The Weirdos Who Sit

Glitch cinema presents,

THE WEIRDOS WHO SIT

There’s a wall in the city where three weirdos sit. You’ve seen them. Everyone’s seen them. The old man with the white beard and orange sunglasses, sitting cross-legged like he invented patience. The woman in the red hood, dark curls spilling out, looking like she knows something about you that you don’t. And the one in the middle — the astronaut. Golden visor. Red sneakers. Antenna sticking up like they’re still receiving signals from somewhere else.

They don’t busk. They don’t preach. They don’t hand out flyers for anything. They just sit between two black speakers that aren’t plugged into anything, under a massive orange sun painted on a teal wall, drinking coffee like the sun came up just for them and they’re not surprised.

Something about them makes you slow down. Something about the way they’re just… there. Not waiting. Not scrolling. Not going anywhere.

You’ve never stopped before. Who has time to stop? You have seventeen tabs open in your brain and all of them are buffering.

But today, you stop.

Here’s why you stop:

Last night, you made a pros and cons list about your life. You used a spreadsheet. You color-coded it. You assigned weighted values to each factor. You ran it through three different decision-making frameworks you found online.

The result was inconclusive.

Your life is a pie chart that doesn’t add up to 100%.

The woman sees you standing there, carrying something heavy that no one can see. She pats the ground next to her.

Sit, she says. You look like someone who’s about to optimize yourself into a nervous breakdown.

You sit. You don’t know why. Maybe because she’s the first person today who’s looked at you like you’re a human being and not a notification.

The old man hands you a coffee. It materializes from somewhere. You stop questioning things.

Let me guess, he says. Big decision. Life-changing. You’ve thought about it so much your thoughts have thoughts. You’ve journaled. You’ve made mood boards. You’ve asked the algorithm for advice and the algorithm sent you ads for therapy apps and weighted blankets.

You nod. He nods. The astronaut nods. Everyone’s nodding. It’s a nodding party.

And let me guess, he continues. You think there’s a right answer. A correct path. A door that leads to the good life and a door that leads to regret and if you just think hard enough, you’ll figure out which is which.

Yes, you say. That’s exactly it.

He laughs. It’s the laugh of someone who once believed that too and then fell off a cliff and discovered he could float.

The woman leans forward.

Okay, she says. Here’s the thing about choices. You ready? This is the secret. The one they don’t put in the self-help books because it would ruin the industry.

You lean in.

The secret is: the choice isn’t asking “what should I do?” It’s asking “who do I want to be while I’m doing it?”

You blink.

She lets it land.

Not what. Who. Not the spreadsheet question. The mirror question. Are you choosing from fear or from love? From the small self that wants to hide or the big self that’s ready to become?

She sips her coffee.

The choice doesn’t make you. You make the choice. And who you are while making it — that’s the only thing that travels with you to the other side.

But what if I don’t know who I want to be? you ask.

She grins. Oh, you know. You’ve always known. You’re just pretending you don’t because becoming that person is inconvenient.

The astronaut makes a gesture. It might be agreement. It might be interpretive dance. It’s impossible to tell.

The old man jumps in.

Here’s what nobody tells you about growing up, he says. You don’t get smarter. You just get tired of pretending. Tired of performing. Tired of the whole song and dance where you act like you don’t know what you want because wanting things is scary and what if you want the wrong thing?

He sips his coffee.

You know what’s worse than wanting the wrong thing? Wanting nothing. Playing it safe until safe becomes a prison. Being so afraid of regret that you pre-regret everything and do nothing.

The woman nods.

I once turned down a chance to move across the world because I was scared, she says. Spent three years wondering what if. Then I finally went, and you know what I found?

What?

Different problems. Same me. Slightly better food.

She shrugs.

The location wasn’t the point. The going was the point. The saying yes to something when everything in you wanted to say no just to stay comfortable — that was the point.

The astronaut suddenly stands up.

This is unexpected. You’ve never seen the astronaut move. You didn’t think the astronaut HAD legs under there.

The astronaut walks to the wall. Points at the orange sun painted behind them. Makes a circular motion. Points at you. Points at the sun again. Sits back down.

You look at the woman.

Don’t look at me, she says. I’ve known this weirdo for fifteen years and I still don’t understand half the things they do.

The old man strokes his beard.

I think, he says slowly, they’re saying you’re making this too complicated. The sun doesn’t decide to rise. It just rises. The sun doesn’t weigh the pros and cons of morning. It just mornings.

That’s stupid, you say. I’m not the sun. I have responsibilities. I have rent. I have a job that’s slowly eating my soul but also provides dental.

The woman laughs.

Dental! she says. The great silencer of dreams. “I would pursue my passion but… dental.”

She turns to the astronaut.

Remember when you quit everything to go to space?

The astronaut gives a thumbs up.

Did you have dental in space?

The astronaut gives a thumbs down.

Do you have teeth?

The astronaut tilts their helmet. Ambiguous. Hilarious.

