We live in a time that asks you to shout, to take sides, to raise your voice to prove you are alive. It asks you to choose a trench, to wear a uniform, to wave a flag.
It asks you to always be ready to fight, to defend, to oppose, to resist. I spent years believing this was so, that life was a battlefield and the only way not to succumb was to learn to strike first.
Then one day, I cannot tell you when, I stopped. Not out of exhaustion, not out of surrender, not out of cowardice. I stopped because I realized that my state of quiet is not a surrender, but a choice of navigation.
My state of quiet corresponds to the unwillingness to wage war. It does not mean having no more passions, no more rages, no more desires. It means having them all, but governed from somewhere else. It means having decided that I no longer waste my energy on frontal clashes, on defenses to the death, on useless demonstrations of strength.
I prefer to sail quietly, to be like a caique that, by sailing, barely touches flying. Silent, almost weightless, without any wasted energy—only that of the wind that the sails grab to go somewhere.
A caique is an ancient boat, the kind that has plowed the Mediterranean for centuries. It does not have the sharp prow of warships, it does not have the roaring engines of industrial fishing boats, it does not have the haste of ferries that must dock at scheduled times.
It has sails and that’s it. And the wind. When the wind is right, the caique slides over the water with a lightness that seems to defy physics, it seems to truly fly. It makes no noise, it leaves no trail of smoke, it consumes no fuel. It moves because the world moves around it, and it has learned not to oppose but to ride. A lesson that the contemporary world has forgotten.
Today, we are all convinced that movement requires effort, that moving forward requires struggle, that reaching an objective requires sacrifice and sweat and sleepless nights. Partly it is true, but there is another truth, more subtle and more rebellious: sometimes moving forward means stopping rowing against. Sometimes the right direction is found not by forcing the course, but by opening the sails and waiting for the wind to do its work.
It is not passivity, it is intelligence. It is not resignation, it is trust in a greater order that we do not need to control because it supports us.
Sailing quietly also means not caring about the noise. The noise of controversies, urgencies, notifications, judgments. It means having understood that most of the things we agitate over do not deserve even a blink of an eye, it means having chosen not to participate in the manhunt, in the race to see who shouts loudest, in the competition to see who demonstrates they are angriest.
Because the truth, the one that few have the courage to admit, is that much of the conflict surrounding us is fueled by people who cannot stand still, who are afraid of silence, who confuse agitation with action. I do not want to be part of that circus anymore.
My caique has no weapons, no shields, no cannons pointed at anyone. It has only sails and a helmsman who has learned to read the wind.
The wind, sometimes, takes it far where it did not think it would arrive; sometimes it keeps it still in the middle of the sea, and that is the most precious moment because it is there that you learn to wait, to listen, not to force.
Quiet is not a destiny, it is a practice learned day by day, refusing a small war at a time, renouncing a small alignment after another.
The caique does not need to prove anything. It does not have to prove it is the fastest, the most resistant, the most feared. It floats and that’s it. And floating, for a boat, is already a miracle.
For us human beings, who continuously forget that we are made of the same matter as the stars and the same breath as the oceans, floating means returning home, it means remembering that we are not war machines, we are not gears of a system, we are not pawns on someone else’s chessboard. We are beings who can stand still in the middle of the sea and let the wind take its course.
This does not mean having no destination. The caique goes somewhere, certainly, but the destination is not an obsession, it is not an anchor that ties it to the bottom. It is a direction, a light intention, a promise that is realized without violence. The wind knows where to take you if you know how to listen to it. And listening is the most difficult art, because it requires silence, requires stopping talking, planning, demanding. It requires trusting.
So here is my rebellion: do not take up arms, do not raise your voice, do not enter the arena. My rebellion is to board my caique, unfurl the sails, and sail quietly while everyone else fights outside. It is not a flight, it is a choice of side. The side of lightness, of silence, of trust. A side that has no borders, no trenches, no enemies. It has only the sea, the wind, and the peace of those who have stopped waging war.
If this means not caring about everything and everyone, then yes, I don’t care. I don’t care about trends, urgencies, battles that do not belong to me. I don’t care about the demands of those who want me to take sides, to choose a party, to raise my fist. I don’t care because I have discovered that true strength lies not in striking, but in letting oneself be carried.
And while others continue to row against the current, I am already far away, sails unfurled, silent as a caique that barely touches flying.
I am not going back. No need. The wind is good.
RVSCB
