The Cuckoo Well

A few years ago I read the book Veronica Decides to Die by Paolo Coelho. There were many poignant parts but the story that stuck out the most, and that I still remember, was the allegory of the well. It summed up my existence in this mad desert. Every day gets more difficult for me in this country, this society. Of course people might jump to the conclusion that I am being anti-nationalistic, but it’s quite the opposite. Every chance I get I fight for this country, because at the end of the day I want this to be a society that I am happy to live in, one that I can say I’m proud to be a part of. But sometimes I feel like I’m the only madwoman here, that everyone else has it right: from the corruption and the arrogance (all ages, all strata) to the educational system and our governing body (can’t talk too deeply about this because honestly I can’t keep up with what’s going on) to the way people drive, so uncivilized and revolting. Everything is so ugly, but I am the madwoman. Which takes me back to the story of the well.

I can’t remember the details of the story, but basically (I think-my memory may have altered it a little to suit my situation, I don’t know) there was this kingdom of more or less sane people and everyone was more or less happy on a more or less similar wavelength. Then someone discovered a well, drank from it and went mad. I can’t remember why but ultimately everyone drank from this well. Everyone but the King and Queen, who eventually decided to drink from it to keep their sanity (by going insane like everyone else).

Really. It’s all fucked up. But I’ll never drink from the well.