I once went to this place where everybody held a balloon on a string. Everybody. All their lives. And some of those balloons would inflate over time and everyone would inwardly gush – ‘Just look at my balloon, look how big it is’. So obsessed with their precious fucking balloons.
A meeting with Dimitri is like a giant, unexpected, unforgiving gust of wind, whipping that balloon right out of their hands.
Some people would rather die than let go of their balloon. No, I can’t let go of my balloon, I’ve been holding it since I was two! They wail like children clinging to the string of their balloon in desperation. Some clutch the whole balloon, so tight it might burst but not caring. They’ve just got to keep a hold of it.
Dmitri bursts them anyway. And off they fall, into a balloon-less, string-less world, hands grasping, nothing to hold on to. Without their comforter, their familiar. It flips them upside down, fires them through a spiralling tunnel of consciousness, spits them out the other end, lands them in a puddle of clarity, lets them blink back to reality. And even lets their balloon float back down to them, albeit a little bit deflated now, see Dmitri isn’t all bad.
They take hold of that string again, almost in a daze. Back to this reality, so dense, so thickened with all our dreaming days.
Dr Dimitri says, you can let go of your balloon and also delfate it when necessary. Bursting balloons is not advised. Rapid ego death is not for everyone.