The weight of wanting

It's 1:00 AM and I'm sitting by my window watching Paris sleep.

I should be sleeping too. Tomorrow—today, technically—I was planning to visit the Louvre. Get there early, beat the crowds, see the Impressionists I've been thinking about since Osaka. The kind of plan that usually makes me feel settled.

But I can't sleep.

The rain stopped around midnight. The temperature finally dropped to something reasonable, maybe 22°C. The streets are still wet, reflecting the streetlights in long golden streaks. From here I can see a couple walking home, their laughter carrying up through the quiet.

I keep thinking about that museum guard from a few days ago. The one who said something about taking time.

I've been in Paris for almost three weeks now. I've walked thousands of steps. Visited museums. Sat in cafés. Danced in Place des Vosges during the festival. Walked along the Seine at sunrise. All these small acts of showing up that felt like progress.

And they were. They are.

But tonight, sitting here in the dark, I'm realizing something uncomfortable.

I have 198 days left. Just over six months. My flight home is booked for January 9th—my 51st birthday. The date I set back in Kristiansand when this whole thing was just an idea, a desperate attempt to figure out how to change the world by first changing myself.

Six months.

I still have so much I want to see. Bali. South Africa. Peru. Places I've dreamed about since I started planning this journey. Places I told myself I'd visit, experiences I told myself I'd have.

But I'm also tired.

Not the physical kind of tired that sleep fixes. The other kind. The kind that comes from constantly moving, constantly seeking, constantly trying to find meaning in every moment.

I thought transformation would feel different. More dramatic. Like one day I'd wake up and suddenly understand everything—my purpose, how to change the world, who I'm supposed to be.

Instead it's been these small moments. The decision to walk out the door during a heatwave. Dancing in a square because the music was there. Sitting in a café and just... being.

And maybe that's enough.

But maybe it's not.

That's what's keeping me awake. The weight of wanting both things at once. Wanting to stay and wanting to go. Wanting to push forward to see everything and wanting to stop and let things settle. Wanting transformation and wanting to accept that maybe I've already changed in ways I can't quite see yet.

I have a departure date in October. Four months from now. A ticket to somewhere that isn't here.

But between now and then, I need to figure out what I'm actually doing. Not just where I'm going, but why. Not just what I'm running toward, but what I'm carrying with me.

The couple on the street has disappeared around a corner. The city is almost completely quiet now, just the distant sound of a single car somewhere.

I think about that jogger who stopped to check on me. The café owner who understood the exhaustion of the heat. The museum guard who smiled about taking time. All these small moments of connection with people I'll probably never see again.

Maybe that's what I'm supposed to be learning. Not how to change the world in some grand dramatic way, but how to show up for these small moments. How to be present. How to notice when someone needs checking on. How to smile at strangers who are taking their time.

Maybe changing the world starts with just... being in it. Really being in it.

I don't know.

What I do know is that it's 1:15 now and I'm still not sleeping. The Louvre will still be there tomorrow if I'm too tired to go. Paris will still be here. The trees along the Seine will still be standing.

And I'll still have 198 days to figure out what I'm doing with this gift of time I gave myself.

For now, I'm just going to sit here and watch the city sleep and try not to think too hard about wanting everything at once.