When I was younger, I felt happiness like a wind.
It blew across my face, my arms, and my skin like a gentle caress. It laughed and teased, but never too harshly. The wind blew through me and my heart and washed me clean.
Depression was like wandering into canyon caverns and losing my way out. It was hot, dusty, and dry. The ground was parched and cracked; the air was sticky and stiffling. But no matter how long or how far I walked, I could not find the way out. I could feel the wind crashing against the cavern walls, but no puffs of clean air found their way to me.
I lost the wind, and I withered in the heat of my despair.
I cracked and broke, and lost pieces of myself. I lost my smile and laughter. My feelings numbed and diminished to dull, grey echoes of their former glory. And slowly, the holes in my heart grew. Little by little, I lost more and more of what made me the person I used to be. I wandered and wondered, quested and questioned. But answers were as elusive as the wind, and I began to lose hope.
Until one day, I had a revelation.
You, the fears and insecurities that cut at my heart – and you, the sorrows and self-pitying judgments – I have a message for you: bring it. Bring your worst to bear against me. Burn a brand new set of scars into me; take each and every piece of my heart you want and tear it out of me. But you cannot destroy me.
All your efforts to diminish me will fail – and I’ll tell you why. For every piece you steal, for every hole you leave, you do nothing more than deepen my song. You’ve turned me into an instrument, and while the hollows left behind by your efforts grow, my music is not for you. And on the day I find the wind again, it will blow through me, and we shall sing a breath-taking duet.
While you sing a song from the soundtrack to the breaking of the world, the wind and I will sing its counterpoint. We will sing of joy, celebration, and love. We will sing for havest dances and wedding waltzes. We will weave the melody of the someone meeting their first-born child. We will compose an opera to the end of oppression. We will forge an aria to tears of forgiveness. We will trumpet triumph through tragedy.
So do your worst, and I’ll show you my magic – and transform my scars into something beautiful.
A (wise) man of two faces 