Look, the old man says. I’m not going to tell you what to do. That’s not why we’re here. We’re not gurus. We’re just three people who figured out that sitting still is a radical act in a world that wants you busy, broke, and too tired to ask questions.

He gestures at the speakers.

These aren’t even plugged in. We just like how they look. We’re not DJing. We’re not influencing. We’re just… here. Being. In public. On purpose. Without producing anything or optimizing anything or monetizing our presence.

He shrugs.

It freaks people out. It freaks YOU out. Why are they just sitting there? What’s their angle? What are they selling?

He leans in.

Nothing. We’re selling nothing. We’re proof that it’s possible to just exist without a revenue stream.

The woman picks it up.

Your generation — and I say this with love because I was the same — you think you have to earn your place in the world. Earn rest. Earn joy. Earn the right to stop hustling for five minutes. Like there’s a meter running and if you’re not productive, you’re stealing oxygen.

She points at the sun on the wall.

The sun doesn’t earn rising. The sun just rises. The moon doesn’t deserve shining. The moon just shines. You’re not here to prove you’re worthy of being here. You’re here because you’re here. That’s the whole application process. You showed up. Congratulations. You’re in.

You sit there. The coffee is getting cold. Your phone has buzzed seventeen times in your pocket. You haven’t checked it. This might be a personal record.

So what do I do? you ask. About the choice?

The astronaut reaches out. Slowly. Touches the center of your chest. Not your head. Not your gut. The center of your chest.

You feel something. Not mystical. Just… warm. Like being reminded of something you forgot.

The astronaut withdraws. Goes back to their coffee. Mission complete.

The old man translates.

There’s a place in you that already knows. It’s not your brain — your brain is a search engine, it just shows you what you’ve already been looking for. It’s not your gut — your gut is just fear and lunch making noise together.

He taps his own chest.

It’s here. The quiet one. The one that doesn’t argue. The one that just says, softly, clearly, once: this.

You’ve heard it before. When you met someone and knew. When you left someone and knew. When you took the job or quit the job or made the call or ended the call. The knowing was there. You just don’t trust it because it doesn’t come with spreadsheets.

The woman stands up. Stretches.

Okay, here’s your homework, she says. Go home. Don’t make the decision. Don’t think about the decision. Do something stupid instead. Dance badly. Cook something you’ve never cooked. Call someone you haven’t talked to in years just to say “I was thinking about you.”

She grins.

The decision will make itself while you’re not looking. Decisions are like cats. They don’t come when you call them. They arrive when you stop chasing.

What if I make the wrong choice? you ask. What if I ruin everything?

The old man laughs.

Ruin everything? You’re not that powerful. And neither is the choice. The world keeps spinning. The sun keeps rising. You’ll stumble, you’ll course-correct, you’ll figure it out. That’s not failure. That’s called being alive.

The astronaut stands again. Walks to you. Bends down so your face is level with the visor.

You see yourself reflected. Distorted. Weird. Kind of funny-looking, actually.

The astronaut puts both hands on your shoulders. Gives you a little shake. The kind a friend gives you when you’re spiraling.

Then: a hug. The astronaut hugs you. You’re being hugged by someone in a space suit on a random sidewalk between two unplugged speakers under a painted sun.

It’s absurd.

It’s the best hug you’ve ever received.

You walk away eventually. You have to. The world is still there, waiting, with its tabs and its notifications and its pie charts that don’t add up.

But something’s different.

You’re not trying to solve yourself anymore. You’re not a problem to be fixed. You’re a person who stopped at a wall and sat with three strangers and got hugged by an astronaut and drank mystery coffee and somehow, somehow, came out lighter.

That night, you don’t make a pros and cons list.

You make dinner. Badly. You burn the garlic and undercook the rice and it’s the best meal you’ve ever made because you made it without optimizing anything.

You call your mom. She cries a little. You don’t know why. You don’t ask. Some things aren’t for knowing. Some things are just for feeling together.

The choice?

It makes itself three days later. You’re in the shower, not thinking about anything, and suddenly you know. Not think. Know. The way you know you’re hungry or tired or in love.

You don’t know if it’s the right choice. You’ll never know. That’s not how choices work. There’s no alternate timeline where you can check. There’s just this one. The one you’re in. The one that’s still being written.

The three still sit at that wall. You walk past sometimes. You wave. They wave back. The astronaut gives you a thumbs up.

You still don’t know their names. You still don’t know why they’re there. You still don’t know where the coffee comes from.

Some things aren’t for knowing.

Some things are just for being grateful for.

Three weirdos on a wall.

A white beard. A red hood. Red sneakers on an astronaut.

A sun that doesn’t earn rising.

A hug from someone who’s been to space.

And you — walking a little slower now. Checking your phone a little less. Trusting the knowing that doesn’t need spreadsheets.

You were always the first point.

The choice? That was just the second.

Life’s way of making you sit down long enough to remember.

Now go burn some garlic. The astronaut believes in you. Go live. And maybe close a few of those seventeen tabs. And for god’s sake, stop watching the news.

Better yet — find a wall, sit down, and become the weirdo someone else needs to see.

START MEDITATION