The end of the world

  I have always wanted to be an independent person. And now I find myself at the peak of my independence and yet miles away from it. I have believed that people should not be connected to places, objects and most of all, other people. And now I find myself in a foreign place where I am connected to nothing and yet I find no other bonds that draw me back to another place. I have always believed that the end of the world is a nice metaphor and I came to realize that it is actually a place, it is here and now. It is very real and far from any kind of mythology. It has been my very reality for the past months; it has been by connection to life, to earth, to people, to culture. The end of the world is this little remote place where life finds a completely new meaning, not right, nor wrong, just different. the end of the world is this place where I sit and ponder upon my life decisions at 3 am while the light comes through my window; it is the place where if I have a concern, I am the sole person in this world I can turn to; it is the single place that made me turn to myself. You would be surprised to see how many familiar faces can come up in your mind at 3am. And yet you come to look at them with the eyes of your mind and reckon that none is familiar at all. They are just faces lost on the path of time. Your personal non facebook-ian timeline. And now I am at the end of the world and I find no face to be familiar, no language to be my mother tongue and no friend to be by my side. If this is the independence I sought, I am not sure am longing for it any more. And yet I do not see myself crying over the grave of the past moments. I do not miss them nor want them to be repeated. I find my independence to be more of a cage than my dependence on other beings has been. And it scares me to see that the only connection I long for is the one with the surrounding nature, with the grand trees that imprison me, with the silence that my ears has gotten so used to. I seek silence and solitude. I came to seek the end of the world that is a mythical place for Europeans, it is an economical gold mine, it is the place of millions of lakes and saunas and blonde people. It is the unknown that cannot be described on a map. It is yet the here and now for so many independent incarcerated beings. We are all here up north living in our own independent bubble and we hear. And soon the rest of Europe becomes a mythical story that exists beyond the end of the world. And it all becomes distant and unknown. I feared many possibilities for my story before I came here, I feared various hypothetical endings. But not for one second have I feared that I mind find love that is deeper than the love I thought that can exist, deeper than the love for another being, deeper than the love for oneself. It took me to travel to the end of the world to find the love for life, in such a remote little place forgotten to be particularized by the maps. And now I see the rest of the world from my solitary bubble and I am confused. I look at myself from the outside and I see the big machine called life taking me, like a random object in a factory and throwing me back into my old environment, my old language, my old people. And I am sitting there in front of my new old known and I recognize nothing, bust most of all I do not recognize myself. Who have I come to become? What eyes are these that I am seeing the world through now? How can I live with everything that I have seen and experienced before it has been taken away from me, like a child that was not mine from the very start? And I think to myself that my skepticism combined with pessimism will kill me one day. And yet I will be just another broken toy in a forgotten factory. What happened to the entire not being connected to place, people, objects thing? Where did that idea drown? It must have floated away along with my most inner self on a boat at the end of the world, never to be seen again.