Portrait of a Midlife Crisis (rec)
Endurance is not the same as living.
Written in moments of existential crisis just before dawn on a cold winter Thursday while I am living the dream of a lifetime by rooting in Madrid for a month. Proof that our state of mind and our state of being are often disconnected.
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We all live with something. None are whole. It is the great tragedy of our times that we can only see the outside, while the whole of existence generates in the unseen. Everyone hides somewhere. Under the rock of achievement, or in the cave of inebriation, wrapped in the blanket of transitory relationships, possibly under the rug of a creative life—or worst of all, tenacious progress through accepting things that should change. That need to.
Wolf? A lifetime lived in pain, punctuated by moments of anesthesia—brief mercies that soothe the scared little boy pulling strings from inside this aging hulk. The body greys, wrinkles, loosens its grip. It breaks down honestly. But the masters of fear do not age. Infinite creatures, they who refine—grow sharper, more intimate, more convincing.
The scared boy in me never stopped working. He learned early that survival meant vigilance, that relief came only in flashes: desire, touch, meaning, feeling useful. Not healing—just enough quiet to keep breathing. Keep spinning the wheel. So he stayed at the controls long past the point of reason, long past the point of strength.
Now the fears, honed to a razors edge, speak softly. They sound like wisdom. They say this is what a life amounts to: endurance, longing, small anesthetics against a vast ache. They insist there was never another way.
We cannot avoid this. Only go through it. How we hold ourselves is the only power we have against the scared marionette. I don't know if we can cut the strings and set the boy free—that feels like an impossible effort. Some lucky few, find the right key to their own lock. A soul who can open them, see us objectively and, honestly, tell us that we're okay.
If you find that rareness, and it is exceedingly rare, hold on. Trust it. Reciprocate. We are too hurried in our lives to take the time we need to find the keys to our locks and so we quickly align with the wrong key, or even other locks. Injustice of the worst kind: chosen and abided because that is the way.
But, do not despair, little bird. If you shroud your darkness, your fear under the comfort of little anesthesia's, life is not over. Just more difficult than it need be.
Sometimes—rarely—there is a moment of seeing. The strings. The hands that pull them. The difference between pain and identity. In that moment, the boy pauses. The body breathes. And the future, for just an instant, is not foreclosed—only unnamed.
Remember those moments. Our futures are not what we fear, what we carry. They are what we shape. Work to shape them in the light.
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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