Changing frequency

[ When talking to yourself, tangibly, becomes a necessity to maintain your sanity ]

As a kid my nightmares had me standing on a diving board, very high, made up of glass and as I would try to balance myself up there, the glass would break underneath my feet - completely crushed into pieces, noiselessly though - and I would fall in this abyss of darkness.

And wake up. And it would end.

Many years later, I wake up to reality and the free fall into the bottomless pit doesn't end. It makes me realise the metaphor of that particular dream and its convergence into reality.

Life has its peaks and troughs and I find myself shifting from one trough to another, maybe lower than before, I can't figure out, maybe because the numbness of being there negatively impacts your sense of direction and decision making. The peaks seem a thing of past - to me, to people around me. They seem far, a distant possibility, an upward slope you can't seem to gather the courage to even start climbing, reaching the peak seems out of bounds. But your clock is still ticking, the road to the peak won't be ever accessible.

Being in this trough dehumanises you gradually. You're no longer a person. You are your failures, piled together, stitched mercilessly with expectations and given a veil of a human face, that could nod positively when asked if okay.

Do you recognise yourself? The shine in your eyes, the ring in your laughter, the cheer in your voice long gone. Do you still dare to hope? To dream? To wish for more when all of them seem shredded into a million bits? You resemble those very pieces of broken glass - with rough edges and without depth.

The trough never feels like home. So you find yourself as if in another body and another place, although nothing outside has changed. You are an alien in your own surroundings.

Hearing the phrases "May your wishes/dreams come true" and "Stay the same" scare me to no end. And at this point of time, I don't know any other way of response to them.

Treading through days seems heavy, everyday begins with the effort to break through, using your last ounce of courage. The dents made in the trough are almost negligible and the night brings with it the familiar remorse and hopelessness.

The dreams of the peak are sporadic and never without the familiar fear of failing and falling.

Even the confession of the condition comes by hesitantly, words flee you, leaving you with the hostility of the incapability of expression and the necessity to do so nevertheless -

and hence, ramblings like these are born.

And with them, the reminder, to find a way to the peak. Tomorrow. Again.