Entre la vie

because in that small spark there’s a moment where the room holds its breath, and I can pretend time pauses too. The coffee, left too long on the windowsill, tastes like something that once held promise but settled for less. The rain taps against the window in uneven rhythms, a half-forgotten song that whispers. Listen closely, there is still time. I touch my hair, heavy with the weight of all the days I let pass unmarked, and think of cutting it, letting it fall like the soft, unspoken parts of myself that no longer belong.

In this new chapter I will find my way back to the small café at the edge of the city where the barista knows my name but not my story, where the chairs are always mismatched, and the walls smell like books long out of print. I’ll settle into a corner, alone but not lonely, listening to the conversations around me, words that drift like echoes from a past life; bring with me a book whose spine has held more questions than answers. I’ll open it, maybe to Camus, let its words drift unread as my gaze settles on raindrops winding down the glass, each one tracing a quiet path of longing and return.

I’ll reach out to the friends who drifted away between one season and the next, those whose voices linger like the final note of a song, invite them to an old vinyl shop where the records spin songs too slow for this era. We’ll pick albums by instinct, their covers worn and creased, and let the music pull us into memories we’ve forgotten to revisit. I’ll ask them about the things they’ve done since we last spoke—the new jobs, the broken hearts, the moments that made them stop and catch their breath. And when we say goodbye, I’ll hold them a moment longer, making sure they know that my arms remember, even when my words forget.

I’ll spend late evenings at the jazz club, where the bass trembles the floor, and the saxophone player with eyes that see too much breathes life into the room. I’ll close my eyes and let the music find the empty spaces inside me, filling them with notes that linger long after they’re played. I’ll let the music stay with me, like a heartbeat that’s not my own. I’ll walk home under a sky dark as ink, stars caught like pinpricks of hope, and think of all the times I let silence answer for me. This time, I will say yes more often, reach out when the impulse strikes, let the phone ring into the night until someone picks up.

I’ll stop to talk with the elderly man who stands by the newspaper stand each morning, always waiting for something he won’t name. I’ll listen to his stories as they drift down like autumn leaves, old and worn at the edges, soft with the weight of years. I’ll offer the warmth of unassuming kindness in the small acts: a hand held out, a word said softly. I’ll find reasons to smile that have nothing to do with me, share that warmth like a gentle contagion.

It is 11 pm now, and the invisible room around me smells faintly of rain and tobacco. My hair falls like shadowed memories against my shoulders, waiting for my decision, a gentle reminder of all the things I carry. Outside, the city breathes in slow, restless whispers, as if urging me to answer its call.

I will love and love and love, with a heart that spills over, until even the quietest moments hum with it. Until I am a vessel for all that is light, an answer to questions left unasked. I will let my hands be full, my chest open to every echo of joy.

I think I am going to light another cigarette and let it happen. 

-Vie (02.Nov.2024, let it happen)