Broken Radios

Now, I have a theory about life, and I am going to be very grand and share it with you here. My theory is an old one, but it is one I have recently found to be true.

The point of desperation is often the point of truth. When things are wrong, we need to reach rock bottom in order for change to happen. We sometimes need to feel trapped in order to find the way out. We don’t meet ourselves in the light and air. We don’t understand the radio when the song is playing. We sometimes need to smash the thing to see how it is made.

And those first few days in Ibiza brought everything up that I’d managed to keep suppressed. The grief, the despair, the solitude. I was crashing, and I was seeing myself. I was opened up like a broken radio. I was faced with my own faulty coils and circuits and transistors. All the flaws and the inconsistencies.

And maybe that was it. Maybe it was because I was lying there, smashed up, paradoxically numb and in pain all at once, that it happened. Maybe when you scream in silence, the help arrives silently too. Maybe the universe was listening. Maybe the signal was picked up.

I don’t know.

But something very certainly happened.

And the timing was impeccable.