In Loving

Prologue: New Beginnings

New beginnings. That's what everyone seeks at some point, right? Because we are human and we err. We make mistakes, we live them, we grow solely based off them. We have even evolved to embrace them.

But can one really have a clean slate? Is it ever truly possible to erase the chapters of the past that become the basis of who a person is and how they have developed, and just start anew? I used to be naïve and thought it was possible, but it's just a lie. New beginnings don't exist. Old stories simply end, but they are not erased. They are always lurking nearby, like that twisted phantom in dark secrets, waiting... waiting.... haunting.

A beginning is also a metaphor. There isn't any physical aspect of a beginning that makes it a beginning. It's simply all in our heads. A famous line goes: "Everyday is a new beginning." But is it really? Because the new day is a continuation of the old, and the old day is a continuation of repeated old days that is the chain of our lives.

If everyday was truly a new beginning, stress would not exist at all as the troubles from the ends of previous days would enter oblivion.

This extensive train of thought ends as the sunlight hits me in the face. It's almost seven in the morning now, and the sun is rising. About four hours ago I had the urge to hike up the highest mountain in my area, which is said to be one of the most tranquil experiences one can have. I think it turned me philosophical.

Two last steps I tread to get to the top. I leave muddy footprints on the overtly walked trail, gasping for breath after the steep incline. The air is thin, the breath of the wind being the dominant sound. For a second, fog sweeps through my surroundings and there is nothingness. Nothing on my mind. Nothing in my sight. No sounds, no movement, absolute stillness. I find pure bliss. Then that second ends, and my beating heart reminds me I still live in reality.

The fog drifts on. I shuffle my muddy shoes on the beaten ground, content with the loneliness of the mountain this morning. The forecast had predicted heavy rain, and this fact, for some odd reason, had become more motivation for me to come out. But I am the commander of misfortune, and I scared the storm away. There are only some dark clouds in the overcast, and the sun is still rising.

I stand and wait for the sky to change colors upon the awakening of their queen. Her highness moves swiftly but gracefully, arising against adversary. Her beams run through me as if I am a hollow shell, and despite the rise in temperature, my heart still feels bitterly cold. My body still feels heavy, my mind still is paralyzed by thought, and my feelings still are nonexistent. When did I become this nonchalant?

If only I had answers.

But I don't think because Neglect and Repression wraps their bony fingers around me quickly and pushes all my thoughts away. And just like that, I find false bliss again.

I stand lifeless like a bulwark for moments longer, waiting for nothing in particular. The sun illuminates the sky just a bit, the altocumulus clouds on the overcast still being predominant. The tunes of birds diffuse from a distance, and then even falsified bliss disappears. My thoughts roam endlessly, critically, forming judgments upon the the most minuscular details. I find satisfaction in nothing, but criticism in everything. I become mad at the overwhelming quantity of flaws in the world, mad at myself, mad.

Mad. I take a breath. I do not wish to become mad.

Mad. Heart rate rises. Mad.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Just, breathe.