October 24, 2025
Friday evening.
The rain has finally let up, leaving the Parisian streets slick and gleaming under the halogen glow of the streetlights. My shift ended an hour ago, and the silence of my small apartment in the 18th arrondissement feels almost deafening after a day of engine hum, incessant chatter, and the blaring symphony of city traffic. I am twenty-four, a taxi driver, and tonight, a pervasive unease clings to me like the dampness of the evening air. It’s not a sharp anxiety, more a dull, persistent thrum beneath the surface, a feeling that something is just slightly off-kilter.
Today began much like any other. Early start, the smell of stale coffee from my thermos, navigating the pre-dawn quiet that quickly gives way to the morning rush. But the thread of this particular unease began to spool out this afternoon, during a lull in fares near the Jardin des Plantes. I found myself with a rare twenty minutes to spare and, on a whim, ducked into a small bouquiniste’s stall I hadn’t noticed before. It was a charming place, cluttered and dusty, filled with the scent of old paper and forgotten lives. I love old books, not just for their stories, but for the tangible history they hold. I picked up a worn copy of Albert Camus’s ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’ – a book I’d always meant to read, drawn to its themes of the absurd and human resilience.
Back in the relative quiet of my taxi, parked briefly, I opened the book. And there it was. Nestled deep within the pages, between chapters three and four, a bookmark. Not a fancy one, not a silk ribbon or an embossed leather strip. This was a simple, unassuming thing: a rectangle of thick, cream-colored cardstock, slightly frayed at the edges. What struck me was its nature – utterly plain, completely anonymous. There were no names, no dates, no scribbled notes. Just the faint, barely perceptible imprint of a thumbprint near the top, as if someone had held it often, turning the page. It wasn’t about the bookmark itself, but the unexpected intimacy of its presence.
That’s when the unease started to coalesce. It was a strange sensation, like stumbling upon a forgotten breath. Who owned this before me? What were they thinking when they last placed this simple piece of card in these very pages? Did they finish the book? Did they understand Sisyphus’s struggle, or were they, too, feeling the weight of the absurd in their own lives, perhaps setting the book down in frustration, never to return? It felt like an accidental trespass into a private moment, a quiet whisper from a stranger’s past. I held the bookmark, turning it over in my fingers, imagining a person – old, young, male, female – their face indistinct, their life story completely unknown. It was a poignant reminder of all the unknown narratives that intersect with ours daily, the countless lives we brush past without ever truly seeing.
It made me think about my own life, too. Twenty-four, driving a taxi in Paris. Am I just another fleeting presence in countless passengers’ lives, a momentary guide through the city’s labyrinth? What mark do I leave? Do I, too, leave forgotten bookmarks in the books of other people’s experiences – a kind word, a momentary silence, a route chosen? The thought was strangely unsettling. It brought home the immense anonymity of city life, the vast ocean of human experience in which we are all just tiny, interconnected droplets, each carrying our own untold stories and quiet struggles.
And speaking of struggles, my other challenge of the day, eating healthily, felt almost comically mundane in comparison, yet it fed into this overall sense of unease. As a taxi driver, good intentions about healthy eating often fall victim to the merciless demands of the schedule and the siren call of convenience. I start the day with grand plans – a packed lunch, perhaps some fruit. But by midday, after three hours of fighting traffic and dealing with demanding passengers, the quick, greasy kebab from the corner, or the warm, flaky pain au chocolat from the boulangerie, becomes an irresistible temptation. Today was no different.
I managed a decent breakfast – a small bowl of muesli, which felt like a victory. But lunch rolled around, and despite having a perfectly good sandwich packed, I yielded. The smell of frying onions and sizzling meat from a food truck near Porte de Clichy was too powerful. Before I knew it, I was holding a paper plate with frites and a merguez sausage sandwich, slathered in harissa. Delicious, yes. Healthy? Absolutely not. And then, the afternoon slump, the need for a pick-me-up, which led to a sugary pastry. Each unhealthy choice added a small, almost imperceptible layer to the growing unease. It’s the feeling of lacking discipline, of letting yourself down, of not being quite in control of even the simplest aspects of your own well-being. It’s the constant battle between what I know I should do and what the immediate gratification of a busy, tiring day pushes me towards.
This evening, as I sit here, the Camus book open on my lap, the plain bookmark resting on the table beside it, the unease hasn’t quite dissipated. It’s a tapestry woven from small threads: the anonymous whisper from a past owner, the quiet failure of my healthy eating ambitions, and the sheer repetitive grind of my job, which sometimes makes me feel like Sisyphus himself, pushing the same stone up the same hill, day after day. Is this what being 24 feels like? This murky, uncertain space between youthful ambition and the stark realities of adult life? The city outside, normally a source of vibrant energy, tonight feels like a vast, indifferent stage where countless private dramas, hopes, and disappointments play out, largely unseen.
I suppose tomorrow will bring another day, another shift, another chance to eat better, another opportunity to maybe, just maybe, feel a little less unsettled. But for now, the quiet hum of the unease persists, a subtle reminder of the intricate, often melancholic, beauty of the human condition, and the countless small stories that make up our existence.
Leave a Reply