On Flames and Lightness

2024.12.04

I’ve been thinking a great deal about old flames—people I once admired, even loved, who seem so different now. It’s almost childish to admit, but I find myself struck by how free and flirtatious they are with their bodies. From what I’ve heard, they’ve been sleeping around a lot. People have told me wild stories, and I’ve even met some of the people they’ve been with.

Part of me feels this weird disappointment, like the person they used to be wasn’t real. But an even greater part of me feels envious. There’s a lightness about them that I can’t help but admire. They’ve shed societal norms like an old coat, walking through life unburdened by the rules that weigh me down.

Meanwhile, I feel tethered. My life feels heavy, like I’ve taken on so much responsibility that even thinking about unburdening myself feels impossible. It’s as though I’d be hurting myself—or others—if I even tried. Of course, that’s an illusion I fall for again and again.

Still, there’s this lingering thought: If only they hadn’t done this. If only they’d said that. These “if onlys” reveal something uncomfortable: a desire to control. As foolish as it sounds, I want authority over how other people live their lives.

But I can’t control others. I can’t dictate how their light shines. Sometimes it will dazzle me, and other times it won’t. But their freedom—their ability to live authentically—is a kind of beauty. Watching their lightness flourish reminds me that freedom exists, even if it feels out of reach for me right now.

I think the weight I carry is a cage of my own making. And the truth is, with just a snap of my fingers, that cage could disappear.

My sister once gave me a shirt that said, You are not the sun. At the time, I felt like it was a dig. I’ve always had a big ego. Back then, I fancied myself the maker of kingdoms, a leader of crowds. But once those games ended—once school ended—I found myself in the real world.

And the real world has no kingdoms for me.

The realization hit hard: even kings aren’t suns. They want to be, but they aren’t. And neither am I. The unimaginable freedom of that fact is daunting. No one orbits around me. No one depends on me for their light. I could do whatever I wanted, and the world would keep spinning.

So what does that freedom call me to do?

Sometimes, it whispers wild, reckless things:

• Sleep with multiple people.

• Pay for a hooker.

• Lose yourself in drugs and booze.

• Tell a waitress she’s beautiful.

• Sleep on the streets.

• Jump into the sea fully clothed.

• Chase the thief who takes your phone.

• Cheat an old married couple out of their money, just to see if you can—and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

There’s a lightness in those actions, however reprehensible they might seem. They embody a refusal to be weighed down by convention, an unfiltered pursuit of what feels like freedom.

In The Unbearable Lightness of Being, the protagonist exhibits this same lightness. He’s a serial cheater, constantly betraying his wife, who waits for him with endless love. By the end of the novel, that lightness starts to weigh on him. He seeks meaning and responsibility, moving to the countryside with his wife to start anew.

And then, almost immediately, they die in a car crash.

That ending says so much. It’s tragic, yes, but it also shows that their lives ended with a kind of meaning—a balance of lightness and responsibility. It makes me wonder if lightness alone can sustain a person.

I think about those I’ve known who seem weightless. Old flames. Instagram influencers. People living “free.” Their lightness isn’t something to chastise. It’s beautiful in its own way. They’ve chosen to live without judgment or responsibility. They are like birds flying in the morning, even if they’re still sleeping in.

But for me, their freedom also highlights my own struggles. I barely hold onto my own light. I can’t control it, let alone anyone else’s. And honestly, I wouldn’t want to. That kind of control is too heavy a burden.

So maybe the best thing to do is simply witness. Witness their light, even when it doesn’t align with my expectations. Laugh at the unexpected. Celebrate the beauty of it.

Because none of us are the sun. We don’t follow its rules. We don’t bear its weight. Instead, we are light—however fleeting or unbearable that lightness might feel.

And while it may seem like freedom is just a snap of the fingers away, it’s never that simple. It takes bravery to live the life you want. It takes courage to embrace expansiveness and break through the social expectations that keep us caged.

But without that courage, life risks floating away, weightless and unmoored.