Some people come to this world blessed with the ability to sail through without much care. Even when swamped with responsibility or overcome by fate, they maintain an inner balance and a joyful carelessness to which I keep imagining everyone aspires.
Then there’s the neurotic bunch.
These people work hard at having fun.
They only find peace in excess and extremes, in angst and anxiety. For them, life is a perpetual challenge, a constant need to prove oneself to oneself. Intellectually, they know it does not have to be like that, but to no avail: the call of inner conflict is so powerful and such an instinctive source of gratification, there is no real chance of change.
And then there’s all sorts of underlying narratives. A longing for acceptance. Discreet, diplomatic competitiveness. Strategies of deceipt. Unbearable asymetries. Constantly revisited thrills.
A fixation for small-town family types. The kind of interwoven thought that may lie dormant for decades – and when it finally emerges, out of the blue and most likely not in the most convenient or logical context, reality mutates into a brief rêverie right in front of our eyes.