Discomforting sense of reality

See, there’s at least three Mildas. And I’m not exactly a fan of them all. One of them, that you will get to meet in person, is a good Milda – the kind, loving and caring Milda. The type of Milda who wants so badly to live up to her title as goddess of love, that she can go to ridiculous lengths to continue loving the people she cares for. And if Bukowski once said „find what you love and let it kill you“, this Milda will say – “find what you love and let it fill you”. For there is no greater source of strength than being able to love.

Then there is this analytical Milda. The Milda that you will mainly get to meet in writing. Everything is a case study for her. A riddle to be solved. Each detail in her life has a purpose and a meaning that she’s determined to figure out. If you give her permission – she will dismantle you to pieces. De-construct you to tiny bits of a massive puzzle, only to gather them up and put you back together into a resurrected self. If you do not – she will do this to herself. Endlessly. On repeat.

And then there is the third kind of Milda, that exists somewhere in between – the poetic and the restless, the tormented and the melancholy. The Milda that will do anything to squeeze every little drop of emotion in life, coz she loves her emotions so – whether they are heavy and draining; inspiring and uplifting – it’s all the same for her. This Milda is a bit of an addict. She adores being intoxicated – in any shape or form. She likes feeling things for no cause and no reason. Simply just for the sake of it. Coz it’s nice to feel.

I try to put those three Mildas together, so I could live my life as a single being, but sometimes it seems an impossible task. It‘s a journey I embark on anew each time one of them takes over and brings me back to square zero, so I could come to terms with some Milda I have forgotten to pay attention to. Or an entirely new Milda that I didn’t even know existed before (the grumpy Milda, the asshole Milda or, say (for let’s be honest) even Milda – the bore).

Thing is that, you cannot choose to love one Milda. If you pick one – you have to take them all. Coz the one that’s been disregarded – will shout at the top of her lungs to be noticed. She will turn up at your door-step when you least expect her, demanding her piece of your life. And I say this because one of them has passed me by on the street today and I didn’t even say hello to her. Now, this melancholy Milda is here, whispering in my ear: “Do not try to delude yourself – you have got to accept us all.”

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