We were raised to worship the heat that burns and the cold that freezes, as if existence had value only when pushed to its extremes. But I have always walked somewhere else, somewhere few ever look: in the lukewarm, the place where the world demands nothing and finally listens.

My two shoes stopped being objects long ago.

They became a silent manifesto: two balances holding me upright against the gravity of expectations, against the quicksand of fears that try to pull me under.

They don’t walk to carry me far, but to remind me that every step I take is mine — even when I stumble. Especially when I stumble.

And then there are my two masters, who are masters of nothing except the invisible motion that runs through me.

They serve me as I serve them, in an ancient reciprocity: I give them shape, and they shape me in return.

They are my limits, yes, but also my secret resources.

Rules are never chains when you learn to pluck them like strings.

I’ve come to understand that life isn’t a war between heat and frost.

The cold is the past, rigid like a cracked pane that lets no light through.

The heat is the future, a fever promising miracles but burning you before it even touches your skin.

And the lukewarm… the lukewarm is the only place where time becomes gentle, where the present softens like clay.

It’s tasteless, they say.

But the flavor is mine to decide.

In the lukewarm, you don’t run, you don’t flee, you don’t burn.

You choose.

It’s a space where life, for a moment, stops screaming.

It simply looks at you.

And you can look back.

I love being lukewarm and flavorless because it’s my private revolution, my refusal of extremes that never belonged to me.

It’s my theory of the three times, my little universe where the past melts, the future quiets, and the present breathes.

I need nothing more.

And maybe life is exactly this:

two shoes to keep you standing,

two masters to turn into allies,

and a lukewarm eternity in which — every day —

you learn to give the world a taste.