Andy Goldsworthy’s art.
You start to define yourself by who you’re with. So, when they leave, it’s overwhelming. Devastating. It consumes you entirely. Everything you do reminds you of them so you stop doing… anything.
Once you begin to make sense of the sadness it breaks down into parts larger than the sum of those parts. Bitterness, Loneliness, Anger, Despair.
First you hate that they left.
Then you hate the reasons why they left; the parts of you that pushed them away.
So you begin to hate those parts of yourself.
You start to kill or suppress those parts of yourself. Partly because it hurts you, which you feel you deserve and which gives you something else to feel, and partly because of some absurd notion that they won’t be gone anymore without all those reasons that pushed them away.
You start to see yourself and you hate what you’ve become:
You haven’t really been moving through stages; you’ve been becoming your symptoms.
And then something new comes, penetrates your singularity and gives that sadness, that pain, that hatred somewhere to go. It’s such a relief to have any kind of change you don’t stop to question it. Maybe you don’t want to know what it is, maybe you already know.
It forces every feeling out but nothing takes its place. You stop feeling anything, caring about anything.
Eventually it changes.
Photo by Mads Pihl.
You bump into a man on the subway wearing a trenchcoat. You apologize and he responds “Its alright. We’re only human. All of us. All of us here are human. Yep. Very human. I’m probably the most human here! You betcha.” and then the trenchcoat falls and the figure collapses and roughly 1000 salamanders scatter around the train