All I want from this summer is to feel everything I missed last year; every adventure, every second of serenity, bliss born out of a newfound spontaneity. For all the mess I was last year —you must still remember the joyful cloud I was last summer, drifting somewhere between anxiety, depression and myself for a good two months— I am more than ever myself this year.
I didn’t know what I needed back then, staring at walls and trying to figure out the mazes my mind had drawn upon them; getting lost in thoughts —and meds— so badly, I imagined myself being in foreign places rather than the confinement of my own bedroom. The latter feeling like the most foreign of all. I thought a lot about —and still am thinking about— getting lost and what it means: in action, in thought, in physical space. To me, there is no other way to lose yourself that is so satisfying as letting your thoughts take you where they want. And my thoughts took me all the way on a very spontaneous, very unplanned two-week trip to Bali —giving in to the promise I made myself to let my inner bird fly to said foreign places, albeit in a happier state of mind.
I wanted to remember what the abundance of life feels like. Losing that was a strange notion to me, as I so ever fluently feel life so powerfully drifting over me, often forcing me to cry a tear or two (and yes, you may laugh at me for that), and feeling the need to write all of that sensation down. Narrative is wrapped so tightly around identity and I discovered my identity feeling at risk of losing itself if I can’t commit to getting lost occasionally.
It would seem to me like a life flawed, to endlessly reach goals to then again go seeking out new ones without ever standing at the shore and be in awe of all that life is in this very moment, instead of what it could be. When you can’t remember what the earth around you looks like, when you have to draw from memory to be able to think up sceneries while getting lost in sentences you’re not writing, then it’s time to explore said earth.
I imagined crashing waves and the flow of clouds, effortlessly dancing around a sea of thoughts. And yes, I do realize the big cliché here: What is it about immersing oneself in nature that commands a sort of forced poetic narration? And I do realize the even bigger cliché of wearing a gorgeous bathing suit while dancing around these crashing waves. Can you me blame though?
Although dancing around Bali in gorgeous bathing suits did make me feel like a sea goddess risen from the mighty cliffs, I realized I was flawed into thinking that one trip would change the pace of my life. That the waves would crash away the last remains of an undying body, that the sight of white cladded cliffs would hasten my tired eyes opening. The only thing I found at the shores of Uluwatu —literally meaning “land’s end”— was an ever-evolving identity, flawed in the way I bloom into myself. Climbing cliffs and overcoming waves, it ended up being everything I didn’t know I needed.