Summer 2018, there was this cafe on Pascoe Street—G. Jones, all-day eatery—that I’d go to when I couldn’t deal with being at home alone. That time, my wife had already been moved to another state, and I had to finish a few things before I could move back with her. That was a year alone on that street. Light wood tables, smelled like burnt coffee, sticky and old books, terrible wifi. Perfect place to avoid your life, basically.

This older guy came in every Tuesday. Same time, same seat, same order. Just like me—I need my same place and same spot to drink my coffee. Black coffee, and he’d pull out this destroyed paperback—Nietzsche, the blue Penguin edition—and read for like an hour, then leave. Never talked to anyone. Just him and his coffee and his book. He looked like some guy who works in a bookshop or writes scrappy philosophy articles for newspapers.

I was jealous of him, honestly. Not because he was reading philosophy or whatever. Because he seemed to know what he was doing there. I was there because my roommate was home and I couldn’t write with her cooking and talking all day. Because I’d agreed to finish this freelance thing I didn’t want to do. Because my friend kept texting me about finishing an essay for a Nepali community paper—it was called P.B.—and I was pretending not to see the messages.

One Tuesday, the guy left his book on the table. I should’ve given it to the barista, but I took it instead. Still have it. Well, I gifted it—actually, he borrowed it, but I haven’t gotten it back yet—the same book to my cousin who was in Nepal at that time. I know I should have returned that book later, but it has fabulous scribbles in the margins, which I didn’t want to lose.

That’s how I ended up re-reading about these three metamorphoses—the camel, the lion, the child—from a different angle. Zarathustra standing around in The Pied Cow teaching people about transformation or whatever.

Didn’t really get it the first time I read it. Seemed like one of those things that sounds deep but doesn’t actually mean anything, you know? But it kept bugging me. I’d be doing dishes or stuck in traffic, and I’d think about the camel part. The spirit that kneels down, asking what’s the heaviest thing I can carry.

That’s me, isn’t it. That’s what I’ve been doing. Carrying the burden of my own existence.

Not dramatically or anything. Just small stuff that adds up. Sure, I’ll cover your shift. Yeah, I can help you move. Of course I’ll watch your cat for two weeks, even though I’m allergic and you know this. My friend Rachel calls it my disease to please, which is such a therapist phrase, but also she’s not wrong.

My wife does this too. Would say yes to everything—cooking she didn’t want to do, driving everyone everywhere, hosting dinners she didn’t want to host. Then she’d be exhausted and stressed and somehow still making it seem effortless. I remember her sitting at the kitchen table at like 11 p.m., tired, and when I asked why she was doing this, she just said, “Someone has to.” Yes, we are people-pleasers. That’s our problem.

Someone has to. That’s the camel motto right there.

And there’s something in it that feels good, I guess. Being needed. Being the reliable one. The person people call because they know you’ll show up. Strip that away and what are you—just some random person taking up space and resources for no particular reason.

The weight makes you matter. That’s the trick of it.

I think about my dad a lot with this. He worked as a farmer, and his body was basically destroyed by fifty. Problem with one toe, knees shot, back problems, hands all messed up. But he’d still help people—build decks for neighbors, fix their electric wires at home, supervise their home-builders. Couldn’t say no. Wouldn’t say no. Afraid of being a burden. The camel doesn’t know how to not carry.

The lion thing happened to me by accident later in my life.

Friends got together about four years ago—after I moved here from Pascoe Street, just before Covid—and my friend’s going off about something. Politics, probably. He’s always doing this. And everyone’s doing that thing where you just let him talk and hope he runs out of steam. I could feel my jaw getting tight. This pressure building up.

And I just said, “That’s bullshit.”

Not even loud. Just flat. That’s bullshit.

Everything stopped. My wife’s face went white. My friend stared at me like I’d grown a second head. And I doubled down—told him his numbers were wrong, his sources were garbage, and I was tired of pretending to respect opinions that weren’t based on anything real.

I left early, walked home with my hands shaking. Couldn’t tell if I felt powerful or sick.

After that, it got easier to say no. Boss asks me to stay late—no. Landlord trying to raise rent without fixing anything—here’s a list of repairs that need to happen first. Change my carpet first, put light bulbs in first.

Felt amazing for like three months. Like I’d figured something out that everyone else was too scared to figure out. Standing up for yourself. Setting boundaries. All those phrases people throw around.

But then I was just angry all the time. Everything felt like a fight. Every request felt like someone trying to exploit me. Started seeing dragons everywhere—golden scales glittering with “thou shalts”—and I wanted to destroy all of them. Be authentic. Be true to yourself. Don’t let anyone tell you what to do.

My friend S.F. stopped inviting me to things. Can’t blame her, really. Every conversation turned into me ranting about something. Every social interaction became this test of whether someone was being genuine or just using me. Exhausting. For me and definitely for everyone around me.

I remember from the book’s margin—that mysterious man had written down, “The lion tears things down.” It was scribbled more than once to make it bold, like a texture. That’s what it does. Fights the dragon, says “I will” against all the “thou shalts.” And you need that, probably. Can’t figure out what you actually want if you’re always doing what you’re supposed to want.

