Entre la vie

Traveling alone feels like stepping into the edge of a dream, a liminal space where time stretches, bends, and forgets itself. You become untethered, not quite belonging to the earth you left behind, nor to the sky carrying you forward. Words, once so central, dissolve into fragments—“thank you,” “excuse me”—small gestures that vanish as soon as they are spoken. In the silence, the world around you grows louder, more vivid.

I woke mid-flight, the hum of the engines merging with my breath, my heart, the rhythm of something far larger than myself. Across the aisle, a child sat bathed in an almost otherworldly light, their joy so radiant it seemed to spill out, filling every corner of the cabin. Watching them was like watching the birth of a star, uncontained and infinite. A few rows down, a couple awoke, turning to each other as if seeing one another for the first time. There was something in their gaze—a quiet wonder, as though the vastness of the universe had shrunk down to the space between them. Their love was profound in its simplicity, a reminder that even here, flying through the endless heavens, we carry pieces of eternity in our hearts.

And then there were the flight attendants, moving like constellations in an ancient sky, their paths crossing and recrossing, silent and steady. I wondered about them—who they were beyond this moment. Where do they go when the plane lands? Who waits for them in the stillness of their return? Who dreams of them as they glide through this transient existence? I felt a pang of sadness, a sense of longing for lives I’ll never truly know. But I also saw the beauty in their impermanence, the way they carry themselves lightly, as if they’ve made peace with being both everywhere and nowhere.

It was then I realized how achingly unique every life is. The universe has spun itself into countless forms, countless stories, and yet no two are the same. Each of us is a single note in an infinite symphony, a momentary flicker of light in the vast cosmic dance. Even if another lived my exact life, step for step, breath for breath, it would not be the same. The universe sees itself anew through every pair of eyes, hears its own song sung in a million different ways.

But then, what is it that makes me, me? Is it my past, the thread of memory that ties me to where I’ve been? Is it my future, the unwritten pages I strain to glimpse? Or is it something deeper, something that cannot be bound by time at all? I looked out the window, at the endless sky unfolding like an eternal canvas, and the truth settled over me like starlight: I am not my past. I am not my future. I am this moment, this breath, this being.

It struck me then how language holds a mirror to this truth. In English, if someone asks what I’m doing, I’d say, “I am writing.” In that moment, I am writing. The act and the self dissolve into each other, leaving no separation. I am not a writer—I am the writing itself, a vessel for the present moment to flow through.

And this is the secret, isn’t it? To dissolve into the now so completely that you forget the boundaries you’ve placed around yourself. To let the act of being consume you until there is no you at all—only the infinite unfolding itself in new ways.

I glanced around the cabin again, at the child, the couple, the attendants, the strangers dreaming in their seats. And suddenly, the illusion of separation melted away. I wasn’t watching them—I was them. I was the child’s laughter, the couple’s wonder, the attendant’s grace. I was the hum of the engines, the sky beyond the window, the starlight that traveled millions of years to reach us.

In that moment, I understood that there is no “me” and “you.” There is only this vast, infinite oneness, endlessly creating and dissolving itself. I am the universe looking at itself, dreaming itself, becoming itself. And here, thousands of feet above the earth, surrounded by strangers who are not strangers at all, I feel it in my bones: I am not alone. I am everything, and everything is me.

The edges of reality blur, and what’s left is this boundless expanse of being. It’s breathtaking, terrifying, and achingly beautiful. To live is to carry the weight of infinity, to hold the universe in your hands and let it slip through your fingers, moment by moment, again and again. And so I sit, watching the world unfold around me, knowing that I am both the observer and the observed, the dreamer and the dream.

-Vie (12.Jan.2025, I’m this journey itself)