Welcome to The Human.
I want to believe I’m in control, but sometimes I feel like I’ve been drifting for a while, only to finally release some long-overdue grief. I can’t help but catch myself thinking that this must all be scripted.
So here comes this post about me being merely a host within my own system, witnessing a war that was never mine to begin with.
Sometimes I feel I’m a host in my own system
for a war I never signed up for.
It’s spiritual.
Mostly brutal.
I’m walking on the edge of my becoming — I could either collapse one last time into oblivion or break my cocoon and fly to honor my ancestors.
I wonder: what’s the real secret of life? What makes people fall into either of these categories?
If I finally choose peace, am I really special, or just supported by some power far beyond any human understanding? And if I let myself sink deeper after all what life has done for me, and after all those beautiful souls who came to my rescue, does that make me utterly shameful? Will I rot in hell?
The problem with life is that we are everything. What I mean by that here is that I don’t believe in hell or heaven per se as external destinations. They both depend on how you tend your internal garden. You choose.
And yet there are times when some unexpected omen — a YouTube video, for example, like a few days ago — crosses my path, and I end up crying, releasing everything I couldn’t release for months…
Those moments feel scripted, as if to prepare me to enter some next sacred chapter in the best possible condition.
And since I cannot explain what’s going on within me, or whether I was ever steering the wheel of that fantastic machine — my body — in the first place, I tend to believe that I must merely be the host of some otherworldly war I never wanted to start and have no control over.
I can ease the process at times.
I can steer the wheel in a slightly better direction at other times.
But overall,
I remain a character in a script.
And foolish is he who believes Harry Potter could ever trace back, let alone understand. J.K. Rowling.
I’m a player with no remote control. I’m being played, in a way, by bigger than me.
But there’s a trick: I need to have complete faith in the author, trusting with my whole heart that I’m being guided through the best possible scenario.
How can that be so difficult when you consider that our hearts were also conceived by that same author to begin with?
If this resonates, share it with someone who's walking the path back to themselves. Or leave a comment—I’d love to know what this piece evokes in you.