The Iron Ball
He had an answer. His mind was not split anymore. Finally, he had a good night’s sleep. He woke up alone. He was in someone else’s bed, in a stranger’s house. He made the bed—the half that he used. As he walked out, he saw that his picture, which was once in the room, had been removed.
He prepared himself a cup of coffee and ate the leftover pizza. It was a long journey ahead; he had to be ready for it. It was a clean, orderly apartment with a relaxing view. This was far away from his known routine, yet he was able to enjoy it. He wrote a note on the pizza box.
He packed himself; it was over. He closed the door gently, knowing he was closing a door he would never be able to open again. He didn’t have the key. So he left. He was one taxi, two flights, and a train ride away from home.
He was so calm, it was worrying. How could it be? One would think he would collapse like an empty bag—because he was emptied. His world was taken from him. His dreams, his future, his truths, his trust, his beliefs, his love… He was broken. He was broken up. He was broken down. His outer stillness didn’t match his inner chaos. It was not stylish.
He met some people on the way.
One of them wanted to be home so urgently, so badly. He didn’t want to be outside. There was only one place on earth he wanted to be: his home. He was bleeding, and he didn’t know how to hold it; he did not know how to stop it.
Another one promised to get them home. It was a promise—one that nobody could doubt. He didn’t know fear; he didn’t know exhaustion. He didn’t know the rules. No matter what, he was going to take them home. How comforting.
They also had a cheerleader. He kept singing: “Each moment we breathe is a victory.” He reminded them that as long as they breathe, they live. “We are alive, and it is not over,” he repeated over and over.
They ran into a weirdo as well. He liked drawing pictures for them. He didn’t fit the scenery; he was out of their world. It was like he didn’t know what was going on. While the rest were trying to be mature and handle the crisis, this one kept showing them his doodles.
An iron ball—he showed them. It was a perfectly shaped ball. So heavy, so static. It was whole. It was perfect. It lacked nothing and had nothing extra. It was unmovable, untouchable, unbreakable. One could get close to it, sit with it, be with it, and nothing more. Nobody could add anything to it; nobody could remove anything from it.
They were finally home. He held his promise. He brought them home safely. He was still breathing, he was still bleeding, he was still victorious. Now he could bleed as much as he wanted. He was home.
In time, the memory of what they experienced faded. However, the iron ball—the image of the iron ball became clearer. They were so impressed by the iron ball. What if that was their home? They gathered around him all together. He had an answer.