Until
recently, my heart was a three-ring circus, where emotional somersaults
alternated with blind shots at the bullseye of love and laughter; shots which I
used to mask my disillusionment.
Until
just a few months ago, I was determined to outpace time to avoid my growing
old. While riding the train of excess, I conmuted the stations of wild nights
and black-out days. I pushed my body and mind to such a breaking point that I
now teeter on the brink of nothingness.
I felt
superior to others: smarter, more resourceful, better…
To
disguise my mistakes, failures, or disappointments, I resorted to the persona
of the damned, the misunderstood, the scorned, the victim… I complained that my
friends or relatives bored me, made me overwhelmed by their presence.
I
accepted being seen as a bohemian –the different one or the odd one– out to
disguise my fear of being identified with a monster. I came to understand other
people's rejection as a sign of their envy; so I fueled it with feigned
indifference.
I
enjoyed watching how those who didn't respect me, feared me.
Just as
I accumulate books or films I'll never approach, I've piled up relationships. I
treated people like volumes you place on a shelf and trust they will always be
there, where you’ve left them, waiting for you to bless them with your
attention.
My
eternal flight forward and my feigned existential angst were sustained by a
constant stream of plans to improve upon what was lost: people to meet, books
to read, excesses to discover… If something hurt me, I complained until I got
sick of it, which fueled my resentment. I returned to my petty vices. Other
people's decisions were like winter's attacks against the spring of my spirit.
As of today, Spring has returned. I welcome it
with enthusiasm.
