There are thinkers, and then there are dancers. Zorba was a dancer. Not just in body, but in spirit. He didn’t believe in preparing for life — he believed in plunging into it, tasting it, shouting with it, even bleeding with it. While others were busy making sense of existence, Zorba was already in the sea, swimming, laughing, and calling life by its first name. He didn’t ask for purpose — he lit a fire and cooked a meal.

Zorba is not a man, he is a metaphor. A reminder that not everything needs to be figured out. Some things need to be lived, wildly. When fear comes, Zorba doesn’t analyse it — he dances through it. When heartbreak strikes, he weeps without shame, and by evening, he pours wine again and plays his santuri.

He is not irresponsible — he is deeply present. His attention belongs fully to the woman he loves, the food he eats, the sky he sleeps under. He doesn’t live in tomorrow. He lives in the pulse of now. And that makes him free in a way thinkers envy.

But Zorba isn’t perfect. He fails, loses, burns, and breaks. And yet he says, “Life is trouble. Only death is not.” That one sentence holds more spiritual truth than volumes of philosophy. He doesn’t escape pain — he embraces it like a mad friend. And that mad embrace becomes joy.

For those who live too much in their heads, Zorba feels dangerous. But for those who are tired of thinking, tired of hesitating, he feels like home. Zorba reminds us that wisdom isn’t always soft — sometimes, it’s raw, loud, messy, and full of appetite. Sometimes, to be spiritual is not to renounce, but to taste — and to keep tasting even when life burns the tongue.

And perhaps the question is not whether we are Zorba or not. The real question is — when did we stop being Zorba?

— from The Inner Notebook