Losing Myself

There have been many times where I found myself to be physically lost, but never had those moment compared to the times where my mental compass had escaped me and left me alone with my thoughts. Never had they come close to the panic and fear felt with losing yourself in a familiar place.

On warm summer nights, I stargaze. I love to find the constellations and track the planetary movements across the sky. Each burning dot of energy glowing millions of miles away challenges my sense of identity. What am I in this world? What purpose do I have? Why do I exist now?

I can't help but to bring those questions to mind  They linger willingly and patiently.They gently remind themselves to me with arguments of fate and destiny.My choice and no choice. Whispered secrets of life pull at my capacity to comprehend the meaning behind my existence. 

It's hard for me to believe that I can control every detail of my life. There's a nonrefundable commitment to saying that I can't. I feel lost when I think that something greater than my being drums the tempo I follow day in and day out. But I also feel lost when it is me playing the drummer to my life. 

It's not the stars pressuring feelings of inferiority or helplessness onto me that make me feel lost. It's not how everyone around me seems so well put together. It's the idea that a third realm of being exits somewhere between my mind and the universe. An invisible thread rallies messages between the two worlds and coincidentally catch on fire to my thoughts, spreading doubt like wildfire. 

I can't choose to side with fate, nor can I choose to side with creating my own path. But I can choose to get up and walk back inside of my house and have these existential thoughts wait outside my door. They can patiently wait to accompany me on yet another night, on another day.