gentleabsurditi

why

If you happened to pass me on the street, you might not even recognize me. I would never ask for your attention. I walk so lightly I almost leave no sound behind. My voice is quiet, meant only for the ears of the person I'm speaking to. I would disappear into the crowd before your eyes could settle on me.

Whoever sees me like this could never imagine the words I turn into poetry. You might think I'm too sad, or burdened by things I do not even own.

I find it beautiful how there are countless versions of us scattered through other people's eyes. To some, I am too quiet. To others, my words are sharp. To others still, I am gentle, a place to rest. Somewhere, I am the villain in the highest tower of the most distant castle, where the sun has never risen. There are a thousand fragments of me living in other people's stories.

I am quiet, but I could take you into conversations you never knew you wanted to have. I could tell you which dinosaurs I would raise in my backyard, like the Flintstones. I could tell you how every inequality we call natural was carefully built long before we were born. I could speak about love while admitting that I often find it difficult, even exhausting, to let another human being come close. I could confess the apathy that sometimes visits me and still tell you that the spirituality of my bare feet, walking beside my ancestors, keeps me alive.

Who am I?

But then again, who are you?

You write as beautifully as I do. What have you done with your tamed demons? Did you teach them how to become angels? Or did they quietly inherit the whole house before you noticed?

There are so many versions of everyone that, if we were only one, perhaps we would be no one at all.

By day, I am one person. By night, another. After midnight, it depends on the moon. Tomorrow, it will depend on my calendar. Today is Carnival. By December, it will already be Christmas.

From mud to chaos. From chaos back to mud.

Camus believed morality begins when justification ends. You don't do good because it saves you, or earns approval. You do it because suffering exists and you refuse to add to it.

He called this ‘the modest heroism of the absurd.’ In a meaningless world, the only meaning left is what we create through compassion, courage, and presence.

Camus saw that people want cosmic justice, rewards, closure, divine order. But decency doesn't need a witness. True morality, he said, is doing what's right when no one's watching.

In an age obsessed with saving the world, Camus reminds us that goodness isn't grand. It's quiet. It's the everyday rebellion of kindness in a world that's indifferent.

You can't fix chaos. You can't end suffering. But you can refuse cruelty. You can choose integrity. You can make one small corner of existence less unbearable.

Maybe that's enough. Maybe the most moral life isn't one that saves the world but one that quietly refuses to make it worse.”