My INFJ Year of Empty Mountains

In the annals of my year, 2024, as I reflect upon the tapestry of my existence, I find myself drawn to these melodies and verses of music, each piece a mirror to the soul, reflecting facets of my own journey through the labyrinth of human experience.

"Cithaeron" by Daniel Rogers and Ensemble de Organographia -- The ancient Greek chants, sung in the key of D minor (Pisces?), evoke the sacredness of the mountain Cithaeron, where once the rites of Dionysus were celebrated. This year, my own indulgences in the nectar of the vine, in the form of alcohol, have been less a celebration and more a quest for oblivion, an attempt to drown the cacophony of the world in the sweet, fleeting embrace of Bacchus. Yet, the hangover of reality always returns, stark and unyielding, reminding me of the ephemeral nature of pleasure.

"Interiorul Imaginilor" by Arc Gotic -- In the key of G minor (Aquarius?), its lyrics in Romanian whisper of a world within images, a place where one might escape the harshness of reality. My year has been punctuated by the consumption of ice cream and sweets, each spoonful an attempt to conjure the past, to revisit those moments of pure, unadulterated joy. Yet, like the music, these indulgences are but illusions, covering memories of cruelty and unkindness with layers of sugar and cream, only to reveal the bitterness beneath when the sweetness fades.

"Step" by Karoon (C minor [Capricorn?], Ukrainian) -- It began in January, or maybe it had always been January. The sky stretched out blank and sullen, as if someone had erased the lines that divide it from the earth. No mountains, no rivers, only the endless, barren steppe of my discontent. I saw my reflection in the frosted glass of the kitchen window, lips moving without sound: Все пусте (Fse puste). Everything is empty. The news was a chain of horrors, wars sputtering like untended fires. I couldn't help but stare, hypnotized, as though bearing witness might absolve me of my own uselessness. I hadn't yet learned that watching suffering doesn't redeem the watcher.

Each day, I painted my rage across the page of some imagined battlefield, sketching cruel faces onto strangers. At night, the wind howled around my apartment, sifting through cracks in the walls like it was sifting through my bones. The silence would press itself against me, unbearable, until I lit a cigarette just to hear the paper crackle. But even the smoke seemed complicit--curling away like a friend you've hurt too many times.

"Kyrie eleison (monody)" by Kiev Chamber Choir -- This G minor (Aquarius?) monody, a plea for mercy, mirrors my own cries for respite from the stress and anger stirred by the incessant news of politics and wars. Each note, each plea for 'Lord have mercy,' echoes my silent prayers for peace within a world that seems intent on tearing itself apart, where my own heart has been a battlefield, ravaged by the wars of others' making.

"На кухне" [In the kitchen] by Kino (or Кино) -- In the key of A♭ major or A-flat Major (Sagittarius?), this song's words flow like the thoughts that keep one from sleep, filled with ennui and the resignation to life's relentless march. My nights have been haunted by similar thoughts, where the comfort of cold sparkling water beverages and Nutella becomes a ritual to soothe the mind, a momentary distraction from the existential dread that the day's news has instilled.

"И вновь продолжается бой!" [The Battle is Going Again!] (C minor [Capricorn?], music by Алекса́ндра Никола́евна Па́хмутова [Aleksandra Pakhmutova], lyrics by Никола́й Добронра́вов [Nikolai Dobronravov]) -- This Soviet song, with its refrain of unending battle, resonates with the internal struggle against the sadism and cruelty I've encountered. The world's rejection, felt in each malicious act or word, has pushed me towards overreactions, my own sins perhaps a reflection of the battle I wage within, against a society that seems to celebrate strife rather than communion.

Glass and Brimstone

"Brat" by Ceca [C# minor (Leo?)] -- By March, the world had grown transparent, like a thin veil of something meant to deceive. My memories trickled back, sharp-edged and mocking, as though to say: Look, look how you have always been this way. That month, I played the role of the woman in the silver dress, the one who comes alone to a crowded room and finds her reflection in the bottom of a glass. I want everything, I whispered to no one in particular. But there was no "everything" to be had--only brothers who weren't brothers, strangers who turned their backs politely.

