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I believe in not knowing.
I believe in wandering without a compass in hand.
I believe in being lost.
Only when you are lost, will you find what you have been searching for. Even while not knowing it there has been discomfort resting in the back of your mind, waiting for you to accept the truth, and be discovering who you truly are after the search. Search like the world was made for you to be lost in its beauty, in the beauty of the unknown. I believe in going along with the flow of whatever is meant to be, flirting with fields of possibility. Even when the world is fast asleep, dreaming in another life after a long, busy day of building ladders to reach threads of goals, I stay awake daydreaming of vast seas and oceans. In my nightlife, I sit patiently waiting and wondering. I am gloriously lost. And lost is exactly the way I want to be. As lost as a dandelion seed in the light of a wakeful spring breeze. I allow the subtle whispers of kismet to steer me in any direction. Disguised as a cool wind, they carry me along to where I know I belong.
It spills like a story. My story. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted my life to become. Whispers of the future filled the air around me, sending my lungs a feeling of suffocation. The future was a concept my mind was able to comprehend. But my future, it was a thought so near but a reality I could not seem to begin grasping onto. They asked what we wanted to become when we grew up and the truth is I never knew. I felt lost as the walls of questions kept closing in on me. The answer was always in the back of my head but I continued to ignore the fact that there were ever questions. So there I was, in the middle of a cold winter night. I reached for the compass and held it in my hands, something so fragile yet powerful. I had found my answer: writing.
I can still picture myself holding onto the thin piece of paper, it was blank. Clutching the pencil in my fingers and taking a deep breath, allowed something beautiful to happen. All the thoughts that had compiled themselves in my head began spilling onto the page, I had gotten a glimpse of what had been inside my soul for years for the very first time and at that exact moment, my future was set in motion. This was the moment I fell in love with writing. My mind was lost in a world of terror and tears. Only when writing had grasped onto my hand, did I realize the beauty of wandering helplessly.
The following morning I rushed down the hallway of my school and into my teacher’s classroom. Ms.Skunta was the exact opposite of the stereotype of an elementary teacher. For one, I never saw a blinding-red apple sitting on her desk, symbolizing everything she was to her students. She wore monotone colours, grey, black, a washed out blue once in awhile. The only time I could catch a glimpse of her smile was when she would converse with other teachers just outside the classroom. Ms. Skunk. That was the nickname given to her. It’s not that she hated children or her job, I hope, it was as if a spark that had once fluttered in her eyes had withered away. I never understood it but as I got older and looked back to my elementary days, the pieces would bind closer together and begin to make sense. This is why I was terrified and excited all at the same time to show her what I had discovered about myself.
I took a deep breath and handed her the thin paper, gazing into her eyes. She read over it and smiled. Smiled! Neither one of us spoke but she began to walk towards her desk and I followed. Sitting across from her my eyes peered into every item that sat still. Piles of paper, a granola bar, her laptop, and something I had to stare into for more than a few seconds to comprehend: a photograph of her kissing a man on the cheek. He looked about her age, with a faded beard, a red hat, and a smile as bright as the sun on a humid summer morning. As my eyes turned to meet hers, I could see a spark tucked just behind the walls of her mind. She grabbed onto a red pen and spoke.
“Investigate is spelled with an ‘e’ not an ‘a.’ ”
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And this is when it truly began. So many stories were written about clues, birds, castles, and ice cream. Each one Ms.Skunta patiently edited with me, silently suffering through every butchered word. Writing had made my heart its permanent home and I will be forever grateful. This was eight years ago when I was a little girl. I was lost and lost is exactly the way I wanted to be. If I hadn’t been, my heart wouldn’t burst onto pages and pages of art every time I silently sat and began writing my mind. Forced to follow my path and no one else’s, I took my chance to become something greater than myself. Writing will always be a part of me and it will be the key element in who I may become in the future. For now, the walls are no longer closing in on me and my lungs are finally breathing in oxygen one breath at a time. In a way, I am lost right now. Only this time, with a journal and pen in hand.
I believe in being lost because only when you are lost will you be found.