Journeys and Star Gazing

Rediscovering old notes and writings I tucked away feels like opening a time capsule. As I edit and rewrite, I’m often stunned by what unfolds—almost as if someone else penned these words. Curious to see what I found? Check out the latest piece I’ve dusted off from the drawer:

Once, I believed in the world as it was handed to me—a place where no one questioned the present and bothered to ask about the origins of our existence. But something stirred in me. As the static of modern life cleared, a pulsating sense of displacement, a profound disconnect from my cultural roots, rose from within, like an echo from my ancestors. I could almost feel their journey across the Great Ocean, but something gnawed at me—a profound uncertainty that no one here could answer.

In this land, no one believed in anything beyond the horizon, not the priest, the doctor, the teacher, or even the philosopher. They were prisoners of an unshakable belief: they had always been here. No one had come from anywhere else, and nothing existed beyond the boundaries of their world. They were trapped in an eternal present, fully immersed in “Always Here and Now.” To them, the notion of elsewhere was absurd. If there was no “other place,” how could anyone have come from it?

Initially, I grappled with understanding. My friends’ reality seemed dictated by simple logic, but my thoughts wandered beyond their walls. How could anyone have come from elsewhere if there was no other place? My friends saw the compass as proof of their reality, pointing only to an endless, eternal loop. They cautioned me against delving too deeply into such thoughts, insisting the simplicity of their truth was my only sanctuary. But something within me resisted. I was resolute, against all odds, to find the home my ancestors had spoken of, a place that existed somewhere beyond their narrow vision — a place I had never seen but felt in my bones.

Speaking of this ‘other place’ was perilous. Each mention of it shook the very foundation of their beliefs. What did that mean for their carefully constructed present if there was another world? The inner became the outer, the light became dark, and everything they knew would collapse. They were content to remain in their prison of four walls, preoccupied with the décor, oblivious to who had designed their confinement.

But I couldn’t ignore the whispers of the past. My ancestors had lived on an island swallowed by time. Only a few had escaped its destruction, fishermen who drifted across the ocean with no destination, guided by nothing more than a lucky wind. They rowed, prayed, and hoped for forty days and forty nights until they reached this land. That story lived within me, waiting for me to find the same wind, to follow the arc of coincidence that had saved them.

Yet, as I reflected, I came to a profound realization. I was still searching for something I couldn’t name—a more profound significance in my surroundings. It wasn’t just about finding another place but understanding why it mattered. The abalone shell reflected the ocean’s rhythms as if it carried the pulse of an unseen world. I then realized that significance wasn’t found in the object but in my gaze. The same wind that saved my ancestors wasn’t guiding me toward another place—it showed me that meaning itself is something we create, not discover.

My ancestors braved the ocean’s winds and waves to find this land. But the distance I had to cross was between worlds, not shores—between the truth they carried and my life now. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to find meaning but to create it, and that was the natural wind that would take me home. This realisation, this understanding, was my enlightenment.