Soul is the prison of the body - Michel Foucault
One motif that repeated itself frequently in my life over the past few weeks was “crossroads”, both the word itself, and as what it refers to. I did find myself coming across them, metaphorically speaking, again and again, each reference to them surreptitiously sneaking in as if it was trying to tell me something.
I would have dismissed the frequency easily, had I not also felt that, in ways more than one, I was at a non-metaphorical, yet non-physical crossing in my life.
Roads diverged, and the universe ascended on me, confronting me with choices. Choices between fear and desire, between action and inaction, between fleeing or standing my ground, the choice of accepting who I am, as I am, or rejecting myself, it was all very confusing.
I did understand that rationality wasn’t a rational enough way to decide which way to go, for these were not rational questions. These subtle, recurring motifs were mainly the culmination of a desire to break through the boundaries between myself and the world, and a fear of what would happen if I was successful.
In a thunderclap that resounded as these questions emerged from my predicaments, I felt scared and totally alone, emotionally anguished, embarassed, humiliated for being stripped naked and placed in a panopticon. Now the choice was, how do I react to this fright I had given myself?
How could I graduate out of this mess?
Friends and family, themselves polarised by the surge of news and emotions about me, wouldn’t be of much help. Answering existential questions, at any level of complexity, at any age, are your own responsiblity.
and I did.