Inside

Everyone needs to be convinced that they are going somewhere. I have a recurring dream of myself standing in a field blanketed by snow as far as the eye can see. The sky is a hazy canvas of alternating shades of gray, all flowing into and intermingling with each other. In front of me stands a solitary pine tree, its boughs sagging under the weight of a winter’s worth of snow. The tree is motionless, a pillar of brownish green plastered upon a lifeless background. A gust of wind rushes over me, glides over the field, and seems to resuscitate the comatose portrait before me. The tree stretches its limbs, and branches begin to oscillate, as if beckoning me closer. All is silent save the crunch of the snow under my feet, and the occasional gust of wind that draws me ever closer. I walk for what seems like hours, leaning into a blustery winter wind, enveloped in cold and solitude. When I gaze upwards, the pillar suddenly towers before me. I begin the final, infinitely long journey, bogged down by the knowledge of inevitability. As I approach my partner in that field, a pervading sense of despair brings me to my knees. Green fades into gray fades into black, and I am once again consumed by reality. When the dream returns I am back where I began, and the tree is once again wildly gesticulating, urging me forward despite the inherent agony of my journey. Of course I comply, because everyone needs to be going somewhere.
I walk among thousands of people each day. Each one looks differently, talks differently, walks differently, thinks differently, and feels differently than the other. Each one believes him or her to be separate, never realizing the simple, intimate connection they share with the faceless mass. I yearn to be inside each one, if only to know where they are going. Adam wants to find the one job that makes him look forward to getting up every morning. Suzy wants to be a famous journalist, traveling the world and righting wrongs wherever she sees them. Joey wants to be a dictator of a small country in South America, reaping the benefits that his peons bestow upon him. Mary wants to find someone who makes her laugh, cry, and sigh all at once. Each of them is going somewhere, but none ask why, and if they do the answer will be something along the lines of “happiness,” “fame,” “success”, or “love.” Never do they realize that happiness, fame, success, and even love are all derivatives of one feeling. It is a feeling of which words are unworthy. Most will probably feel it only a couple times in their lifetimes, and it never lasts for long, but those times are enough to validate the struggles of being alive. Everything we do, everywhere we go, and every goal we have for ourselves is driven by the promise of feeling that feeling. People take their lives because they simply can no longer bear living without that feeling. People hurt each other because somewhere inside they believe it will bring them closer to that feeling. Every word uttered and every tear shed is for that feeling. The meaning is life is that feeling. Each one of us travels an unending path in pursuit of that feeling.
Often, while sitting or walking in solitude, I will try to convince myself that I am dreaming. Why, after all, does reality have to be so unilateral? I know that tree exists. I have seen that tree, felt that tree, and known what basks in the shade of that tree. My tree exists in another world, one where words such as “reality” and “dream” do not exist. The pragmatic laws of “up” and “down” do not govern such a world, nor is it limited by the transitive fluff that is a dream. Every unexplained sigh you utter, every causeless glance you throw, and every forgotten thought that meanders through your head is for this world. Where the feeling exists. Where something means anything and nothing all at once. Where once you have arrived, you will know where you truly were going in the first place.
Each one of us needs to know we are going somewhere, but we never ask why. Instead we choose to remain blind, selfishly absorbed in the pain, joy, love, hate, and struggle of what we perceive as reality. When eyes are finally nudged open by the cold wind, the gap has become interminable. On both knees, immersed in a maelstrom of white, the where is finally known. With a single nod of that tree, it becomes clear that the where does not matter. The why is what brought us here. The why is the key to that world. The why is the catalyst of that feeling. The why is what draws me ever closer to that tree. The why is the wings that will close this gap.