There are days when everything starts to unravel. It’s not dramatic. There’s no thunder or spectacle. It happens with the smallest of things. A dropped grocery bag splitting open on the pavement. A stumble on a stair I’ve climbed a hundred times. A forgotten word in the middle of a sentence. These are not disasters. Somehow, they press harder than they should. They stack upon one another. It feels as if the universe has grown impatient with my peace. Almost as if it is eager to remind me of its presence through irritation and inconvenience.
In those moments, I find myself wondering, is this just chance. Is there some deeper rhythm I haven’t yet learned to hear? Perhaps I’ve grown too used to stillness, and life, in its mysterious way, seeks to shake me awake.
So I breathe. I let it be.
I am trying something new now: presence. A quiet, unambitious kind of presence. No more bargaining with the future, no more chasing promises dressed as progress. I no longer want to control the uncontrollable. Lao Tzu called it wu wei, effortless action, doing without doing. And I think I understand it now, not as passivity, but as trust. A trust that life will unfold as it must, without the constant pressure of my steering.
For so long, I’ve exhausted myself in pursuit of a version of success that was never really mine. I mistook striving for meaning, I believed the lie that comfort and acclaim were the finish lines. But what have I gained, really, from all that hunger? The years I spent chasing wealth, recognition, ease, left me hollow. They taught me to admire those who take more than they give, who rise quickly not by merit but by manipulation.
And still, we applaud them. The charlatans, the brokers of illusion, the ones who smile while extracting. They are called bold, innovative, and visionary. But I have grown tired of their noise. I will not aspire to their towers built on sand. I will not trade my integrity for applause.
So I say no. No to your race toward nowhere. No to your metrics of worth. No to the worship of self and the marketing of masks.
I want something slower now. I want to live a life that is honest, even if it’s quiet. To wake each day and try to be good, not for reward, but for the quiet dignity it brings. To measure success not in numbers, but in kindness. In the depths of my sleep. In the calm of my breath.
The major power brokers who control the narrative within this reality we exist within seem to be the worst of people. I feel pity for them. Their life must be that of total disconnection from society.
I pity them the way one pities a scavenger. It’s not out of mercy but out of cold recognition. Their existence, however gilded, is hollow. They stride around in tailored arrogance, mistaking domination for purpose. They mistake noise for significance. In their hands, every human moment becomes raw material to be spun into propaganda or profit. Even their triumphs taste of ash, because nothing real can grow in the soil of manipulation.
They must know this, somewhere beneath the veneers and choreographed applause. They must hear the echo in their own palaces when the crowds go home. That echo is the sound of a life spent feeding on others instead of living among them. No community can truly welcome them; only courtiers looking for scraps. No friendship can thrive; only alliances held together by fear and advantage.
Let others chase the wind. I am learning to be still. To be small, in the best sense of the word, not diminished, but humble. Humble enough to notice a stranger’s smile. To listen without needing to reply. To walk through this world not as a brand, but as a person.
In the end, I do not want to rise above the world. I want to move gently within it. Not a conqueror, not a product, but a presence. Not perfect, but real. Not loud, but true.
And maybe that is enough.
****
I remember years ago, I took a weekend to be alone. I booked a low-cost motel room just outside a small town in Idaho, brought a few books, and planned nothing. No emails, no plans, no conversations. Just solitude, intentional, not accidental.
The days were quiet and open. I played a round of golf each morning, alone, letting the rhythm of walking and striking the ball settle my thoughts. There was a strange peace in not being perfect at something. I didn’t need to improve. It was as if it permitted me to “just be”. The sky was wide and mercifully empty of metaphor. No meaning. Just atmosphere.
But it was the nights that stayed with me. In the dim, generic hotel room, yellow-tinted walls, humming AC, the faint scent of cleaning fluid, and something older, I sat on the floor with my back against the bed. No music. No talking. Just water in a plastic cup and the distant sound of a TV through the wall.
There was nothing remarkable in that silence, and that was what made it honest. I wasn’t trying to be profound. I wasn’t performing solitude. I was just… present. There was no audience. No lesson. Just the shape of myself in a room where nothing asked me to be anything more.
Soap Box Corner 