What is the Reverse of an Epiphany?

I was Noëlla, she who had it all figured out.

I had it all written.

No, not with the brittle lead of the ends of a pencil — that would have been far too faithless.

Printed on paper. Yes, wet ink spritzed onto fresh A4 sheets by the nozzles of my very own printhead.

Air-dried with the arrogant certainty of youth.

I no longer feel like I know much.

Maybe that’s just another item in the package of adulthood? The notorious gift-box with a motley of surprises.

Don’t get me wrong; I like being an adult. For the most part.

It’s just that life now comes with this new, tangy flavour of uncertainty: a flavour I’ve never bothered tasting before. The packaging isn’t even that nice.

Or is this just what it feels like to grow up? An abrupt end to the la vie en rose reverie.

To have all delusions stripped. To feel certain about something —

Only for life to whack you in the face and say with a smirk, “Still sure?”

I often think I’d have preferred to get these smacks one after the other.

Not every single morning, as I wake up. A bit hard to bounce back from.

But then, again, are we supposed to recover? Or do we just learn to brace for impact?

Wear those bulky red body-protectors they give you as a taekwondoin who’s sparring?

Where does the padding even come from — community? Time, love, coping mechanisms?

I’m not sure. I’m not even sure I want the padding.

I always believed it was a noble virtue I possessed, to see grey areas and acknowledge the frailty of nature. Now, I feel as though my retina picks up only grey. Where are the harshly pigmented monochromes and rainbows of years gone by? White, red, black, yellow — I miss your clarity. Please come back.

I’m not sure of much anymore.

But points of reckoning abound. For you, and for me. For us all. At these points, we must pause and ask questions — preferably in front of a mirror.

And the chief of these questions is:

Am I deceiving myself?