As I child, I once had the opportunity to look into a kaleidoscope and was mesmerized by the exquisite patterns that changed at the turn of the disk. Patterns we would seldom see in real life, except for the intense beauty of a formerly undiscovered butterfly, bird, fish…
Lately, I find myself doing more and more introspection, looking into the kaleidoscope of my life, turning the disk with its various multicoloured trinkets this way and that, hoping in vain to observe just one of those beautiful forms that I can identify with, reflected in the mirrors of my current existence.
Maybe it has to do with turning 57 a few days ago, but I see a big 60 reflected back at me from the black tubular interior, reminding me that I am sliding downhill inevitably towards this milestone.
Maybe it is my ongoing struggle for reasonable accommodation at work for my hearing impairment that makes me see the 9 years I have till retirement, shaping into ? years as I fear losing more and more of my residual hearing and end up completely deaf, unable to provide for my family.
Maybe it is my ever-losing battle of the bulge that have the shards and fragments fall into a naked Homer Simpson, as I steadily keep avoiding looking into any mirrors.
Maybe it is because I miss and need my therapist, who had emigrated from South Africa, that I am unable to find similar reflection of my thoughts and dreams in the substitute’s therapy method.
No matter how I turn or shake it, the objects in my kaleidoscope keep tumbling into an anything-but-arbitrary pattern that mocks me with its naked inevitability: A pathetic Sancho Panza on a donkey, fighting transgender windmills without even the backup of a Don Quixote.
Note: I debated long and hard with myself whether I would publish this post or not. In the end the acute reality of my emotions won. I know all the counter-arguments: “Why do you keep harping on the same cord and do not move on?” “You should be grateful for what you are and have…” Fact is, the world is just as real as one’s own mind.
PS. I realize that the octopus of depression is strangling me even tighter in its tentacles than before and I am seeking professional help.