I had a dream a few weeks ago that I was dying. My mom leaning over me, saying I had a strange, but fatal disease. Not much time left and all. I woke up in the morning with a hypochondriac and not quite placable feeling that something actually is wrong with my body. Later in the day, a friend asked me what I would have thought about my life if it had been true. For a minute, I forgot the paralyzing impression the dream left on me and let it produce some kind of reality check.
In the middle of another bad period of the year I took a look at my life and surprising even myself a bit replied ”You know what, I lived. I haven’t done everything I desired or should, but I don’t have real regrets, because I tried and did my best.” Best of all, I made a few of my vague dreams come true, I loved, made friends, saw a part of this beautiful planet and I was never afraid to think, sense and discover. I’ve had my moments of inspiration, joy of appreciating and creating, and I’ve had my share of indescribable pain, loneliness, anxiety that I chose to fight with all the love that I posses.
I’m far from being perfect or even being fairly good at this thing called life, but I did at a precise moment of my life make a decision to make something out of it, to let it surprise me and let myself feel some enthusiasm for it. I remember that moment clearly, sitting on the kitchen floor at a dark autumn hour, only my dog watching another one of my breakdowns. I was so close, yet I’m here, fascinated as ever. And since then, I’ve read and written more than I’d imagined and been lucky in so many things and especially people. The people I met and loved. Some of them leaving me completely broken, bruised and crushed. Others inspiring me profoundly. (Most of them, both.)
Just a few days ago, I was saying to myself ”There is no phoenix, it’s only ashes that float and float…”. Even so, hasn’t falling apart made me who I am? Would I let go of it if I had a choice? Because isn’t that exactly what’s fueling my zeal so often, as hopeless and twisted as it may sound?
So, another friend told me she had read Scorpio are most afraid of dying. I didn’t agree. I definitely, even at my lowest, don’t want to die, and that – believe me – is a sort of progress, yet fear? I think as long as you truly live, not just exist as the saying goes, fear of death somehow eludes you and is replaced by a more genuine interest in actual living.