The Lostness: When You Can't Find Your Way
Chapter One
There’s a drifting, a once-upon-a-time kind of feeling. Do you know what it is to stand in the heart of maps—dead center of an earth-sized chart—and still feel lost? Lost in a way that no words can ever capture. It’s staring life in its cold, dark black eyes and finding nothing staring back. To stand in the Atlantic and feel no rush of the ocean, no salt on your skin, no sky above. That’s the lostness.
I remember the first time I truly felt it. It was the first day of July, this year. The kind of day where the sun stays out too long, like it’s afraid to leave you alone. I was sitting on the floor of my room in my parent’s house, surrounded by the clutter of a life that no longer felt like mine. Books I’d never read. Plans I’d made but never followed.
I’d just quit a job I hated, convinced that freedom would feel like a rush of fresh air. Instead, it felt like nothing. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into fog. No fear, no thrill—just the void.
If only scientists could measure it—this lostness. But it’s not loneliness. Loneliness is a shallow thing, a child’s toy compared to the abyss of the lostness. The lostness is vast, vaster than the endless worlds of Middle Earth. It’s not about people. Not friends, not family or lovers, not the lack or the abundance of them. The lostness is about you.
It’s the feeling of bleeding out. Life trickles from your veins, time evaporates like mist, and your heart slows, powerless against its pull. And yet, there’s a sliver of hope in the lostness, a cruel optimism: the lost can be found. But don’t kid yourself—that journey will take time. And time is a cruel companion.
There’s a numbness in the lostness, a frozen, stasis-like detachment. Life comes and goes, but you don’t care. You can’t care. The brain, traitorous as ever, confuses the physical and the emotional. Your chest aches as if it were broken; your heart burns like a pyre. And yet, lostness isn’t depression. It’s something deeper. A cousin, maybe, or a twin. It feeds on stillness, thrives on stagnation. Lostness is the absence of motion, the rebellion against the laws of physics.
It’s knowing you’re meant for something more and yet being paralyzed by the question: What is more? Lostness is a road that disappears into woods, leaving you stranded. You walk deeper, hoping to escape, but every step pulls you further into the shadows. Until, at last, you scream—raw and guttural. The forest listens, the beasts awaken. The air smells like blood, and the hunt begins.
Lostness isn’t a quick death. It’s sharks that nibble, piece by piece. First your thumb, then your pinky. Blood blooms in the water as your toes disappear, one by one. And still, you swim, believing there’s an end. But there isn’t.
The lostness is conjured by the dark wizardry of the mind. It feeds on its maker, a parasite that siphons your essence. A silver pistol or a purple shotgun—pick your poison. They’re the same, just like the lostness. A weapon of destruction disguised as choice.
There’s a darkness to the lostness. A valley so deep, so endless, it swallows even the bravest souls. Many venture in; few return. Avoid the eye of the lostness. It is not for mortal sight. It will break you.
And yet, the lostness sings. It hums a tune from a past life, beats a rhythm you almost remember. Listen, but not too long. Its song is a siren’s call, seductive and consuming. Look too closely, and it will devour you. Avoid the eye of the lostness.
The lostness isn’t a friend or foe. It’s a mirror. It shows you you. That’s why it’s so hard to fight. How do you escape yourself? You don’t. No one can help you here. This isn’t a battle of will or wits. It’s not a war you win with strategy or strength. The lostness demands surrender.
Sometimes, it tricks you. A clearing in the forest, sunlight on your face. You think you’ve escaped, that the fight is over. But the sun sets, and the shadows return. The lostness laughs.
It’s here, in the heart of the lostness, that women find their purpose. Here, in the dark, we see the face of God. The lostness is as much a part of you as your breath, your blood. It’s a vertical forest, infinite layers stacked upon each other. You can climb or descend, but it doesn’t matter. The lostness waits.
And then there’s purpose. That slippery bastard. Purpose has a million heads and a vast array of genitalia, and it uses every one of them to fuck itself. It spawns endless permutations of itself, hiding in the folds of the lostness. It peeks out, flashes you a grin, a head, a mask, and you think, Finally, I’ve found you. But no. Purpose waits on the next level, a new shape, a new game. And you? You’re left screaming, What the fuck? I thought I’d caught you.
But purpose isn’t caught. Not easily. Not here. The lostness waits, patient and eternal, daring you to try again.
Hello reader, I'm glad you made it to the end. This is my first time publishing anything in this style. If you enjoyed it and want me to write more like this, leave a comment.
Merry Christmas to all you wonderful, beautiful people.