Tag: ethereal

Kindness waits unseen,
a seed planted in the gaps—
soft rebellion grows.

Kindness is a choice. Not a reflex, not an inheritance, but a deliberate act of defiance. I remind myself of this often, especially on days when the world feels jagged and raw, like a half-shattered window that refuses to break or mend.

There are moments—sharp, vivid moments—when I could so easily let anger, irritation, or indifference take the reins. The barista forgets my order; the driver cuts me off on the motorway; the email arrives, dripping with condescension. But somewhere in the labyrinth of my chest, a voice stirs, calm yet firm. “Choose,” it says. “Remember.” 

It is not an instinct. Instinct is survival, and survival is often cruel. But kindness is the quiet art of holding a mirror to the world and refusing to reflect its harshness. It’s not about sainthood or martyrdom—I don’t believe in halos. It’s about balance. About knowing that, even in chaos, you can plant something tender. 

There’s a man who sits by the park near my flat, always in the same frayed jacket, his hands like dry riverbeds. Once, I walked past him without a second glance. Another day, I handed him an orange, its skin bright as a distant star. We didn’t speak. He didn’t need to thank me. What mattered was the act itself—the quiet offering to the unseen universe. 

Kindness, I think, is a language best spoken without words. It’s in the unspoken patience as a stranger fumbles for coins at the till, or the way you pause to let someone else’s story unfold without rushing to add your own. It’s in forgiving yourself, too, for the days when kindness feels like an impossible weight. 

There’s a certain magic in the spaces between things—the gaps in reality where something inexplicable hums. Kindness lives there, too. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t ask for applause. It exists in the quiet, persistent decision to hold the world gently, even when it feels like it’s slipping through your fingers. 

Remember, I am kind by choice. Not because the world deserves it, but because I do. Because the act of choosing shapes me. Because I’ve seen what grows in the absence of kindness, and it’s a garden I refuse to tend. 

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