I think a lot of life is about finding one's own happy medium.
This changes not only from person to person (inter-individual variability to give it a pompous sheen) but also within a person depending on time and place (intra-individual variation).
I read somewhere that if you look at cell turn over in our body, every few years all our cells are replaced and we are a completely different organism. I find this scientifically unsound but nonetheless I think it may well be true for our soul (unscientific as it is to believe in one). It accumulates growth rings and fossilised layers so that one can see what has happened to it over time, but it probably also changes shape and size such that it is unrecognisable from the outside when you stop for a random pitstop on your life's rat race and pick it up for a look, curiously running your battle hardened fingertips over the strangely familiar and yet often alien contours of this thing that resides in you and yet is not you or perhaps is all of you that matters.
And when you do this you feel it's weight - that overused expression which remains a useful descriptor - the unbearable lightness of being - and this weighs down on you until you figure out what to do with it. Very often what hurts us deeply is something that is hardly visible - that smile which did not form, those fingers that refused to lace in yours with the right measure of temperature and pressure, a whisper in your ear that you waited for in vain - inconsequential really when looked at in the cold light of celestial electromagnetic emissions, but nonetheless still the proverbial last straw that cruelly alighted on the poor beast's spine, breaking it, forcing it to a new plane of existence and down a new unfamiliar dark hole to fall into, drawing yet another growth ring in to the misshapen little lump.
And then one day you decide to slide down the dark hole, scared and yet exhilarated by the sheer unpredictability of your fall from grace - surely this is how that original prodigal son felt as he was cast down from heaven, as he fell at unearthly (and unheavenly I guess) pace seeing the depths of his new dark home rush up in front of him, a part of him might have felt sad and uncared for and unwanted, but surely there was a grain of happiness in him as he looked forward to freedom, however dark and tainted it may be, the terminal velocity buzzing in his ears welcomed him with the whisper he yearned for so long, implored him to find great heights in those new dark depths and he opened his arms accepting the darkness, unknown and scary and reprehensible on first glance and yet strangely filled with that most devious of words - innocently sugar coated on the outside but dipped, soaked in that most enticing of ideas - potential. For that is what could be, what will be, even what should be - different from the here and the now and so this makes sense as he falls.
For others it is a senseless departure from grace and love and stability and sense, and yet to you it is all of it of course, but also something more - potential, change, chance and who knows, even salvation, for who is to decide that blindness is dark and salvation is light, for it may well be the other way round, who can see through a blind man's eye and how does he separate whiteness from blackness? For these are mere words, hollow, imposed on him by those who will never understand, so he falls happily, freely, wholeheartedly knowing that the world standing by the sideline judging him is wrong in its smug majority...
... on this cooling ball of fire to which we cling selfishly like sticky ugly limpets washed in waves of darkness from all around us, tell me who decides which way is up, tell me who is falling and who is not, for I say to you as you think I fall - Lucifer is ascending and he loves it.
