WiFi, Waves, and the Illusion of Rest...

Sometimes, it takes a Facebook notification to remind me that I’ve actually lived. Not merely existed—which is already a feat—but truly lived, like dipping my toes in something other than the shower of a rented apartment. Today, exactly one year ago, I saw the sea for the last time. I kept my shoes on, of course—it was for work. The beauty of the moment was sabotaged by unopened emails and WiFi signals that refused to die.

Conversely, there’s something poetically cruel about working in front of beauty and not being able to touch it. Like living in a museum while being part of the janitorial staff. That afternoon in Pampatar, between calls and reheated coffee, the sea was a silent witness to my upside-down priorities. They say a landscape is best enjoyed with a glass of wine, but I barely had mobile data.

Meanwhile, I wondered if we’re really built for rest or just trained to hoard exhaustion like loyalty points we never redeem. I’m 33, and I still struggle to justify sitting down to watch the sunset without guilt. Why does being okay feel so suspicious?

Still, I’m grateful for that image: a perfect postcard of my imperfect disconnection. Sometimes a photo isn’t a memory—it’s evidence. That I was there. That I owe myself a break flavored with salt, not stress. That the sea waits, but not forever.

In the end, I write this not out of complaint, nor envy, but with the kind of dark humor only those who’ve laughed mid-collapse can truly appreciate. Because sometimes, surviving in style is the most revolutionary act of all.