“Being human always points to and is directed to, something or someone other than oneself. The more one forgets himself, the more human he is and actualizes himself.” – Victor Frankl
Humans mourn the lost day and toil for the next,
Yet the present slips by, quiet as breath, unseen,
Only visible when it’s pried from our hands—
When the ache of wounds, the sting of tears, anchor us in their presence.
Who do we become in these moments? Whom do we reach for?
With our first living breath, we arrive wholly in the present,
No past, no thought of tomorrow—
Crying not from reason, but for life itself.
We are cradled in warmth, lulled to sleep by soft arms,
Knowing nothing but this single, sacred moment.
Is there anything more precious than now?
“Each day is a little life; each dawn, a birth. Each fresh morning, a youth; each rest, a small death.” – Arthur Schopenhauer
What, then, makes a life worth living?
Perhaps a dream—a vision fought for, a triumph drawn from the depths of effort,
A symbol of purpose, isn’t it?
But what happens when that distant vision steps into today?
When the final hour draws near, do we call for wealth, for our accolades?
We call to those who gave meaning, who poured love into us, their essence merging with ours.
For those who held us close in life’s quietest hours.
Walking the halls of the neurology floor, I saw this meaning unfold—
I saw faces brightened by familiar voices,
Laughter softening the walls over a shared game of cards,
Moments woven gently into memory before surgery.
Then, a dark room.
A quiet room.
I glanced at her chart, noting her eligibility for the study.
And so, I entered.
Her voice carried the weight of eight decades,
Her face traced with the lines of time, each one a testament to laughter and loss.
But her eyes—they held a solitude untouched by words.
Her smile welcomed me, but her gaze held me distant.
I sat beside her as she spoke of her diagnosis,
Her voice slow, the words heavy.
When she spoke of her family, though—her children, her grandchildren—
A spark lifted her tone, a warmth wove itself into each word.
Then silence, a pause, a space between breaths.
Her gaze turned to the window, then back to me.
she asked, barely above a whisper, “can I hold your hand?”
In that silence, time itself fell away, leaving only the weight of her question.
I held her hand, feeling her grip soften, gentle as the passing moments.
Before I left, she said,
“I hope my grandchildren come to visit – you remind me very much of them”
I offered a quiet smile,
“I’ll be back to see you before I leave, okay.”
“See you later,” she replied,
Her voice still carried the weight of eight decades,
Her wrinkles and creases appeared to greet me once more with her smile
But this time, her eyes—they invited me back.
Eyes that cradled the weight of forgotten lullabies, the quiet ache of something lost yet beloved.
They stirred a resonance deep within me, an intimacy unclaimed
They were the same eyes my aunt had in the depths of her schizophrenic episode—
reaching out not in voice, but in silence,
her gaze a plea for a hug, for help, for hope.
Perhaps we could learn to prescribe time itself—
Time to hold a hand, time to sit in silence.
“Being human always points to and is directed to, something or someone other than oneself. The more one forgets himself, the more human he is and actualizes himself.” – Victor Frankl
Walking home, I called my family, my friends,
Just to tell them, “I love you.”
I promised myself never to hold back those words,
To seize each opportunity, knowing it may not come again.
The way we live any moment is how we live them all. We need not be extraordinary—
But we must show up, giving all that we are.
And in the end, it is these simple, unguarded moments that endure.
