Entre la vie

There is a quiet revolution in saying, “I don’t owe anyone anything.” It rings of freedom, of claiming one’s autonomy in a world that sometimes demands too much. But when I close my eyes and feel the gentle thrum of life around me, I know this isn’t my truth. I am stitched into the fabric of others’ lives, just as they are woven into mine. And in that fine stitch of connection, there are debts I carry, not out of obligation, but out of a deep, human understanding that we are all here together, stumbling and lifting, breaking and mending.

I owe the man on the evening train, the one with calloused hands and eyes clouded by a fatigue so deep it looks almost peaceful. He sits with the weight of years on his shoulders, a thousand quiet defeats hidden beneath the hum of city lights. I owe him the small gesture of my seat, the unspoken transfer of comfort, a flicker of recognition in a world that often forgets to look closely.

To the elderly man shuffling through the park, eyes fixed on a horizon only he can see, I owe a smile, a nod that acknowledges his story—long, complex, full of days that are now shadows of memories. I owe him the respect of seeing him as more than an old man but as someone who once ran faster, laughed louder, loved deeper.

And to the stranger who shares nothing more than a glance with me at the crosswalk, I owe a shared breath, a mutual understanding that even in our separateness, there is something binding us. I owe them the small gift of safety, of being one less threat in a world that sometimes feels full of them. We are not unaffected by each other’s choices; we are the echoes of the smiles we gave and received, the shoulders we brushed past, the hands we held or let go.

If there is a purpose that calls to me in a voice like wind through a quiet field, it is kindness. Not kindness as a duty or something that demands fanfare, but kindness as the very air I breathe, seeping out of me like warmth, filling the spaces between words and silences. It is not loud or boastful. It doesn’t clamor for recognition. It is the way I wish to exist, like the first light of dawn spilling gently over a sleeping world, unnoticed yet indispensable.

I have seen people driven by passions that spark like wildfires—brilliant and consuming, racing through the veins with an urgency that demands to be seen. They chase dreams and desires that light up their eyes, painting their paths in bold strokes. But my passion is different. It is not something I chase; it is something I carry, ever-present, whispering in the rhythm of my heartbeat. It is the desire to leave a trace of light wherever I go, to soften the harsh edges of this world with the only gift I know I can give freely: kindness.

And so, I am at peace with this. In a world that tells you to be more, to want more, to burn brighter, I have found solace in being a quiet ember, a small flame that warms without overwhelming. I want kindness to radiate from me as naturally as the warmth and glow from that ember, touching those who come near, so that even in my silence, my presence says, “You are seen, you are safe, you matter.” And if in the stillness of a single moment, my presence can speak that simple truth, then I know this journey will have been enough.

-Vie (02.Nov.2024, rotting on the couch while the sunbeam hits my palm)