At the first signs of another bout of anxiety, I poured myself a glass of port. Few sips later my nerves were calmer and I could feel my heart not racing anymore neither was I feeling vulnerable. The fact that there’s a possibility of being pushed into depression was still real but I could think what I can do to not let time and life affect my state of mind. After all, I am all there is around for me and I am all that can take care of me. I couldn’t lose myself for my sake. I could think of no good way but at least I could still hold myself together for that moment.

With the effect of that strong wine still keeping me sane, I was reflecting on my reflex to agony. How vulnerable have I become that I seek the help of an external element at the drop of a hat? When did the soul become so bruised, lonely and sensitive that it fails to absorb the expected realities of life? Since when did it start craving for the fantasy world where it could heal with the soothing touch of constant love. I look inside me today and I see the scared face of a baby bird - lost from its parents, hungry, the skin so frail it could burn up in the warmth of the sun… How does this baby bird grow feathers to protect itself, grow wings to fly and face the world as who it is?

A glass of port has been doing wonders. But I am afraid I have to break the reliance and that scares me for I have no alternate at hand.

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