I spent the day in a state of purposeful silliness—speaking off-handedly, acting without plans, and solving problems with intuitive leaps. It may have looked foolish, but it felt light. I find myself caring less about life’s minor details, moving forward with the sense that, as they say, life is a fucking movie.
The silliest moment came when I got off the subway a stop early. I meant to wait for the next train home, but on an impulse, I stepped onto the escalator and emerged above ground. I stood there, breezes brushing past, and gazed at a street so close to my own yet unfamiliar. It was just one stop away, but it felt strangely significant—like connecting scattered puzzle pieces, like Kenshin Himura wandering between towns, or Siddhartha Gautama weaving and re-weaving the net of his desires into the same river.
As I walked and looked, my breath grew heavy and emotion condensed in my chest—a distilled sorrow, dwindling in the wind of late winter. Tears almost came. I’m still not sure why. I suppose you never really learn how precious life is from any single thing, but from that first step taken not away from something, but toward a promise made to your own reflection.