I have lived with excess for so long that I think I can recognize, almost physically, the place where a limit begins to emerge. There is a point that is difficult to explain but easy to feel, where something shifts. It is not immediate, nor abrupt, but it happens. As if an invisible line slowly appears between what is still inhabitable and what is beginning to cease to be.

That limit, however, is not fixed. It is not universal. It is shaped by experience. What feels excessive to me may barely be a beginning for someone else. Perhaps that is what makes it interesting: there is no stable measure, only a territory in constant transformation.

For a long time, I believed limits were something imposed from the outside. Something that came from education, social norms, or expectations. And to some extent, that is true. We learn from an early age where to stop, how to behave, what to avoid. But there is another layer, a more intimate one, that cannot be taught. It only appears when we begin to test those boundaries, to cross them, to exceed them.

There is something that cannot be understood without experience: we do not always recognize a limit before crossing it. Sometimes it only reveals itself afterwards.

I have sought excess in many forms. In work, giving more than I could sustain, convinced that effort would eventually be rewarded. In relationships, pleasing others until I lost sight of myself. And in the body, pushing it into states where intensity became indistinguishable from fullness. I would not say that any of this was a mistake.

There is a temptation in excess that is difficult to explain unless it has been felt: the belief that only by going beyond can we reach something more true. And yet, this is not always the case. Sometimes what appears on the other side is not clarity but noise. Not expansion but a loss of orientation.

And still, something happens there that cannot happen elsewhere.

I am beginning to think that the point is neither to avoid excess nor to celebrate it without measure. Perhaps it is to move through it with attention. To be able to return. To look back and recognize what has taken place. It is in that act of returning that the limit begins to take shape—not as a rule or a prohibition, but as a form of understanding. Something that does not prevent you from going further, but allows you to know how far you wish to stay.

For a long time, I believed that living intensely meant living without measure. I am no longer so sure. Perhaps intensity is not found in constant excess, but in refining perception. In noticing the precise moment when something stops being enjoyment and begins to become something else.

Perhaps that is the true point of balance. Not a fixed line, but a sensitivity. And perhaps the limit is not there to prevent us from crossing it, but to allow us to recognize when we have left it behind.