Entre la vie

I refuse to wear the armor. The chainmail of apathy, the helmet of indifference—I leave them rusting in the corner, gathering dust like unread poetry books. In a world where every feeling comes with a preemptive smirk, where sincerity is a punchline and passion is labeled cringe, I am choosing to be annoying.

Not the kind of annoying that interrupts you mid-sentence or hums tunelessly in crowded elevators, but the kind that refuses to water itself down. The kind that doesn’t know how to shrink or soften or smirk back at the world’s tired jokes. I will stand in the kitchen at midnight, clutching a chipped mug of chamomile tea, and tell you—earnestly, without a drop of irony—how the rain tonight feels like a handwritten letter from the sky.

Because there’s something sacred about letting yourself care. Not halfway, not with a side of self-deprecating humor as a safety net, but fully—ridiculously, unapologetically fully. I want to feel my heart strain against its ribcage like a wild bird clawing at the bars. I want to text people without drafting and redrafting until my words are diluted down to something sterile and weightless.

I want to say things like, “I thought of you when I heard this song,” and not flinch if they don’t reply with the same level of tenderness. Because I’ve decided—quietly, stubbornly—that I’d rather be someone who embarrasses herself with her earnestness than someone who flinches every time vulnerability knocks at the door.

There’s a peculiar kind of loneliness that comes from being surrounded by people who refuse to admit they care about anything. Opinions softened into “I don’t know, it’s fine I guess.” Affections disguised as jokes. Hearts tucked so carefully into back pockets they forget how to beat properly.

I see it everywhere. At concerts where people cross their arms instead of letting the music shake something loose inside them. In conversations where someone says, “This means a lot to me,” and the response comes back coated in a layer of deflection so thick you’d need a chisel to get through it. But I’m not built for that.

I’m built for big, unembarrassed love—for friends, for songs, for cities I’ve only ever seen in postcards. I’m built for staying up late and asking impossible questions like, “Do you think the universe notices us back?” I’m built for the kind of sincerity that feels raw and a little unsteady, like standing barefoot on a frozen lake and hearing the ice crack beneath you.

I want to care about things loudly. I want to argue passionately about movies and art and whether or not breakfast for dinner is a transcendent experience. I want to hold the people I love like they’re something rare and fleeting—because they are. And when I lose them, when the season changes and they slip away as quietly as they arrived, I want to grieve them without shame.

This world is a gallery of crossed arms and raised eyebrows. Every room feels curated for detachment, every interaction laced with a punchline waiting to land. But I refuse to be part of the exhibit. I want to spill out of my frame, smudge the glass with fingerprints, and shout, “Look at this! Isn’t it beautiful?”

Because nonchalance is a disease. It creeps in quietly and makes everything small. It teaches you to shrug at sunrises and sigh at love songs and raise your eyebrows when someone spills their heart in front of you. But I won’t let it have me.

No, I will live with my lights on. No dimmers, no filters. Fluorescent honesty when it’s called for, and candlelit tenderness when it’s needed. I will write long letters and send unprompted voice notes that start with, “Sorry, I just had to tell you this…” I will cry at concerts and laugh too loudly in cafés and tell people I love them even if they don’t know what to do with that love.

Maybe that’s annoying. Maybe I’m annoying. But I refuse to live in a world where irony wins, where the sharp edge of cynicism cuts down every earnest attempt at connection.

I’ll keep showing up, wide-eyed and open-hearted, spilling over like a cup that doesn’t know when to stop pouring.

Because if loving like this is counterculture,

then let me be a revolution.

-Vie (11.Jan.2025, A revolution indeed)