But it doesn’t build anything. You win the fight, and then you’re just standing there in the wreckage going—okay, now what.

That was me at thirty-three. I’d cleared all this space in my life and had no idea what to put there.

The child part I barely understand. The man from the G. Jones cafe had written many notes in the margin about the child part—never understood either his handwriting, his ideas, his logic. Like, intellectually I get it—innocence, new beginning, sacred yes to life, blah blah. But what does that actually look like when you’re tired and broke and the world keeps demanding things from you?

I had this moment last week, though. I was with my wife at the store, and they had pomegranates on sale. I don’t even like pomegranates. They’re annoying—too much work for not enough payoff. But they looked cool, so I bought one.

Got home and spent like half an hour opening it. Made this huge mess, juice everywhere, seeds pinging off the counter onto the floor. And I ate maybe ten seeds. Wasn’t even that good. But I was completely absorbed doing it. Not thinking about anything else. Not trying to prove anything. Not fighting anything. Just opening a pomegranate because it seemed interesting.

That’s it? That’s the transformation everyone talks about? Seems stupid when I write it out. I should jot down this transformation in that book’s margin, but sadly my gift hasn’t been returned yet.

But maybe that’s the point. The child doesn’t have an agenda. Doesn’t need things to matter or mean something. Just does stuff because doing it is absorbing right then. Now I understand that man from G. Jones cafe—he used to observe something like this, jotting down carefully, not even knowing what he was writing, maybe.

I watch my neighbor’s kid sometimes—he’s maybe six or seven. Draws on the sidewalk with chalk for hours. Not drawing anything specific. Just colors and lines and shapes. Rain comes and washes it away, and he doesn’t care. Next day he’s out there drawing something else.

When did I stop being able to do that? I used to draw constantly as a kid. Terrible comics about superheroes, maps of made-up worlds, portraits of the dog. Stopped sometime in high school (I had written one essay about my last sketch already) when drawing became something you were either good at or you weren’t. When it had to be for something—art class, college applications, a career maybe. When it stopped being play.

The Pied Cow. Weird name. Pied means spotted or multicolored—all the colors at once. Maybe that’s the real thing Nietzsche’s saying. You’re not supposed to become just the child and stay there like you’ve reached enlightenment or whatever. You’re all three, depending on what’s happening. Figuring out Nietzsche is very hard for real intellectuals too. I am nothing special.

Some days I’m still the camel. Said yes to covering someone’s shift yesterday even though I’m already working six days this week. Why did I do that? I don’t know. Habit, probably. Or that feeling of being needed.

Some days I’m the lion. Got into it with my movers last month about the broken boxes. Sent them a very detailed email (nearly 2,000 words—actually, my wife also helped me rant about it) about moving rights and consumer codes. Felt good. Also felt tiring.

And some days—not often, but sometimes—I’m just doing something for no reason, and it doesn’t feel like wasted time. Making something badly. Taking the long way home. Buying fruit I don’t even like because it looks interesting.

The guy never came back for his book. Or I never wanted to give it back. I moved with my wife just before Covid, and the cafe closed permanently during lockdown anyway. I kept the book on my desk for a few years, pages all bent and coffee-stained. Keep meaning to read the rest of it, but I always end up back at the three metamorphoses section. Maybe that’s all I need from it. Last day, while I was on the bus to work, I suddenly recalled The Pied Cow, the cafe, that book, that man. I don’t even know why. Or maybe I was playing with ChatGPT last night before going to sleep—I was telling it to make the hardest quiz about Zarathustra, and the best part, I got 12 out of 15 That was the reason I recalled it in the morning bus ride—I made a serious quiz-mistake.

Or maybe I’m just avoiding the harder parts. Probably that. But years after, it came anyway—in my head.

I was testing my Nietzschean knowledge with ChatGPT, diving into Zarathustra’s subtle traps, line sequences, and nuanced details—challenging, fun, and a true trial of philosophy and memory.

I’m writing this in a different place now. Different home, different room, not a cafe. Different city, actually.

The camel, the lion, the child. I cycle through them multiple times a day, probably. Not cleanly. Not consciously. Just whatever skin I’m wearing at that moment until I’m not wearing it anymore.

It’s not profound. It’s not even particularly helpful as a framework. But sometimes I’ll notice—oh, I’m doing the camel thing right now, carrying weight I didn’t agree to carry. Or I’m fighting a fight that doesn’t need fighting. Or I’m just existing for a second without performing anything.

And noticing is something, I guess. Better than sleepwalking through it all. Better than dying in a hospital apologizing for taking up space.

The book’s sitting on the table in front of me right now—different book, though. It’s hardcover, not the Penguin edition. Clean, nothing written in the margin. And I recall that book. Should probably return it to that guy somehow. But I don’t know his name. Don’t know anything about him except he had a routine, and then one day he didn’t. Hope he’s okay. Hope he figured out his own metamorphoses, or at least figured out which animal he is most days.

Hope we all do eventually.