When I slammed my glass down on the counter, it shattered. "You're overreacting," someone said, but what did they know of my thin skin stretched taut over so many old wounds? How could they understand what it means to carry a furnace of anger inside you, fed constantly by the world's relentless cruelty? Even my sins, which should have been mine alone, were used against me--paraded out like worn coats on faceless mannequins.

The Wind Carries Nothing

"Час" (Time) by Vivienne Mort -- A minor/B minor (Aries/Gemini?) [in Ukrainian]: Summer came, and with it, the kind of heat that makes you forget the existence of water. I thought I could escape by following the wind, but it only led me back to the past, to the cruel hands and sneering faces of those who thought pain was an art form. I didn't deserve it--at least I don't think I did--but my own sins rose to meet theirs, like a mirror reflecting itself into infinity. I would lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was love or simply the absence of it.

The news churned on, relentless as the wind. War here, cruelty there. People dying by the hundreds, while others thrived on the spectacle. I wanted to scream at the world for its apathy, but I knew my own hands weren't clean. I had spoken harsh words, slammed doors, cursed strangers under my breath for their imagined slights. Wasn't I part of the same machine?

Hush Now, Don't Explain

"Don't Explain" by Billie Holiday (key--E-flat major [Capricorn?], written by Arthur Herzog Jr. and Billie Holiday) -- By September, I had stopped trying to justify myself. You know I love you, I whispered to the emptiness, though I wasn't sure who I was speaking to--God, the universe, or the ghost of who I used to be. I was no longer angry, not in the way that burns bright and clean. My anger had turned inward, sour and slow, like fruit left too long in the sun. The cruelty of others felt almost justified now, as though the world were one long, elaborate punishment for some original sin I had committed long before I was born.

And yet, I stayed. I woke up each morning, brushed my teeth, dressed myself in clothes that no longer fit quite right. I existed, if only to defy the emptiness pressing in from all sides.

"Child I Will Hurt You" by Crystal Castles -- Its lyrics in English [in the key of G major (Taurus?)], speak of a kind of control, of locking away parts of oneself or others. This year, I've felt locked away by my vices, each indulgence a foray into temporary solace, only to return to the stark reality of my own shortcomings and the pain inflicted by others' abusive behaviors. The 'snow covering the stain' is a metaphor for how I've tried to mask my wounds, only for them to reappear in the light of day.

"Notturno for Strings and Harp" by Arnold Schoenberg -- In A-flat major (Sagittarius?), this piece offers a nocturnal peace, a serenity I've sought in moments of reflection. My own memories, like the strings of this nocturne, have played a discordant melody this year, each note a reminder of times when I felt more in harmony with the world, before the cacophony of human discord overwhelmed me.

"Big Black Car" by Gregory Alan Isakov (key--E-flat major [Capricorn?]) -- Here the lyrics speak to the innocence of youth and the passage of time. My indulgences, from alcohol to sweets, have been an attempt to recapture that innocence, to soothe the heart that has known too much of the world's harshness. Each memory is like a record scratch, a moment of clarity in a life that feels increasingly scripted by others' cruelty.

In 2024, I have been both the dancer and the rag, the phonograph and the listener, caught in a dance where the steps are dictated by pain and fleeting pleasures. Like Proust's search for lost time, I have sought to reclaim something pure, something lost admist the noise of existence. Yet, as the music fades and the flavors dissipate, I am left with the quiet understanding that perhaps the real solace lies not in escapism but in confronting the dissonance, in finding harmony within the discord, and in the slow, painstaking work of self-forgiveness and reconciliation with the world's complexities.

Everything Blooming

By the end of the year, something shifted. The anger wasn't gone--it would never be gone--but it had changed shape, becoming something I could hold in my hands without burning myself. I began to write again, drawing lines between my memories and the barren landscape of the present. There was beauty in the emptiness, I realized. Even the steppe blooms, if you know where to look.

My sins and overreactions became part of the story, not the whole of it. I stopped trying to punish myself for feeling rejected by the world. The world is cruel, yes, but it is also vast and indifferent--too large to notice whether I am here or not. That realization didn't bring me peace, but it did bring a kind of clarity.

Everything is empty, I wrote in my notebook one night, and then below it, almost as an afterthought: But everything blooms. [Все цвіте OR Fse tsveete (All's in bloom)]