Standing in Time

In a world marked by chaos and contradiction, life often feels like a paradox, filled with questions that have no answers. This is a meditation on finding stillness within it all.

To be born as a human is to be thrown into contradiction. We arrive without consent, into a world not made for ease, but entropy. We are soft creatures clinging to a rock hurling through space, grasping for meaning in the noise. The streets are loud. The sky is indifferent. People harm and are harmed. History forgets. And for what? The only certainty, it seems, is that we toil, and eventually, we die.

It is easy to look at life and feel the weight of its futility. Some turn toward answers, while others don’t bother asking the questions. But every so often, in a pause between obligations, something quiet presses through. You feel your breath, the light on the floor, the pause between sounds. You are still here. For a moment, nothing is missing. You are neither chasing nor resisting. You are simply aware.

There is no explanation offered. No voice narrating your purpose. Just the basic texture of existence, free from belief or performance. You are not solving life. You are standing in it. And somehow, it is enough.

Still, the mountain does not let you stay. The laundry waits. Your joints ache. You walk the aisles of the grocery store. People forget to call you back. You return to the repetition and the rawness. But now, you move through it differently. Not above it, not beyond it, but within it. You begin to notice the small acts—listening, holding, forgiving, showing up. The meaning isn’t hidden. It’s built, slowly, in how we choose to live with one another.

To live is to forget and remember and forget again. To hurt, and still hope. To witness pain without flinching, and choose gentleness anyway. Not because it saves the world. But because it’s what we can do.

There is no final clarity. Just this:

You are here.

And maybe that’s the point.