He happened to cross a man wrestling with inner contradictions the other day. He was on a quiet errand toward a collection shop, a moment of ordinary errands when the man cried out for help in a voice that wasn’t loud but sincere. The call wasn’t for a rescue in the obvious sense; it was a request for understanding, a rare moment when someone admits that their thoughts don’t align, that a part of them feels off balance. The narrator didn’t see this as charity but as a brief, human exchange that bridged two strangers in the same moment of need.
“I feel stupid,” the man confessed, and the narrator stepped closer, offered a steady hand, and peered into the hole of his own doubts to see what lay beneath. The scene was a collage of contradictions—white and black, heavy and light, old and new, all mingled in a single moment of vulnerability. The narrator was present too, sharing in the scene and in the relief that followed. The man expressed gratitude and even tried to offer a fifty-euro note as a token of thanks, yet the narrator declined. A simple lunch, perhaps a plate of mussels with white wine and a filet with casserole, whispered through the mind as a possible small reward for doing the right thing, but it wasn’t the point of the moment.
With the farewell came a quiet unease about the exchange and the money. The narrator walked away not with a brisk breeze but with a renewed awareness of personal contradictions. They do not stay confined to a single space; they hurry along, slipping into pockets and souls, creeping into closets and doors, even gathering in hidden traps. A moment of dizziness arrived, perhaps a result of skipping lunch or the effort of guiding another person away from the pit of doubt. Contradictions are heavy by nature, yet in that encounter they seemed to hover in the background, like a larger, heavier presence behind a smaller, quicker man—someone who carried not just pounds but a weight that did not always show on the surface. Yet the truth remained: the face of the man who helped carry the burden appeared lighter than his own weight would suggest, an odd kind of contradiction in itself.
The narrator quickened their step toward home, aiming to settle the mind and the day. On a shelf they placed adjectives, a playful metaphor for organizing thoughts, while a glass of reality juice steadied the nerves. Seating was attempted, but one stubborn contradiction lingered, a voice that had once shown itself only with the dawn’s first light. It now insisted on making dinner for a partner and even offered opinions about the evening’s Netflix choice. Then the wife arrived, and the day’s events spilled into the room as the narrator shared every detail of the encounter. The response was a gentle reminder that every story carries its own set of contradictions, some loud, some soft, and all true in their moment of telling.