In Anticipation of Returning Home, the Traveller’s Greatest Fear.
‘Lay before the root of it, for the adventure is inverted now, and the blackest night is now the brightest dawn.’
I’m nearing the end of the longest trip of my life.
I feel a kind of melancholia, an existential loneliness.
It’s been over 8 months, I’ve experienced so much, within the world and within myself.
I’ve been struggling to get myself to write something for a while now, and my solution is simply to write whatever comes to mind, with no particular goal.
My challenge with writing is simply to express whatever is within.
At this time, what is within me is a storm of movement.
I’m about to go home, home to the place my journey began, the place I spent the first 18 years of my life. The place of my birth, where I learned to walk and speak and live — or so I thought.
I’m not the same person I was before. Throughout this time I have overcome many barriers that lay sleeping inside of me, hungry wolves with snarling grins, fears and ignorances and illusions that I have faced and shed and integrated. I have met teachers of many kinds, people with more wisdom than I, more knowledge, more experience. I have faced myself. I most certainly live, speak, and perhaps even walk differently to how I once did.
Now, I face an obstacle of a completely alternate nature. Now I face the return journey. The friends, family, places and acquaintances of my old self await me.
My home awaits me.
But it no longer feels like home.
And upon dawn, what was before dormant now awakens. The rising sun takes on a deeper rooting of maturity, and a grander yet youthful wisdom prevails upon the vast lands of the soul, and though the eyes of the beast are of more strength, they now infer an equal quality of darkness, as of the blackest of midnights, as of the deep and viral — the most ferocious black. A torrent of intense and invisible masculinity, a spiralling of the feather and of the falcon night.
Lay before the root of it, for the adventure is inverted now, and the blackest night is now the brightest dawn. The traveller’s spirit is returning — the nest again becomes a foreign land, so that the greatest trip is not in the skies, but back on the ground from which he once birthed. The youth is quite alone in his pursuit, and in his thought, and his shadow self soars, yet all soaring must at once be beheld to the light of the place of origination — the womb awaits.
And so I spend these last days gathering myself, for I know now that this may be the most intense destination I have ever travelled to. I have built so many memories into that old landscape, memories from a past life.
I wonder to write about how others can improve their own lives, or something of the common trend. However, it is clear to me now that all I can write is that of my own truth, and since there is a sparsity of listeners anyhow, I may aswell continue writing the only story I know.
I’ve also had a feeling in the recent stages of my journey that of a vague discomfort with modern ‘self improvement’ teachings — of which the proponents of such nervous ideologies seem to be in such an urgency, or as I am intuiting it as, a kind of intense religion of material achievement.
Now, relating this to my own experience, of which I have little to show for materially, and yet undoubtedly contains so much personal value, I can’t help but seek to express some skepticism with this obsession with external progress; with the utility of time, without proper attention to the game of internal growth — the importance of finding maturity, wisdom, and peace within.
Though, it must be said, that a balance of both internal and external faculties are necessary for the proper expression of mans potential, for the true creative being to flourish into what Nietzche would call the Ubermensch — or the ‘superman’.
As for me, it seems to be good time for my return home — and though I certainly hold a degree of uncertainty on the process, a certain fear, I feel it to be proper, and well timed, as many-a-movement seems to be in my life, that now I am again before the void of transition — where all again becomes novel and strange — and most strange of all it is, to await the calling of what used to be home, and now feels quite far from it.
I only wish not for comfort, for I quite know that I can not avoid some kind of strangeness and depression in this tricky venture, but simply for the consoling arms of those I once held dear, and for that courageous and heroic faculty within me to remain eagle eyed on where I wish to go as a most venturous and rebel soul.
And so Superman takes his last flight — for now.