I could say that my biggest goal is balance. But don’t get me wrong; I don’t expect to actually achieve it.
I see balance as an endless process, not as a single point in time waiting somewhere in the future. Balance is the acceptance of the good and the bad; balance is being able to fall and rise up again, and again, and again.
Balance is stacking all the bricks. Sometimes there is an avalanche, and thousands and thousands of tiny building blocks fall apart. There is a specific kind of pain that is saved for that moment, for that avalanche.
The avalanche is cruel. Not only does it swallow me into the wet cold ground, but it also keeps on adding more snow as time goes by. And there I am, buried, frozen and absolutely powerless.
The rest of the world loses its beauty: songs are no longer songs, but painful stabs in the heart. Solitude becomes the only balm to my pain, but even it’s effects are short lived. Food is an obligation, and work just a bunch of annoying chores.
Other people’s beauty becomes an offense, and I want to change myself. There are no possibilities, no space to move, no “what’s next?”. There is only a grey, sluggish fake Present, which I want to escape but I can’t.
What I want to say is that it’s not like in the movies. It’s not ripping apart pictures of old lovers, and it’s not the coziness of a fireplace and a book. In the saddest moments, I don’t want to read a book: I want to leave from myself — I want to leave myself, stop being me.
Only in hindsight can I see the beauty of the avalanche, and tell you all about it.