Man reist ja nicht, um anzukommen, sondern um zu reisen. — Goethe

I woke up shortly after sunrise, looked out of the window to a view of wide yellow rapeseed fields that were touched by low clouds of fog. The bus I was riding passed by small towns and houses near the fields. The scene was magical and dreamlike. A radiated sense of serenity found its way to me in my bus’s seat. I wished the driver would stop so I get to stay here for a while, or maybe longer. All what was in my mind at the moment was: If something of such beauty exists, why am I so often absent from it? If feelings of peace are so accessible, why is the desire to direct oneself towards it feels so heavy? What does it take to allow oneself to enjoy these few possible moments of happiness? Is it the coincidence? Or do pain and suffering inspire us with the will for change, for openness and for exposure to the unexpected? That random moment I lived that day was certainly the result of an accumulated pain that led me to ride this particular bus and go away, to the other end of that pain.

My memories usually begin, when I write about them, with waking up from a sleep. And that’s because I am, today, is what I have dreamt of yesterday. I am a helpless human who is totally incapable of setting free from their thoughts, whenever my dreams take over my mind. Dreams are the most real and honest way of thinking. What I couldn’t whisper in my wakefulness, is to be shouted in my dreams. And my most shameful thoughts and desires will haunt me as soon as I step my foot in the backstage of my mind; my unconsciousness. When this happens, as it always does, I go and hold my pen, run away from the prison of loneliness, to a blank white page, creating another reality. A reality where I am praised, loved and approved. Later I go back to sleep, as I must, and the thoughts come back to me in my dreams, and they bring in more guilt and shame the more I evade. I step back and think, if I am to write, the only way to break this pattern is that my writings ought to reflect the honesty of my dreams, and in such expression I might find something.

That day I didn’t wake up to a dream, but to a reality, although it felt like a dream. I was half awake. It took me few minutes till I realized the other end of my sight. My mind was feeling something different and new. Which happens a lot these days of mine. Some change is happening I can feel it, but I am not yet able to judge it, whether it is good or bad. But from time to time I find myself in such a mental state, and it leaves me thinking about things.

Days passed, and I keep thinking about this small moment. I get back to the memory of the rare sweet feeling that the world is , for a second, not a dreadful place. And how a random sight, not of any extraordinarity, is asking me to feel peaceful and serene, like it is patting on my shoulder after waking up from a bad sleep and a horrible nightmare.

At that moment and thereafter, I decided, I want to travel away… or rather farther, since I was already away. I thought to myself, if such calming feelings are up to the randomness, then I am to put myself where the random can happen, which is through constant movement and travel. I wanted my pain to push me away this time instead of locking me up in a zone of comfort, and to identify with curiosity instead of fear.

I arranged for a random trip, without much planning and waiting, took the train and left. I told myself, I am not looking for something. But I know in myself, that I am only going for a certain search. I didn’t feel brave to confront myself with this fact. I allowed myself to be fooled this time and said: I will wait and see.

I arrived to my first destination, out of presumably five or more ones, which I am not interested in naming. Because the names of the places don’t matter. And I would go further and say that the places themselves are almost irrelevant most of the time. My brain is not great when it comes to dealing with spatial surroundings. They don’t mean much but to the critic inside me, who would say this place is pretty or ugly. But beauty and ugliness don’t create meanings themselves. There is something beyond, something that makes the ‘pretty’ sometimes unbearable, and the ‘ugly’ the place of comfort and safety. What is that thing? People call it names. You might think of some while reading this. But I will not claim to know what I truly don’t. Maybe that’s what I am on a long journey to find. A few days ago however, that thing was only a fog, and the color yellow, and the small sleeping houses.

I targeted the first city to sleep, after a long distance from where I set off. And yet, my perfectionism led me to go out and explore, as if I am on a mission where there is no time to rest. What if what I am looking for was just to hang aimlessly or go to sleep? But given the hustle and bustle of the sitting hall, and the hotness of the sleeping room, that theory did not hold. I got to know one of my fellow residents in the same room. A lot of distraction lies in socialization. Like when you start a conversation out of nowhere wanting to pass the time. It often works. In the past tho, I used to get attached to strangers I meet, and the thought that I might never again meet someone who got to know me and I got to know used to frighten me. That’s why I always made sure I would exchange contact, if not for the contact then at least for reducing that unease.

Eventually I went out alone for a walk in the city center. And, right off the bat, I felt lonely. My mind got full with thoughts. I took my notebook with me knowing that this will happen. Had no option but to write. Then had not the option to do so, since it started to pour right after I went out. I sat and watched people instead. And then of course I started judging. Not persons, but people. Quickly I started noticing and feeling provoked by the stereotypicality of the social life. Maybe out of envy that people’s normal ways don’t work for me. I identify a lot in my judgment with my despisal towards to the dualisms, the either/or, of this world. Inequality feeds on them. Hate feeds on them. Oppression feeds on them. Any problem you see in the society, you name it, feeds on this polarization we like to do. We choose names and put labels to be able to say: I am… and you or they are… either something or the other. Either rich or poor. Either accepted or alienated. Social or loner. White or of color. Masculine or feminine. One of ‘us’ or one of ‘them’. And I stand in the middle, existentially ignorant, inherently undefined and characteristically indefinite. My human condition derives from this shame. The shame of having to be something. The shame of having to be a human. My existence feels in constant crisis every day I don’t conform to some certainty. And my shame invites all my feelings of misery and sorrow. And it leaves me lonely. When I run from it I can’t help but attack it. Then I feel lost and I ask: does the world have a will to naturally deselect us, the ones who won’t conform? Or is it me who is projecting their own pain and helplessness on the world avoiding taking the responsibility. This is exactly what I am trying to find by expressing these not so appealing thoughts and experiences. To break the gap between my mind and the external world. And allowing my thoughts on others to be in other’s hands themselves. Hoping to start some conversation, asking some question and searching for some answer.

I went back to my room after all this anger locked in my mind, wanting to sleep. It comes as no surprise that I couldn’t easily fall asleep, after my mind has sparked this attack against the outside world. That’s why our bodies punishes us by depriving us from sleeping. I should accept the consequences of my actions. I slept and kept waking up almost each hour of the long night. And I kept kicking the time till the morning came, and my second day started.