The high moments, those flashes of sunlight breaking through the clouds, that breath of fresh air, they are miraculous and precious. In these moments I don’t doubt the validity of life. I value its fierceness, its flare, the parts that give me joy and the parts that give me pain. In those high moments, I can see the length and breadth of the universe and it is infinite and merciless and one hundred percent worth it.
But those high notes, they echo and fade away; those flashes, they leave a glow and it dims and it is dark again, and he's laughing, grinning at me above the mire I'm wading through, the stagnant waters of living moment to moment. This is the everyday, it's the fight, the battle to keep moving.
Maybe you broke above the canopy, but now you're back in the woods and somewhere in the dark there’s a wolf in the woods. Maybe you’re safe at the moment, maybe you’re even warm and fed, but it’s always there, in the corner of your eye, this vague unease, this feeling of being hunted, because your life is the woods and there is always a wolf in the woods. Chest heaving, muscles straining, pushing for just one more step, one more breath, a little faster, a little longer, don’t dare to fall but the very trees are against you, roots grasp at you and reach for your heels. You can’t escape the clawing dark, the biting cold. There’s a wolf in the woods and he has your scent.
In those low moments, I don’t doubt the futility of life. I curse its mindlessness, its relentless drive, the parts that give me joy and the parts that give me pain. In those low moments, I can see the length and breadth of my consciousness, the mind numbing eternity of it, and it is impossible to scream loud enough for anyone to hear me, much less do anything about it. But those moments, like the tide, recede, inch by inch, they lessen, loosen, and you fall slack from their grip like a newborn, red and raw all over but grateful just to be alive.
Gaining your breath, reaching your equilibrium, is the greatest comfort you could ever feel, and the oxygen in your lungs is suddenly better than all the riches in the world. For just one breath, you are in the center of the storm. Should you fall or be launched to new heights, should you journey alone or be found by that cursed wolf, it does not matter because for just that instance, existing is its own reward.
But even that fades, the calm leaves you in a gust of wind, and the storm rages again. It's either ecstasy or agony, the canopy or the ground, it's the wolf in the woods or the sunlight on your skin, but always the fight in between. The unbending, uncompromising fight, chest heaving, muscles straining, the relentless fight because the moment you stop fighting, it's over. And it's inevitable to begin questioning the fight itself, the need for it, the drive and where it comes from.
Because every day I carve away from this mountain of depression should be a victory, it should be a resounding success, a prize I've wrenched away from mine enemy, but instead it feels like weakness, useless passive resistance. My stolen days, numbered as they are, feel like taking a bucket to a sinking ship but it's the ocean that's flooding in and all I can do is fight, battle the everyday moments, try to put off the only ending to this story.
In this moment, it is Fate in the ring with me, and my only free will seems to be in the speed of my defeat, whether I will go to the grave now or days from now, exhausted, crippled and done in. And she whispers the word, inevitable, as though I could forget that all of my days will boil down to one day, and one day, sooner or later, I will stop, just stop, I will stop rising and falling, winning and failing, I will stop fighting and all of it will be over.
I just wanted for this to mean something.