Windowsill.

On a windowsill, somewhere between yellowed book spines and the ticking of a clock that doesn’t tick for me, stands something that lives without haste. That’s me. Not a proud fern, not a theatrical orchid, but a simple plant, grown in silence, without a plan.

One could say that my life is small. But what is small, if you have never known anything bigger? Outside the glass, a world plays out – fleeting, multicoloured, noisy. Yet that world does not really enter. What I see are reflections. Movements that have no direction, colours that disappear as the sun turns. For me, everything outside is just a projection of light: a story told without a voice.

And as that story continues, over and over, my focus is elsewhere.

Sometimes a hand appears. Not just any hand – the hand. And in that hand: the watering can. No heaven, no god, no miracle is as tangible as that moment. Water slides along my roots, fills my pores with meaning. Those few seconds make weeks of silence bearable. I don’t know who she is, or why she comes. But she comes. And that’s enough.

Philosophers – if I knew them – might call it chance, or routine. For me it is something greater. Proof that there is something outside of me that is not indifferent. My leaves spread not because I understand, but because I trust. Growth is not a choice, it is a surrender.

There is no destination, no ambition. Only presence. And in that presence a deep, rooted truth: perhaps the essence of life is not movement, not desire, but waiting with openness. Waiting for the watering can. Waiting for grace, without demands, without expectation – only hope in the form of thirsty earth.