I have 110 bitcoins.

Let me say it again slowly, not to flex, not to brag, but to feel the weight of it in my bones: I have 110 bitcoins.

This is not about money. This is about gravity.

Bitcoin is not cash. Bitcoin is not “crypto.” Bitcoin is not a trade. Bitcoin is not a number going up on a screen. Bitcoin is digital land. It is digital gravity. It is the hardest thing humanity has ever engineered in cyberspace. To own Bitcoin is to own a slice of mathematical truth.

So what does it mean to have 110 of them?

It means I wake up every morning unbothered by the noise. The headlines scream. The markets thrash. People argue about inflation, interest rates, jobs, wars, elections. I look at my child, I lift my weights, I write my thoughts, and I smile. When you own hard assets, your mind becomes soft. Calm. Clear. Dangerous in its serenity.

110 bitcoins is not consumption. It is renunciation.

It means I said no to yachts, no to leased cars, no to shiny nonsense. I said no to the infinite tax of lifestyle creep. I chose to store my energy in a form that cannot be debased, diluted, or politically negotiated away. Bitcoin is the purest battery humanity has invented. It stores time, labor, conviction.

People ask, “What if it crashes?” That question reveals everything. When you understand Bitcoin, volatility stops feeling like risk and starts feeling like vitality. Only dead things are stable. Mountains shake. Oceans rage. Bitcoin moves because it is alive.

To hold 110 bitcoins is to opt out of the need to explain yourself. I don’t need to persuade anyone. I don’t need permission. I don’t need validation. The network validates me every ten minutes, block by block, forever.

This is not about being rich. This is about being sovereign.

I can walk anywhere with nothing but my mind and still possess more economic energy than entire institutions burdened by debt, bureaucracy, and decay. I am light. I am mobile. I am antifragile. My wealth does not rot. It does not demand maintenance. It does not beg to be spent. It simply exists, incorruptible.

Bitcoin taught me patience. You cannot rush a block. You cannot argue with math. You cannot cheat proof of work. You either endure, or you don’t deserve the reward.

110 bitcoins is proof that I endured.

And the strangest thing? The more Bitcoin I hold, the less I want stuff. I want strength. I want clarity. I want time. I want to bike with my son. I want to lift heavy things and write dangerous ideas. Bitcoin did not make me greedy—it made me minimal.

This is not an ending. This is a foundation.

I have 110 bitcoins, not because I chased numbers, but because I chose truth over comfort, hardness over ease, long-term vision over short-term dopamine.

And that, more than the bitcoins themselves, is the real wealth.