In the bewildering embrace of a moment, I reflect on a very perplexing reality. I don't know where I am at this moment, geographically, I'm clueless. <Thinking about it becomes strangely beautiful>. We always took it for granted to know our whereabouts, a fundamental certainty, and the ignorance of such truth becomes a very peculiar burden, weaving thoughts that make us feel small and, at the same time, gigantic.
Where am I? That thought returns. I give up trying to figure it out because I know where you are, and that comforts me. But again, confusion overtakes me, and the mystery of my own place persists. A paradox is forged, then, disturbing me, reminding me that no matter knowing where you are, how will I find you without first finding myself, that's why I've lost you so many times before. How, in such a disorder, could I have overlooked this so basic, perhaps I need myself.
No philosophy foresees this encounter because, without an origin, we don't know how to operate. We can't simply improvise and allow ourselves ignorance while heart-rending and healing poetry shapes us. The origin, indeed, lacks relevance; it's barely an illusion because when we believe we've reached the end, a new beginning arises, and this cyclical spirit has me navigating latitudes I was previously unaware of.
In the enigma of the present, I'm oblivious to my location, but at least I understand that I must search for myself first to be able to find you.
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