Two Ways

 

Two Ways of Being

Seek arrived quietly, as he always does. He brought his own sake and a small ceramic cup—nothing ornate, nothing symbolic in an obvious way, yet everything about it spoke of intention. He knows what he needs, and he carries it without excess.

I had brought my own plain water. I had taken an antihistamine the night before and decided not to drink. It was not a moral decision, just attentiveness. Antihistamines already slow the nervous system; alcohol would only blur the edges further. At this stage of life, wisdom often announces itself as restraint rather than indulgence. I was comfortable with that. Watching Seek drink his sake was enough.

We sat with our backs against the waterfalling glass screen. The water fell endlessly behind us, indifferent to our stories, generous in its constancy. It felt like the right backdrop—something moving, dissolving, repeating.

Seek spoke of Paris.

Not the Paris of postcards or cinema, but a city he found dirty and unkempt. In the mornings, he said, dog shit everywhere—Parisians running their dogs, leaving traces behind. I was genuinely surprised. I had always imagined Paris as paradise. But perhaps paradise, when imagined too cleanly, already contains its own deception.

I realised I have no urge to visit Paris. The idea of paradise troubles me. A place where food is abundant, movement effortless, time plentiful, and nothing urgently needs to be done. What then? What is one meant to do?

If nothing is required of us, do we not risk becoming useless?

Perhaps this is why human beings need struggle—not suffering for its own sake, but resistance, friction, effort. Freud once suggested that raw human energy, if left without outlet, turns destructive. Civilisation invents channels: sport, wrestling, spectacle, even the old rituals of gladiators and bullfights. Energy must move. When it does not, it corrodes.

But Seek’s Paris was never really about Paris.

It was about his move away from Singapore—from the working-class discipline, the constant demand to conform, to behave, to perform. In Paris, he felt free. Not politically liberated, but existentially aligned—as if he had returned to where he should be. Home, not as geography, but as temperament.

For me, that sense of home arises elsewhere. I feel it in China. I remember the streets of 1989—no cars, only bicycles flowing in the mornings and evenings as people went to and returned from work. Uniform, quiet, almost empty. China then felt crime-less, naïve, simple, humble. A softness before acceleration. I felt at ease there, unobserved, unhurried.

Seek continued, and his story shifted.

He spoke of a time in Paris when he could see energy flows—emanating from French Taichi practitioners, flowing from trees, circulating through space. He described it plainly, without embellishment, as lived perception. It was amazing, he said. And then, almost casually, he added that he can no longer see these things. The ability disappeared.

Why?

Perhaps such perceptions arise when the mind is unusually open—through youth, travel, liminality, solitude, or intense practice. When life later demands structure, survival, and discipline, those doors may quietly close. Not as punishment, but as rebalancing.

Perhaps the ability did not vanish, but retreated beneath layers of habit, responsibility, and fatigue. Vision is not always sharpened by clarity; sometimes it is softened by necessity.

Or perhaps some experiences are never meant to be permanent. They visit once, like comets, leaving no obligation to pursue them again.

I have heard of such abilities before—seeing auras, energy, other worlds. I do not see them. Perhaps they are afraid of me. Perhaps I am not tuned to that frequency. Or perhaps I simply walk another path. I do not see energy flows, but I see traces.

Everything leaves a trace.
Every action, every emotion, every intention marks the world subtly.

I may not see energy flowing from trees, but I can sense where a place has been cared for, where people have suffered, where joy once lingered. Traces remain—in architecture, in silence, in the way light rests on a surface.

Faith, to me, is not blind belief. It is persistence without obsession. One keeps walking, keeps attending, keeps living—until something becomes. But desire matters. And here I am clear: I have no desire to see other worlds. I am content as I am.

Happiness does not always come from expansion.
Sometimes it comes from containment.

When Seek’s sake bottle was finally emptied, we shifted gently into something else. We had chocolate—one bottle each. Sweet, grounding, unpretentious. The water continued to fall behind us. Alcohol was no longer needed. The moment was already complete.

We did not need answers.
We did not need conclusions.

The afternoon was enough.

When I think of Seek and Sudeep together, I see two different responses to the same world. One wandered into intensity, excess, laughter, collapse, and acceptance. The other moved quietly, sparingly, seeing things others never noticed, then letting those visions go without protest.

Neither is superior.
Neither is lacking.

They remind me that there is no single way to live truthfully. Some men drink deeply and laugh loudly. Some sip quietly and see what others cannot. Some carry scars visibly; others carry them invisibly. Meaning does not belong to one temperament alone.

Perhaps that is the final lesson these friendships offer me:

Life does not ask us to understand everything.
It asks only that we stay present,
leave honest traces,
and sit with one another long enough
for the afternoon to become whole.