The White Map

On the wound of being seen, and the necessity of being held

We know nothing. Not really. Not about the composition of life, not about the body, and least of all about ourselves. This fundamental unknowing permeates every encounter. My perceived beauty, existing on a surface, can tear open a deep, incurable wound in you. The desire to be deemed lovable, and the chronic fear of not being, is an inner quake that ruins relationships.

We are told to take our development into our own hands. But how, when the inner terrain remains a blank spot on the map? The demand for mentors, for external coaches, does not appear as weakness then. It is a necessity. Someone must hold us, shape us, because we cannot see ourselves clearly. An external gaze that illuminates our blind spots.

At the same time, we learn to be our own friend. In isolation we find comfort in books, in films, forging a connection to humanity from controllable fragments. But this self-sufficiency must be dosed carefully. The heroine who does not care about glory, who delegates tasks instead of conquering — her strength is a riddle. Is her perception of power a higher insight, or just another artful scaffolding built on the same unknown ground?

A constant search for footing where none truly exists.