On Being Lost

Have you ever felt like you've lost something important? Not your keys, or your wallet. Not even a work of art you've been slaving over for years. I mean something important: Something inside of you.

Some days, I feel like I've lost bits and pieces of myself somewhere along the way. I wish I could follow the crumbs I've been losing and trace my path back to where I once was. Back to some place where, even if I didn't know who I was, then, at the least, I could feel like myself.

I know it's not uncommon to be untrue to oneself at times. We say things and do things that don't match up to the types of people we envision ourselves being. But I think I've surpassed this. I feel unrecognizable to myself much of the time. I don't know where I'm headed, and, perhaps worse, I don't know why I'm headed there. If I could summon up a version of myself from many years ago, I'm not sure he would approve of my current situation and/or condition. I suspect he would lecture me about the folly of losing one's way. He would likely demand reparations.

If he were here, then I'd be able to see where I went astray. Then I could draw a straight line from me to him and guide myself back. That line would often intersect the route that I took to get here, which, plotted, would probably look like a tangled ball of yarn. A route whose heading no one could guess.

But I doubt going back is an option. And unravelling my route to determine where I'm headed seems equally improbable. Still, I'll have to figure this out, because one thing that I do know is that staying lost indefinitely isn't what I want. There is no meaning in being lost.