Bit by Bit

I think I’m improving—bit by bit.

Yesterday began with an early morning meditation, followed by a blog post on my fiction website. I had originally planned to do a longer walk, but I decided to scale it down from nearly 5,000 steps the day before to about half that. I crossed paths with a few strangers and exchanged pleasantries, but I was mindful not to overextend the conversations. People are unpredictable, and many just want to be left alone in their silence. I respect that now.

Some of the plans I had didn’t materialize. I was supposed to film a few exercise videos for my modest little social media space—seen by a handful of souls, bless them—but that didn’t happen. Instead, I found myself doing something unplanned: tending to the guava tree in my yard. It looked like it was barely hanging on. Its branches were dry, struggling to grow leaves that would wither just as quickly, possibly due to the heat. I trimmed it down to its essentials, gave it fertilizer, and watered it gently. There was something satisfying about that—the quiet care, the slow tending to life.

Later in the day, I read a few chapters of The Shadow Rising, Book 4 of The Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan. I love the series, though I find myself wrestling between drowsiness and attention, especially while lying in bed. The Kindle helps—paperbacks that thick are hard to hold up for long. It's a little sad knowing Jordan passed away before finishing the series, and that Brandon Sanderson had to step in to complete the tale. There's something poetic about that—a life’s work left in the hands of another.

Still, I feel a distinct sense of wellness when I spend time reading, meditating, or creating digital content. Whether it’s reels, shorts, or writing, these things bring me into my mental zone—my flow. What I try to avoid is the mindless checking of social media, the endless clicking of random links. To be honest, I still do it. With this much free time, the temptation is strong. But I’ve been actively minimizing that by substituting better habits in place. I’ve learned not to curate my life for approval. Nobody’s watching. No audience is waiting to be dazzled. If someone stumbles across my page, it’s likely by accident or casual curiosity. And that’s fine.

On my walk, I ran into Arthur, a homeless man I’ve spoken to a few times over the years. I asked where he stays nowadays, especially since Florida’s new laws have made it harder for people to linger or sleep in public parks.

“I know some hidden places to sleep at night,” he said, shrugging.

That was a relief. The last time we talked, he mentioned staying on his sister’s sofa—an arrangement that, as I suspected, didn’t last. Sibling bonds can be as fragile as glass under pressure. Still, he seemed proud of having survived all these years without stable housing. He picks up odd jobs when he can. In a place like South Florida, where rent prices are out of reach for most, people need two or three jobs just to afford a bed.

I told him he’s lucky in a way—to be free, to live outside the grid. But I also gently urged him to consider finding steadier work, saving what he can, and securing a place to call his own. The doors of opportunity don’t stay open forever. When you reach your 60s, they begin to close, one by one. I’ve seen it myself—old men sitting on park benches from sunrise to sunset, staring into space. I don’t even want to imagine where they sleep at night.

Yes, the county offers help—temporary housing for up to 90 days, with the condition that you enroll in skills programs or find work. But for many who struggle with addiction or mental illness, that’s a tall order. They return to the streets, where vices are easier to access and responsibilities don’t knock on the door.

Arthur doesn’t seem like the others. He’s clean-shaven, bald, always on his bike. No obvious signs of drug use. I’ve seen the decline in others—shrunken bodies, yellowing teeth, bruised skin, sudden collapses into sleep that resemble death. But not Arthur. Maybe he drinks. Maybe not. I don’t ask. I’ve learned not to.

Once, I made a joke when handing some change to another guy—“Just don’t use this for drugs”—and he snapped. Lesson learned. People carry wounds you can’t see, and this place has no shortage of psychiatric struggles—paranoia, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and everything in between.

Arthur and I joked about him settling down someday. He laughed hard.

“Man, I got so many kids with so many women, I hardly know any of them.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We fuck, and next thing I know, she tells me she’s pregnant.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. I pictured the child born out of that fleeting moment—no home, no steady father, no real foundation. “What happens next?” I asked.

“She disappears. Or I disappear. Who knows.”

I just smiled. That kind of smile I wear when I disapprove but don’t want to preach. Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe just trying to sound cool. Either way, I felt a pang for the child. A small, invisible casualty of a wild life.

We bumped fists, and I continued walking. I suppose, in some twisted way, he still has a charm that draws people to him. Some woman somewhere still sees something worth the risk. As for me—well, in my 60s, I don’t expect to be noticed by anyone. Not that it would change much. Popularity, attention, friendship—they’re illusions that come and go.

I enjoy this quiet life. No entanglements. No expectations. I live, I observe, I write. Always listening. Always watching. A ghost in the crowd.

When I checked my watch, I had clocked in 4,500 steps. Time to wrap it up.

I got into my car and stared out at the park. It occurred to me how long I’ve stayed within the boundaries of this small, familiar place. Maybe it’s time to explore new paths.

Maybe.
2025-04-30 02:42:54
popong