Usually, I'm only sad when something sad happens. I am not a

Monica Bellucci, with the clarity of one who understands herself, once declared: “Usually, I’m only sad when something sad happens. I am not a melancholic person. I like to live very much in the present. If I was an animal, I’d be a little cat. They like to live life.” Though spoken gently, these words echo with ancient wisdom. They remind us that life is best lived not in endless worry or sorrow, but in presence, simplicity, and the joy of being.

The ancients spoke often of those who carried the weight of melancholy, souls who dwelt always in sadness, even when the day was bright. Yet Bellucci distances herself from this, saying she is sad only when the cause arises. This is wisdom: emotions should visit us like passing clouds, not chain us like iron. To weep when sorrow comes is natural, but to cling to grief without cause is to darken one’s own soul. Her words recall the teachings of Epicurus, who urged men to live simply, savoring the present, and not be enslaved by unnecessary fears or sorrows.

Her declaration, “I like to live very much in the present,” is also a philosophy of life. The Stoics and Buddhists alike taught that the present moment is the only ground we truly stand upon. Regret chains us to the past; fear binds us to the future. But the present is freedom, for it is the only time we can truly live. To be present is to taste food fully, to see beauty clearly, to love without distraction. Bellucci reminds us that wisdom is not always found in great tomes, but in the simple discipline of living now.

And then she says: “If I was an animal, I’d be a little cat. They like to live life.” This is not a frivolous remark but a profound metaphor. The cat, in its quiet grace, embodies the art of presence. It stretches in the sun, purrs when content, hunts when hungry, and rests without shame. It does not regret yesterday’s hunt nor fear tomorrow’s hunger—it simply is. To live like the cat is to embrace life with simplicity, dignity, and joy. The ancients saw animals as teachers; Bellucci, too, sees in the cat an emblem of how to live.

History gives us examples of those who mastered this art of presence. Leonardo da Vinci, though a man of immense genius, was known to pause and watch the play of light on water, to sketch a bird in mid-flight, to live fully in the moment of observation. His genius was not only in great inventions, but in his capacity to be fully alive to each passing moment. Bellucci’s words echo this same truth: greatness does not always lie in melancholy contemplation, but in vivid presence.

Yet her words also challenge us. For many, melancholy is a temptation—the endless brooding over what might have been, the constant shadow of “what if.” To live as Bellucci describes is not to deny sorrow, but to keep it in its rightful place: to mourn when mourning is due, and then to release it, so that life may continue to flow. This discipline is difficult, yet it is the path of freedom.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not imprison yourself in unnecessary sadness. Feel grief when it comes, but do not summon it when it is absent. Live in the present, as the cat lives, unburdened by what is gone and unafraid of what is to come. Practice gratitude, pause to savor, and let your life be lived in fullness, not in shadows.

So let each who hears these words take them to heart: awaken to the day before you. Be like the cat in its quiet wisdom—graceful, present, alive. For life is not meant to be drowned in endless melancholy; it is meant to be lived, moment by moment, with courage, joy, and presence.