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i’m sitting on the terrace again. winter sun on my face, pretending to warm me. the book is open on my lap, pages held down by a half peeled orange. a squirrel keeps negotiating the edge of the railing as if it’s trying to read with me. pigeons make their usual mayhem and for a second the world feels embarrassingly simple.
and then, i don’t know why but my mind does tilts a bit and suddenly i’m thinking about the rest of the world, all of it, all at once.
somewhere, a child is dreaming of things too expensive for their circumstances. tiny dreams that shouldn’t be tiny at all : a bicycle, a warm room, a school that doesn’t leak when it rains.
somewhere, a girl my age, or younger, wants a life she’s not allowed to want. her dreams are pressed down like flowers between pages no one ever opens.
somewhere, a father is calculating the cost of survival, subtracting himself a little every day.
somewhere, a mother is carrying the full weight of a family in places no one can see.
somewhere, two young lovers are looking at the future like it’s a door that keeps moving farther away.
and the earth is warming as if it’s running a fever we caused. glaciers are thinning, forests exhale smoke instead of air. oceans rise with the confidence of something that knows it will win. the news keeps saying “record breaking heat” as if it’s in a competition with itself.
i think of all this in that single winter minute. this overwhelming, useless empathy that comes and goes like a migraine. a realization that the world is burning and breaking and aching, and my hands are too small to hold any of it.
and yet, here i am. on a terrace. peeling another orange. a soft sun. a book. pigeons. squirrels. nothing catastrophic in my immediate radius. i don’t fix anything. i don’t save anyone. i don’t even move. i just sit there, tasting the sweetness on my fingers, letting the world hurt.
sometimes that’s all a person can do. sit in the winter light and feel everything, even if it changes nothing.
