The Gels of My Life: A Ritual of Survival and Strength

Sitting here in Paris, watching the rain wash the city streets, I am struck by how much of our lives we spend trying to stay clean—not just on the outside, but within. The water hits the limestone buildings of this ancient city, and I think about the layers we apply to ourselves to withstand the weather of life. In a world of clinical solutions and quick fixes, I realized that my survival has been a series of rituals. I call them the "gels" of my life.

From washing to fixing, from visible rituals to hidden moments of protection, this is a story of liberation, strength, and presence. This journey of mine is not linear; it goes from this morning to yesterday, to long ago yesterday, and even further—to that almost forgotten yesterday where my independence first took root. It is a geology of the soul, where every layer tells a story of pressure and crystallization.

The Rituals of Today

This morning, the air was crisp. I changed the sheets, smoothing out the white cotton, and opened the large window to let the smell of rain in. There is something sacred about fresh air after a storm. It felt like a new beginning, a clean slate.

It has been exactly one month since I made a radical choice: I discarded smoking, a habit I carried like a heavy, smoky cloak for forty years. Forty years of breathing in shadows. It wasn’t just a habit; it was a shield. Immediately after that decision, I felt vulnerable, so I applied a symbolic fixing gel—not to my hair, but to my spirit. I needed to stabilize the choice and the newfound strength that came with it. When you change a life-long rhythm, you need something to hold the notes in place.

The Weight of Memory and Heritage

Five years ago, the world felt much heavier. At my mother’s death, I stood in the doorway of the place that held my history. I took the keys to my apartment and fixed her final words in my heart: “Keep the apartment.” Those words were more than a request; they were an anchor.

And then I reached for the fixing gel again. I needed to keep the balance that such a heavy decision required. In the midst of grief, it is so easy to drift away, to let everything go. But I chose to stay fixed, to remain grounded in the legacy she left behind. It was a ritual of keeping my word to the woman who gave me life.

Cleansing the Wounds of the Past

Ten years ago, the task was different. It was a season of purging. I had to wash my body from the residue of deceit, the salt of betrayals, and the cold echoes of others leaving my life. People come and go, but they often leave "bacteria" behind—the lingering wounds of their choices.

I remember using a sanitizing gel (hydroalcoholic) to neutralize those residual wounds others made without a second thought. It wasn’t just about hygiene; it was about spiritual disinfection. It took time. It took immense hope to believe I could be clean again, that I could walk through the world without the smell of other people's betrayals on my skin.

The Path to Independence

I remember a much older yesterday. I was washing my body before leaving for a life without parents, without anyone to catch me—stepping into a world where I was alone with myself. It was the first time I truly understood what independence meant. It was cold, and it was frightening.

I applied the fixing gel once more, preparing myself for the stability I needed in a life of fierce independence. I was preparing to be my own foundation, my own magmatic core.

Conclusion

The gels of my life—from the ones that clean to the ones that fix—are my architecture of silence. They are the rituals that allow me to remain clean, stable, and, most importantly, myself. Whether I am in the North of Canada hunting for diamonds or in the heart of France mining the crystals of my own heart, these rituals remain. We are the ones who decide what sticks and what we wash away with the rain.

Note: This personal essay was written by Magma Star and polished with AI assistance to meet the platform's structural requirements while preserving the author's authentic voice.