The Fury

by Alex Michaelides

We are all the unreliable narrators of our own lives.

The friends we make when young are rarely the kind of people we seek out later in life. The length of time we have known them accords them a kind of nostalgia in our eyes, if you will; an indulgence; a “free pass” in our lives.

It’s like falling in love, isn’t it, when you make a new friend?

Agathi’s grandmother used to call the Aegean wind to menos, which means “the fury” in English.

Now, I know only this for sure—the first half of life is pure selfishness; the second half, all grief.

The real tragedy is, of course, by always looking outward, by focusing so intently on the other person’s experience, we lose touch with our own. It’s as if we live our entire life pretending to be ourselves, as impostors impersonating ourselves, rather than feeling this is really me, this is who I am. That’s why, these days, I repeatedly force myself to return to my own experience: not are they enjoying themselves? But am I? Not do they like me? But do I like them?

“When we are young,” Mariana said, “and afraid—when we are shamed, and humiliated—something happens. Time stops. It freezes, in that moment. A version of us is trapped, at that age—forever.” “Trapped where?” asked Liz, one of the group. “Trapped here.” Mariana tapped the side of her head. “A frightened child is hiding in your mind—still unsafe; still unheard and unloved. And the sooner you get in touch with that child and learn to communicate with them, the more harmonious your life will be.”

Our motivation is always pain.

It’s obvious, really. All of us are trying to escape the pain and be happy. And all the actions we take to achieve this goal—our intentions—that’s the stuff of story.

I often think life is just a performance. None of this is real. It’s a pretense at reality, that’s all. Only when someone, or something, we love dies, do we wake up from the play—and see how artificial it all is—this constructed reality we inhabit.

These are the mad hoops damaged people jump through: so desperate to receive love—but when it is given to us, it can’t be felt. This is because we don’t need love for an artificial creation, a mask. What we need, what we desperately long for, is love for the only thing we will never show anyone: the ugly, scared kid inside.

That’s where all creativity is born, I believe—in the desire to escape.