The Seeker

I am a seeker. In contrast to most people who seek or hunt something, I’m unfamiliar with what I’m looking for. I don’t know how it looks, how it smells, I don’t know if it makes any sound, I don’t know whether to look for it during the day or the night, in autumn or in spring, in the basement, the boundless steppes of Asia or at the summit of Kilimanjaro. At the same time, I am a liar, con-man, charlatan, a genuine phony(?!), because I already have what I claim to seek, but pretend that it’s missing and I have to scour the world to find it.

Throughout my life I’ve been obsessed with the need to belong – to an idea, cause or to someone. I’ve always felt incomplete and partial, like a potted plant, which can survive in any conditions, but will never outgrow the pot and reach its natural size. Driven by this need, ever since my early childhood days I tried to give myself to something bigger, some activity or experience, which can act as a support and help me fill the gaping hole inside my soul.

I channeled my desperation through school, sports, university, friendships, love affairs and anything else I could think of. I applied myself vigorously in each of these things, putting in all my intensity and effort and expected, believed that I will receive the same treatment, that someone or something will notice how hard I was trying, respond and tell me who & what I am.

Such desires are of course extremely naive and destined to fail, because the world isn’t set-up to comfort my selfish needs or provide ready-made answers. No one ever answered the questions only I could know and for all my efforts all I received was utter disappointment and dejection caused by shattered expectations. Through sports I managed to find some partial reprieve, due to their raw and pure nature. You cannot cheat around effort – you either have to show it or accept staying behind.

However, as time progressed my inner tensions grew I needed something more substantial or an increase of the dose. I felt the surrounding world was insufficient to my needs, I felt confused, lost, abandoned and above all completely alone. I couldn’t fit in anywhere, with anyone or anything. I wanted to find something that could define me, identify me, give a direction or label and allow me to attach myself to it. I wanted a purpose, a life-mission, to care for something or someone. To belong.

From my friends I wanted comradery, I wanted to form a fellowship that pitted us against the rest of the world, so that I could dissolve and give myself to the collective and finally fill the hole in my heart that threatened to swallow me. In my love life I looked to find dedication, compassion and above all a burning, raging sense of desire, which would envelop my inner storm. I failed innumerable times. But I didn’t quit, on the contrary, I rolled up my sleeves and chased after my obsession with even more determination, I continued to dig, to look, to search, to seek out something external that would give my life meaning and finally bring me peace.

The Labyrinth

What can a person struggling to push against the whole world hope to achieve with their meager efforts? From an individual perspective – not much, really. I’m a seeker, but what do I seek? I seek to find myself. A classic paradox, how can seeker find what they’re looking for if they’re not differentiated from the object of their interest? So the answer had to lie somewhere else. After countless disappointments I found out that the lingering sense of fracture could never go away by embracing some activity, object or person, rather I had to find balance from within.

That meant it was impossible to find what I was looking for, because I already carried it with me. I didn’t have a problem – I was the problem. And the answer. Sounds like typical mambo-jumbo, right? “Live, love, laugh”-grade bullshit, that you post with a nice picture, because you don’t know what else to do. Vague words meant to imply some deeper meaning, but instead spreading denial & confusion. How could I feel a need for something I already possessed?

It’s all a matter of perspective. If I accept the perceptions of myself as the truth, then I will always be the victim. My present will always be determined by the past and the future by the present. So nothing can change, the story is written and I’m bound to suffer until my last breath. I’m a perpetual loser, forever stuck in second place, where I can only react to whatever life throws at me and hope to survive another day, week or year.

But what if I’m wrong, what if my thoughts and ideas aren’t a reflection of the world, but a distortion of it? What if I’m wrong about everything? What if the boundaries that I’ve used to determine myself are not real, but imaginary? What if I’ve become so absorbed in myself that I take everything too seriously? What if my perceptions are just confusion-born illusions that I’ve convinced myself to fetishize? What if I’m not a victim? Who am I then?

I am the screenwriter who wrote the script, the stagehand who built the set. I’m the actor performing on the grandest stage and the audience holding its breath, applauding and jeering. I am the comforting shade on the hottest summer day. I am the pain, loneliness, disease, fear and rage that permeates throughout the world and of which despair is born. I am joy, love and the happiness that etches itself in the most vibrant of memories. I am the emptiness that is born from loss, the regret born from separation. I am the scent of fresh-cut grass, the seasons and the mountains. I am destruction, war and death. I am the Sun, the stars and all the galaxies. I am the Void. I am not a man, because men are born and die, yet I remain eternal. I am the portrait painting the painter. All there ever was and will be is within me and I am present in every part of it. Turn around to see your head and you will find me standing there.

I am the Process

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