Please allow me to introduce myself

What makes a person afraid to face their greatest fears, their despair, their helplessness, their melancholy? What makes us prefer to adapt or to hide year after year? Rather than drop the mask? Rather than to be honest, real, sincere, trustworthy?

It's taken long enough. Far too long, if you ask me. I should have dealt with it much sooner. I should have confronted it much sooner. To face the problem head-on. To not run away from the difficulties.

Like a coward, a scaredy-cat, a chicken, a namby-pamby.

How did it feel after all this time? I had become an impersonator. I was putting on an act. I was faking it. And I was good at it! Perhaps that was the biggest problem. The huge success I had with my performances. People patted me on the back, complimented me, raised their glasses, sang happy songs with me.

But deep inside, I was confused. I was dazed, insecure, dull. What was I doing? Why was I trying to please everyone? My friends, my family, my colleagues? Why did I value harmony, peace, and balance so much? Why did I dread agitation, unrest?

So that at the end of each day, my fellow human beings would be happy. Content, calm, collected. And I? I was riding a drunken old camel through a raging desert. Lost. Dismayed. Unnerved.

It became my second nature. To discover what other people's wishes were. Their desires, their dreams, their hopes. And how I could play a role to achieve them. How I could help and support them. To become a better person. To move forward.

That, apparently, was my purpose in life. To be of service to others out. To offer others a new horizon. A noble calling, I thought. A laudable vocation. I had found my place in this world.

But who helped me out? Who drew a new horizon for me? Who was there for me when things got tough, got awry? Who wanted to comfort me, give me hope, cheer me up, care for me?

I realize this far too late. And why on this New Year's Eve of all days? Does it even make sense to worry about it now?

Everyone knows how extremely difficult it is to break existing patterns. Humans aren't wired that way. The world isn't wired in that fashion. We love stability, we thrive on predictability, we enjoy peace, cleanliness, regularity. We detest changes, novelties.

I have my place in this world. Shouldn't I be content with that? Shouldn't I just be grateful that I'm healthy? That I have a solid roof above my head? That I have food and drink? Friends, family?

But this time, the anxiety is too strong. In previous years, I managed to drown out the gloomy thoughts with an excess of warm friendships cold alcohol, good food and exciting movies.

This year is different. Nothing has worked. Not the visit from friends, not the Italian sparkling wine, not the smoked salmon.

It's three o'clock. The night is as dark and empty as a rotting coal shed. Everyone I know is in bed. After all the glasses were emptied, after all the snacks and bites had been devoured, after all the movies have been watched, I decided to go. Fresh air could save me.

And for the first time in my life, I see clearly. I didn't become Jesus, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, or Mother Theresa because others asked me to. No one ever put in a request for it. To become a saviour. I need it. I want to be caressed. Seen, encouraged.

But at the same time. Why has it remained? That Darkness, that Coldness inside me. As if I live in a prehistoric cave.

Always being afraid. Always on guard. Always panicking.

From whom? From what? Where does the danger come from? The threat? And where I put others at ease. Where I protect my fellow human beings, there I seem to be constantly under attack.

No one knows them. No one notices them. My demons. My devils that dwell inside me like clumsy construction workers. Without a care for my condition, my situation, they reshape my heart, my soul whenever it suits them. Hence these moods. Hence the endless battles. Against the panic, the dismay, the confusion.

I've come to this understanding before. That you have to confront, to encounter, to assault your rude demons, your blunt devils.

But I've always managed to avoid that. I was busy being nice. I was involving in helping my family, my friends, my neighbours. A listening ear, a pat on the back, a hearty laugh, a sorry tear.

But tonight. But at the beginning of this new year? In this syrupy darkness, in this sticky fog, in this cloying silence. Now seems the time has come for a confrontation, a conflict. With the clumsy squatters who live inside me. The blundering ghosts.

The rain stops. Above me, the heavy clouds move east. The thin lights of a few stars become visible. My footsteps sound dull and faint. In the distance, music plays. Lights are on in some houses. Most homes are dark. The windows are shielded by stiff curtains. What has been suppressed for so long, what has been pushed away for so long, now seems to want to burst from my body.

I still don't dare give in to it. Who will I encounter, will I meet?

The devil? Satan? Beelzebub? Or does Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Pinochet? dwell within me? Judas, Nero, Herodes?

I've never believed in things like ghosts, spectres or demons. I have an inclination to laugh a little when people think these kinds of fictional figures can play a role in a person's life.

However, I do believe that imagination can help you face your own problems, your own conflicts. What else can a person do? With mathematics and logic, you can build bridges, design computers, engineer electric vehicles. But to fathom the human soul?

An intense fatigue overtakes me. My legs give out. I stagger like a drunken wretch through the narrow streets. But I've strayed too far from my own home. Do I want to ring a complete stranger's doorbell to ask if I can rest? Because I'm waiting for a meeting? With Beelzebul, Stalin, Idi Amin? Judas? Pontius Pilatus?

I fall, I crawl, and discover a shelter in a garden. In the faded light, I suspect it's a nativity scene. Between the manger, Joseph, Mary, and the donkeys, I find a dry spot. And fall asleep.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Soft, girlish hands press against my sleepy body. She stands next to the nativity scene in her pink pyjamas. I see unicorns, rainbows. Behind her, ochre-yellow lamplight falls from a kitchen. The door is open.

"Aren't you cold?" she asks. "Why don't you come in? Mom and Dad are still asleep. There's hot chocolate in the fridge."

Without fear, without hesitation, she reaches out her hand and drags me into the terraced house. She's no older than six.

She pushes a chair toward me and closes the door. I rub the sleep from my eyes. My clothes feel clammy and cold. Meanwhile, she's grabbed a carton of cold chocolate milk and pours it into a cup. Some of it does indeed end up in the ceramic cup.

After a few sips, I feel more refreshed. But I have no time to wake up. The girl babbles, chatters, and rambles on incessantly. She baked cookies with Grandma yesterday. And two weeks ago, she and Grandpa made the nativity scene. Why are there donkeys in the stable? Do I like Brussels sprouts? And fries? Tangerines?

"We're going to play Ludo," she says suddenly decisively. Frankly, I'm too surprised to argue, to quarrel. The New Year, this morning in a strange house, the cheerful chatter of an unknown child. What's happening to me? Not to mention, what took place last night?

It is inevitable. One of the parents must come downstairs soon and discover me in their house. But the girl is having so much fun, she's so playful, spontaneous, that I can't possibly say goodbye.

As we roll the dice, slide the colourful pieces, count the progress, it feels like confetti is fluttering down from the ceiling. A haze of red, yellow, and vermillion light hangs over the table, the chairs, the countertop. Is there soft festive music playing?

After an hour, I finally manage to break away. She hugs me and begs me to come back the next day. As I stand in the garden with the nativity scene, the horizon turns blue-purple. The white sun hangs by a thin thread. I feel liberated. I haven't met my Darkness. Nor Beelzebul. But I got the know this bright, cheerful child.