Lost and Found

When I think about what it means to be lost,

I try to believe that I don't live there anymore.

Where decisions are empty,

And time is at disposal.

The path is not clear.

But who created the path?

Was it the one who put me on this earth,

Or the one who allowed me to live?

This path.

Do I have any control?

A voice or influence?

Or am I following a system?

The road.

Is it paved out for me,

Or am I treading the footsteps of someone else?

I would like to believe that I know where I'm going!

That the road is mine,

And I've created it.

But if that's my dream,

It hasn't become my reality.

I'm often a pillar of direction

In my history of stability.

I couldn't

And I wouldn't

Be mindless

Walking aimlessly

Without a plan.

Still, I wasn't made for the system.

Yet I might be following it unknowingly.

I've fallen into the trap that I've avoided,

And now I'm back

To the place of peace

Where I hoped to find

The road, rubble, dirt, stones . . .

Yes, the path.

Paved or not,

In line or crooked,

Still blurry,

Not mine to own but belonging to me.

I wanted to be found.

Permanently found.

But what if lost is the place where I never lose my wonder?

What if lost and then found is where I belong?

Without permanence,

Endlessly developing,

Becoming more myself,

Constantly being renewed.

Lost is not a weakness.

The security in being found has been breached.

There is no permanence.

It was all a narrative written for those who follow the paved, clear path.

I don't belong there.

Let lost be my endless journey

That I find and lose again and again.

No more searching or striving to be stably found.

This is where I belong;

Suspended in the essence of time

That's lost.