Making Peace with Letting Go: Navigating the Divide Between Worlds

“Sometimes the hardest part isn’t letting go but rather learning to start over.” — Nicole Sobon

This morning, I woke with the lingering echo of a vivid dream, one that stirred feelings I’m still grappling with.

I stood at the entrance to a place I later recognised as the Giant Rock City near the Czech-Polish border, a place where towering rock formations dominate the landscape.

I'm facing the outside world, my back turned to the immense rocky tunnels. Unsure of whether I am a child or an adult, I feel insignificant compared to the vast rocky formations behind me.

The outside world in front of me lies beyond a massive transparent sphere-like shield, creating a barrier between me and the world contained within or beyond it. This shield resembles a giant thick bubble, hovering just within reach, its surface vibrating. As I cautiously insert a finger into the shield, its jelly-like texture quivers and ripples around my touch. Intrigued, I continue to explore the odd sensation of connecting intermittently with the world.

I don’t move. I stand between two dimensions — the watery world encased before me, and the infinite, dark, stony labyrinth behind me. I contemplate the futility of venturing into the former, a world destined to vanish regardless. Accepting its inevitable loss, I resign myself to the programmed fate of letting it go. There is a strange comfort in that inevitability. I’ve come to terms with losing it.

Opting for stillness, I choose observation over engagement, preferring to watch, sense, and reflect from a distance without actively participating. There is no need to connect, to engage, to risk attachment. My heightened sensitivity allows the world to imprint on me effortlessly, whether I step into it or not. But in the dream, I'm uncertain if I'm stuck, paralysed by indecision, or if I'm just indifferent. I find myself stranded in a liminal space, hovering in a strange no-man’s land, unable to enter the world before me, or venture into the depths of the dark maze behind.

Content in my safety, within this sterile and neutral void where I have no real connection, I'm also free from the risks of being overwhelmed. I can watch the world from afar, see it expand and contract, without being drawn into its chaos or beauty.

But as I reflect now, I ask myself: Have I truly relinquished hope of reconnecting with the world? Am I surrendering, burning out, succumbing to fatalism? Accepting that detachment is easier than engagement.

Can one exist indefinitely in this nihility or divide — between engagement and retreat? Should I embrace this state, or fear missing out on genuine connections? I’m not sure if staying here is an act of self-preservation or surrender. After all this time and so many failed attempts, will I ever find my way back to a bridge between both worlds? A way to balance distance and connection.

This dream, and its questions, linger still.

Sarah the Digital GypSea

France, October 2024