I am so incredibly tired of a story that is a million versions of the same subject — the pain of separation.
The Same Old Story
When we look back into human history, we find there is always war. Every museum hosts large paintings of epic battles, wounded soldiers, crying mothers. There are victories and even acts of reconciliation — people who just recently hated each other’s guts now drink to fraternity. And out of every act of reconciliation, a new enemy is born. We against the world. A strong bond, a deep love, built on the premise of hating the other.
All of this is nothing new, I know.
Paris
I knew all of this already. And then I went to Paris — and I felt it.
The city of love, great wine and baguette. I can attest to those things. But other than sleeping in, enjoying long breakfasts, and leisurely strolling through the city, we went for some culture. And as beautiful and tender my very intimate experiences were, as shocking and confusing was the discord I felt with the way we look at things at large.
The Panthéon
The building stopped me before I even went in. Something about its scale, its confidence, its sheer beauty — made me wonder. We have better technology now. Better materials, better engineering. And yet standing in front of the Panthéon, I felt less advanced than humbled. We change. We improve. But do we grow? The question followed me inside — and the answer, hanging on every wall, was not encouraging.
The Heroes on the Wall
The walls are filled with heroes. Young, beautiful, fearless — men and women who gave their lives for a cause greater than themselves. Joan of Arc is among them — peasant girl, divine mission, improbable victory, burned at the stake at nineteen, declared a saint by the institution that killed her. The stories differ in their details. The shape is always the same.
We admire selfless sacrifice. There is something deep and human in that admiration. But I found myself standing there, looking at all those young, lost lives, and asking a question I couldn’t quite silence: was it worth it? Did it change anything — really? Or did it simply clear the stage for the next version of the same story?
Is this how we define a hero — someone who dies young for a cause the world forgets to honour? We still live in a world scarred by war and injustice. The enemy lines change, the injustice has a different face, the story has new details — but at its core it is always the same. The heroes die. The story continues. And we hang their portraits on the wall and call it history.
Spellbound by the Past
The basement of the Panthéon is full of tombs. And perhaps that is where history belongs — not on a pedestal, but examined with clear eyes and a compassionate heart. History matters. Looking back matters. But not to glorify, not to repeat — to understand. To see our past actions with distance and through a new lens. To honour those who were wronged. To sit with the weight of what was done and ask, honestly: what did we learn? And are we living that learning?
I can find admiration for the tender human condition in every period of history. The regular family, raising many children, tending to their fields, loving one another as best they could. There is a quiet beauty in that — and there always has been. But the glorification of battles repulses me. If we have to look back, we should at least be changed by it.
I felt this — not cognitively, but on a very basic emotional level — standing amidst all that history. The sadness of our imprisonment. The inescapability of our mindset. The perpetuating wound that comes with it. I was just so incredibly tired of this story.
Stepping Into the Light
And then I walked out.
Out of the tombs. Out of the paintings. Out of the long, heavy corridor of human history and into the sunlight. Fresh air. The present moment, immediate and alive. For me, this is the best part of every vacation — to step out of my everyday story into a new one. Where the next step is always an adventure. Where the moment in the sun is the greatest good.
But the sunlight also brought a question. Not about history out there — but about the history in here. The stories I carry. The patterns I repeat. The wounds I return to, dress up in new details, and call my own original experience.
Because the question the Panthéon left me with was not only about humanity. It was personal.
Am I rewriting the same old story — again and again, in different costumes, with different characters, telling myself it is new? Or am I ready for something genuinely different? Not just an improvement. A growth. Not a new enemy, a new cause, a new portrait on the wall — but a new story altogether. One that begins not with separation, but with something else entirely.
We have been standing in the tomb long enough. The door is open. The light is there.
The only question is whether we are ready to walk out.
Three questions:
- Which story do you keep rewriting — and what would it take to finally put the pen down?
- Where in your life are you calling repetition progress — and what would genuine growth look like?
- What would it mean to step out of the tomb of your own history — and into something new?
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