Lost Boy.

I am here.

I am here.

That’s all I know, here, right now. I am here. And the dark clouds have left me; have gone to cast their shadows on some other boy in some other town. I am here with the Sun and the clarity, with a thousand words in me, all jumbled up. I’ve taken to writing instead of reading these last couple of days. I don’t know why. Maybe I felt like I had suddenly read enough. I have been reading good books non-stop through this entire exam period. I’m currently in the middle of Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost. It’s a great enquiry concerning the many different forms of “lost” we can be and feel. I’ve been lost in most senses, I believe. But never geographically. I’ve always known how to find my way, even in the deepest depths of cities that stretch for miles, I’ve never lost my sense of direction however unfamiliar the streets and houses have been. But I’ve been lost in my own life ever since I realized there was a form of being lost to be found there. I have no sense of direction when it comes to leading a life, and whenever I see the arrow pointing straight ahead, there’s a wall in front of me, or an ocean, or a mountain signaling the end of the world. Whenever I start to feel certain, the rug is pulled away from under me, and I land on my back and elbows, dizzy, looking at the sky to which there is no direction but home. Home and away. I am here, and everything is away from here. I am here, and everything is home from here. I am here, and I don’t know where here is, and I certainly don’t know what here is. It’s a place. It’s a shelter. It’s where I keep my belongings. It’s where I pull the curtains. It’s where I shower and sleep. But I live in so many different worlds; worlds in dimensions where places like this don’t even exist. And I’m afraid to let myself know which part of me is real. I’m afraid it isn’t the one that is here. I am afraid I am not.


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