20260331 No running because of the rain. 2grandmas I saw yesterday

It rained through the night, and I went to bed with a small concern—that I might not be able to go out for a run in the morning.
The day before, I had bought a running belt, one that would hold my phone at my waist and let me move freely.
It wasn’t a big purchase, but it felt like the beginning of a new habit. Today was supposed to be the first time I tried it.
I woke up at 4:30 a.m. Five hours of sleep. The day before had been physically exhausting—over 15,000 steps, a full workout, the kind of fatigue that should naturally bring sleep. But insomnia doesn’t follow that kind of logic. Your body is tired, but your mind refuses to rest.
 
People often say that if you exercise enough or keep yourself busy, sleep will come. But that advice belongs to people who have never struggled with insomnia. For those who rely on medical help to fall asleep, going to bed is not a moment of rest. It’s something closer to fear.

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Yesterday, on the subway, I noticed two elderly women. They were, in a quiet way, very endearing.
Lately, I find myself paying more attention to elderly women. They often share similar hairstyles, quilted jackets, and a limited range of styles—almost like a kind of uniform. At one point, I even caught myself thinking that I should buy a good quilted jacket and wear it for the rest of my life, into old age. But within a week, the weather had already turned warm, and yesterday, a short-sleeved shirt felt just right.
 

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Back to the two women. The one who looked younger spoke first.
“Unni, it’s so good to see you after such a long time. You look so nice today.”
Her voice was soft and affectionate.
 
They stood in the middle of the platform, holding each other’s hands for quite a while. Perhaps they had planned to meet somewhere near the station, and simply ran into each other as they got off the train. The older one didn’t say much. The younger one kept touching her, as if to confirm that she was really there. Watching them, I found myself thinking of my own friends. There was something quietly moving about the moment.
What she said— “It’s so good to see you again”— didn’t sound like a simple greeting.
It sounded more like this: Thank you for being alive. I’m so glad we can still meet like this.

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I used to think that as people grow older, life becomes emptier, and they slowly lose interest in everything.
But watching them made me reconsider that thought. Even then, meeting someone you care about,
exchanging a few warm words—that alone can still hold meaning. And for a moment,
that realization warmed me.

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Later, I went to see an exhibition. Before going, I had looked it up online. There were many critical reviews, some written in a blunt, almost aggressive tone. I wondered how the artist would feel reading them. Criticizing someone may require courage. But when it comes to artists, criticism can sometimes feel unnecessarily harsh.
Anyone who has ever created something of their own would probably understand this.
 
Even if I don’t like a piece, I wish we could be a little more careful in how we respond to it. Isn’t there a way to express our thoughts without stripping away all sense of care? The kind of feedback I believe in is something one artist could offer to another— thoughtful, restrained, and sincere.
If I had to put it into words, I would say something like this: I may not have fully understood your work. At times, your way of expression made me uncomfortable. But I think I can sense, at least in part, what you were trying to say.
 

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