Lost and Found

I wish to talk with someone about writing… because I’m lost. But that’s nothing new. Most of my writing comes from lost lands. Writing is my way to found lands, or at least I seem to believe it is. I don’t know if I would write at all if I felt found. And if I felt found, would I reach out to others who feel lost to help them find the way, or would I believe they must find their own way? As if borrowing a way from someone else doesn’t really work? 

There seem to be some, if not many, who write from a position of found, and from that great land they call out the way to others: “Go to the left,” they say, or “Stop and turn around!” they shout. I hear them but I seldom think they are giving me what I need. So why would I think I could ever give someone something they need? I generally don’t think that is the case. I don’t write from the Great Land of the Found. 

Perhaps there is a hope that I might find companions on the road from Lost to Found, and that I might be one for someone else. The destination is almost inconsequential in this view. The destination is merely the reason any of us are on this road at all. 

I imagine this road is two-way. There are those walking toward Found and those walking toward Lost, and at any given moment one might turn and go the other way for a while. There are also places to pause and shaded resting places. There may even be side trails going off into unknown lands and dangerously steep edges. Peril exists on this road in either direction. So, to be sure, company is desired for the journey. 

Does this reveal my true reason for writing? Is it because I may be lost but I don’t want to be lost alone? Do I write because I believe there are others out there who feel the same way? Is companionship for the road the thing which propels my fingers’ movements across the keyboard? And if I found companionship, would I stop writing altogether, having had my longing met, or would I continue? 

I don’t have the answers to my questions. And maybe that’s why I write more. The unquenchable desire for answers and understanding pushes me onward, though the quenching never happens. It is, then, an empty pursuit. A maddening quest. 

Or perhaps I write to quiet that madness, to calm the angst in my mind and soul. Maybe if I put my thoughts on paper they can’t fly around the room and whack me on the back of the head. Maybe I’m trying to trap them, tame them, control them. Again, I do not know. I do not know why I write, I just know it is a function I am compelled to do.

You see on which side of the road I am at present, and how quickly one’s direction may change. I feel as if I’m walking toward Found when Lost calls my name and I turn around and move that way again. 

I do not call out from the Great Land of the Found, but simply from where I am. And any sound I make is more of a whisper, as if a thought floated by and did nothing to demand your attention or cause you to take notice, but gently brushed against you. An invitation to walk with me is given, but softly, for I know how very lost I am. I do not commit to becoming unlost either. I am no guide, only an explorer. Found may never define me. 

To be content with a satchel full of unanswered questions may be what I seek more than anything. What I pick up along my travels may mean more than where my road ends. The sense of wonder from all I do not comprehend may be the greatest of blessings once all is said and done, all paths are walked, all words are written, all thoughts are tamed, and all companions are met. I do not know. 

But even so, as a friend of mine used to say, “Onward still.”