“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.”
This is what it is. If there is a force in the universe that made me end up renting a flat in front of your office, after two years of absence, and totally by chance, then let’s call it ‘fate’. And it’s like a sandstorm that keep chasing me indeed. I turn, but it comes after me. Our souls are interconnected, I know. It is enough for me to only sense your proximity to be completely out of my normal equilibrium.
I don’t think it’s fair. I’ve been doing all right: not stocking digitally, eliminating any visual impressions and other impulses. And then this. It suddenly happens and I feel as if a piano has fell on my head from the seventh floor. It’s like I have been building this wall of balance very slowly, carefully and with a titanic effort involved and then a thing as small as a movement of butterfly’s wings is able to torn it all down in a second.
A lot of time has passed, you said. That’s so damn true. So how can it be that I still have absolutely no resistance towards you? How can I remain so vulnerable and sensitive to your presence? You know, I am normally a strong, grown-up, independent woman and I feel like a jar of a plum marmalade when I confront you, and all the memories that I keep locked in my closet get shape and colors.
I really thought I was good to go. I accepted the past. I understood that there are things I couldn’t have changed, that were out of my control. I made peace with them. Why are they coming back to haunt me now? The irony is that they come back as soon as I started believing that I have really moved on. As if to tell me that I’m not done with it. I thought I was over these parts of my life. I was happy and full of joy, and peace, and slowly, the thoughts and numbness came. What is moving on supposed to feel like?
In your place, if there is pain, nurse it, and if there is a flame, don’t snuff it out, don’t be brutal with it. Withdrawal can be a terrible thing when it keeps us awake at night, and watching others forget us sooner than we’d want to be forgotten is no better. We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything — what a waste!
I start walking away, because there is nothing else I could do. One foot in front of the other, without really knowing where I am going, but knowing that I have to keep moving. Some stories do not have a clear beginning, nor end.
So how does moving on is supposed to feel like?
SOURCE: Daria Krauzo