Whistled by the Atlantic Breeze

It Only Gets Better At Home, In My Room 

Just as I started actually living the life my nineteen-year-old self had dreamed of, a full-blown identity crisis hit me with the force of an Atlantic wave in January.

Come on. I'm twenty-one...

Too late. The brain has already clocked the instability - the relativity of every foundation, every reference point it once stood on. And suddenly all of it fades against the presence of something larger and entirely unnamed.

Remarque called this particular affliction "the dark secret of life." I think it's just complete madness.

And life itself, whatever we pour into that word, whatever we try to make it mean, simply doesn't care. It operates as an irrational force, irreducible to reason or any moral framework. It generates desire, passion, longing - but the brain, especially a young one, is not always equipped to satisfy what it's been handed.

The more you have, the less it feels like. Every value, every meaning dims and deflates when viewed from the angle of eternity, from life's own vantage point. And what you've achieved always turns out to be nothing compared to what you still want.

Everything is very finite. Very limited.

The meaning of life is only in the palm trees.