When I was young, I loved to love love. Life was all about the voracious reading of love stories, the soft light of dawn, the splatter of rain drops, a stolen look, the giggling of girlfriends, a shared smile, heartbreak. Youth stretched out indefinitely ahead.
With each passing year, however, the Paulo Coelho stories became a little less inspiring, the magic realism of solitude, a little more unrealisitic. Life slowly became the chaotic clamour of a hundred little fights, sleepless nights after a baby is born, incessant cleaning, stacks of dirty dishes, coughs and colds, an annoying manager, a million microwaved meals, packing lunchboxes, ironing, inflation, changing immigration rules. Life becomes about survival. Surviving the mindlessessness of those hundred little fights, finding a moment’s relief in a hug, looking for redemption in a single thought that strings it all together, hoping for a minute of reflection in a constant juggling act. It never comes. The fight for survival stretches indefinitely ahead and the path is for you to tread, alone.