears the word “forgiveness.”
I believe forgiveness is one of the most demanding and misunderstood acts we ever attempt.
When people talk about relationships, they usually mean the simple things: conversation, cooperation, polite rituals.
Things we’ve rehearsed.
Things we can smile through.
Things that avoid conflict — but don’t touch pain.
The real difficulty begins where the social roles end.
— Where someone brushed too close — and left a mark.
— Where something pierced the surface — and stayed.
— Where silence is stretched thin, and the break is already breathing beneath the words.
This is where forgiveness steps in.
Or fails to.
Forgiveness demands what nothing else quite does:
honesty.
humility.
strength.
— To admit I am hurt.
— To admit the other is human, not monstrous — just human, with their own shadows.
— To let go of endings that never came, conversations that never closed.
— To stop wrestling with what has already happened.
But the word “forgiveness” — has grown too heavy.
It’s bloated with sermons, soaked in duty.
It sounds like a virtue — or worse, a performance.
And that is why it so often brings not peace, but revulsion.
Because it’s not about justice.
It’s about finding peace — even where none was offered.
I don’t see forgiveness as nobility.
Or politeness.
Or a cure-all.
For me, it’s hard labour.
Quiet.
Honest.
Costly.
And I don’t want to give it away like sugar.
​
— — —
​
THE FORGIVENESS COINS
​
I don’t know why I imagined it this way — but one day I saw it clearly: as if God — calm, unhurried, with that maddening patience of the truly eternal — handed me a small cloth pouch.
“These,” He said (or didn’t, but I heard it anyway), “are your forgiveness coins.”
​
Not infinite. Not replicable.
​
Use them as you must.
​
Spend them with care.
​
Give them with heart.
​
But know this: they do not refill on demand.
​
And with that — He was gone.
Or perhaps never quite there.
And I was left — holding the pouch.
— — —
I don’t believe I’m meant to hoard them.
To bury them in a drawer and only take them out on high holidays — Yom Kippur, Forgiveness Sunday, Ramadan.
No.
But I do believe this: If I give them with clarity — not guilt, not fear, not exhaustion — then the pouch never truly empties.
Because (and here I speak in metaphors, not doctrine): God doesn’t count coins like a banker.
He multiplies what is given freely.
Not because I’ve been good — but because I was clear.
Quiet. Honest.
Sometimes the coins return.
In the form of peace.
In the form of new strength.
And sometimes — most miraculously — through the ones I forgave.
Because they, too, had coins.
And offered one back.
Not always. Not right away.
But enough to complete the circle.
Not to close it — but to let it come back around.
Through people.
Through silence.
Through some unexpected warmth I never saw coming.
But if I throw them out blindly — if I toss coins into the indifferent crowd without eye contact, without pause — they vanish.
And the crowd, for all its noise, never throws anything back.
​
— — —
​
I don’t remember exactly when I first wondered:
What if this isn’t just emotional?
What if forgiveness — like time, like presence, like care — is limited not only by choice, but by the brain itself?
​
What if the mind, for all its depth, simply cannot hold everyone — cannot carry every story, every wound, every reconciliation?
​
That thought didn’t come from pain.
​
It came quietly — like a click.
​
And later — much later — I would come across a quiet number in an anthropologist’s research, and it would not explain my weakness — but rather confirm my attention had always been finite.
​
The pouch was not empty.
I had simply begun to weigh each coin.
​​
CHAPTER III . WHAT I MEAN BY SHIFTING OR REMOVING CONNECTIONS
"Sometimes you have to let go of the person.
Sometimes — just the idea that they were still a person.”
— said by someone I probably shouldn’t quote, but here we are
When I talk about “shifting,” “removing,” or even “cutting” ties in this book, I’m not necessarily referring to dramatic exits,
or to erasing someone from my contacts.
Most of the time, it’s not about an external action at all.
It’s about something quieter — a shift in how I see the connection.
It happens in my mind first.
In the space where I define what this relationship means to me, how much room it takes up, how much influence it has over my choices, my moods, my sense of self.
Sometimes there’s a visible change — less contact, more distance, a quiet step away.
But more often, the change is internal:
I stop placing that connection at the center.
I stop letting it define me.
And that — in itself — changes everything.
Time might pass.
Something may shift again.
And yes, I might later choose to see that person differently — if something real changes.
But until then, I have the right to see the connection for what it is now — not what it once was, or what I wish it could be.
This approach has been especially important when I found myself still affected by people I no longer spoke to.
No contact. No messages.
But they still lived inside my head — in thoughts, reactions, tension in the shoulders, that strange pause when their name appeared in someone else’s story.
The tie had ended out there, but not in here.
That’s why I needed to learn to measure not just interaction — but weight.
To shift a connection means: I move the focus.
To remove it means: I no longer grant it power.
Even if the contact continues externally — inside, I have made a choice.
I can’t always break things off.
But I can decide how I carry them.
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