There’s a guy I’ve seen consistently for 6 years. I don’t believe he lives anywhere and he has looked close to death since the first time I saw him riding a bike down a busy street, slaloming with the drunkenness of age and a life I can’t imagine. I spend half of my time questioning meaning, while he continues to live his life. I don’t assume to know what he thinks about, but from what little I can see of his life, it is sorted in a way I can’t achieve. He’s never asked for a handout, not from me or from anyone I’ve ever seen. He spends most of the day in an abandoned lot, set up with flowers all over the place. He might be social, but I haven’t seen it. He might sell the flowers, but I haven’t seen it. (I haven’t seen him eat or drink or sleep, either, but, presumably, he does all those things.) Six years is a long time to do anything. Maybe you’ve done something nearly every day for that long, I’m not sure I have. I imagine what it might be like to be him. To live in a way I understand. To have a goal and be satisfied doing it. To not care about a house or home. To not care about reaching some understanding of how the world works beyond how to survive in it. And to survive on your own terms as literally as possible. I don’t assume he feels any of this. I don’t know him. But he serves as a possible life that I’ve missed. One of simplicity and a calm. A satisfaction in stillness. I might never know what it’s like. I hold goals and a resistance to myself. I move and avoid.