Just Like Lazarus

Just like Lazarus,

I have been resurrected.

Stepping from my tomb

I greet the world, a newborn,

celebrating a new life.

So many stereotypes capture the event. The phoenix rising from the ashes. The miracle man healed of an incurable disease. The convict, wrongfully convicted, released back into society. Or else, one might compare it to the condemned man standing on the scaffold granted his reprieve just as the hangman is tightening the noose around his neck. And yes, just as the title suggests, even good old Lazarus springs to mind; stepping out of his musty tomb—resurrected—squinting up at the sunlight, surprised to be alive.

Poetic hyperbole aside, it really does feel as I have been resurrected. A few months ago, I never would have imagined a day in the sun like I experienced today. Every single day, for almost a year now, I have been surprised to find myself alive each morning. And finding myself thus, I wasn't at all pleased by the fact. No, no. Quite the contrary. Life had come to represent a curse rather than a gift. I would awaken each day with dread in the pit of my stomach and the wish I could return to that empty unconsciousness that gave me a reprieve from such an unwelcome existence. Months of physical sickness had tested my nerves to their limit. And throughout it all, ghouls and demons had haunted my mind, shredding my emotions and threatening my sanity.

Indeed, the thought of experiencing another day was anathema to me. There was nothing to look forward to. The pains of my illness and the panicked chattering of my mind made every single minute of consciousness akin to being broken on the rack.

Oh, and how things have changed? What a turnaround? For the last few weeks, slowly but surely, my health has gradually returned to me, and with it, my mental equilibrium. Indeed, anxiety, depression and dread—my cruel bedfellows for so many months now—seemed to have withdrawn, their lessons (or so I pray) finally understood.

Granted, after such a long illness, and accompanied by mental collapse, one doesn't just return to life as if they never left it. If only it were as simple as that. No, it's more like learning to walk and talk again after a debilitating stroke. One can only take things one tentative step at a time; one minute at a time, then an hour; and only then, if your progress seems assured, one day at a time.

So, with this in mind, I slowly made my way back from out of the wilderness. Descending from my mountaintop retreat—a Zarathustra returning to the marketplace to be amongst the rabble again. A little nervous at first, I slowly regained my confidence. Was it the sunshine, after so many weeks of rain? Was it the pigeons making way for my solo procession? Or perhaps it was that familiar feeling of camaraderie; being amongst people again, even though they are ultimately strangers to me.

Whatever the case, I am pleased that I mustered the courage to emerge from my self-imposed exile. Finding myself amongst people again, I almost felt at home. I looked at them longingly, hoping for a hint of recognition, a fleeting sense of intimacy, even with a passing stranger. Anything to break the spell of my loneliness. A mere glance, a mere moment of eye contact between myself and a passing girl was enough to bolster my spirits. Yes, my heart melted in that moment. Several drops of warmth and humanity rolling down that icy block like deep-felt tears of joy. Oh, and how much did I wring from that brief yet glorious glance? A pretty girl in leggings, a bundle of books under her arm. Her eyes settling on the three books sitting atop this cafe table, before she looked me in the eye and gifted me that glorious smile.

Reading this romanticism, one might accuse me of exaggeration, or say that I am snatching at straws, but if one is to resurrect one's love for life, one must find pleasures anywhere one can. Passivity will not do in this regard. One must take active measures to see the beauty in this world. And so, I sit at this table now, and actively search for glory and delight. Refusing to see anything that might turn me away from this growing feeling of love and appreciation now stirring again inside me. Like the two pigeons overhead, perched on a faux-Roman column, snuggling against each other like two lovers. There's the children, dressed in their Sunday best, playing hide-and-seek. An older couple, still obviously in love, the man taking a photograph of the woman standing in front of the green statue of Dante Alighieri. Even the man across the plaza, his laptop open in front of him. Perhaps he's writing a blog just like this one. A blog never to be read by anybody other than himself. Surely I can relate to that!

Indeed, life isn't so bad, especially if one makes the effort to recognise its beauty. This very second, for another example, I hear several sparrows chirping as they wheel about overhead, silouhetted against a cloudless blue sky. Another fellow, in oversized headphones, is grooving to a groove that nobody else can hear right in front of the Dante statue. The very statue that now seems to be looking down on him with obvious disapproval. Out of sight, I can hear the sing-song tones of a girl in discussion upon the mezzanine above me. Her sweet voice—words indecipherable at such a distance—sounding to my ears like an Erick Satie piano piece. Heavens, even the potted plants beside my table are cause for a smile and a nod of appreciation.

No doubt, I must fight the negativity that still threatens my recovery. After all, there's still so much to experience and appreciate. Only an hour ago, I visited a bookstore for the first time in over a year. A place that once acted as my church and sanctuary. And yet, a place that for some time now, couldn't even inspire a millisecond of interest in my tired, time-sullied soul. And really, once inside, it was like meeting up with an old friend. Why had I stayed away for so long? Moseying down the aisles looking for nothing in particular. Strolling out with a brown paper bag and three new books I'd discovered purely by chance. The Lost Writings by Franz Kafka. Books vs. Cigarettes by George Orwell. And last but not least, Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke.

And now, here I sit, quite alone, but still quite content. I have a fresh cup of coffee, a fresh packet of cigarettes, three fresh books to peruse, and a fresh blog in which to pin my mustering thoughts. Not even the rundown Italian Forum, with its vacant shops and broken-down fountain, is capable of breaking the pleasant spell. Hell, I might even say there's something touching in the once bustling plaza having been reduced to a near desert. A place used mainly as a thoroughfare now, but a place where a few lonely misfits still might sit down to read, write and watch the world go by.