The story of my life isn't a tragedy—at least, not that I can recall. It isn't marked by a singular misfortune or a grand "bad" event that I can point to and say, "There, that is where it all went wrong." Instead, I am dealing with the art of living as a total amateur, left with the sensation of being both lost and entirely empty.
I'm surrounded by information intended to ground me—the itinerary on the nightstand, the name on my keycard, the superficial data of a guest on a three-month voyage. It doesn't feel real. It feels like reading a grocery list for a house I don't live in.
Have you ever met someone with a clean wipe? I don't mean the "partial" kind where a photograph brings everything rushing back; I mean a blank sheet where the present moment leaks out as fast as it pours in. I am a child again, trapped in a body that already knows the world—a puppet moving by instincts I didn't choose. I sat by the railing, watching the blue horizon blur past, and realized the most terrifying thing of all: I knew exactly what a cruise was, but I had no idea why I was the one standing on it.
But is it okay to feel calm and detached to Actively seek answers as to who I am?