"Not all those who wander ar lost" - goes the famous poem by Tolkien.

       I've been a wanderer my whole life. I'm used to never having a true place in life, always drifting. I'm used to wandering on even when those I called friends stayed behind. I'm used to facing the unknown without fear but curiosity instead. I knew I'll always have to face the toughest challenges alone, even when I have friends by my side because where I go they can't. It's alright. I've found peace in wandering.

       But for a long time now, I am truly and genuinely lost - because I've lost the only thing that can serve as a compass for a wanderer: myself.

       How did this happen? And when? It doesn't really matter, it changes nothing. Life has swallowed me up whole, chewed on me hard and spitted me out... and then it repeated the whole process a couple more times for good measure. But this isn't a complaint, or a wish for pity. It's a statement, an acknowledgment - something to serve as a fixed point to grasp onto and see where I can go from there.

       If I think back to my younger days, I see a different person. I see a person who, despite all the hardship, all the beatings, had a fire burning inside. A person who had hobbies, who was curious, who always tried new things, asked questions no one else asked, lifted stones no one else cared about to see what's underneath. A person who had a love for life, an enthusiasm for learning and discovery, and didn't hesitate to experiment, and to believe. A person who believed it's better to try and fail than to not try. A person who, when nobody had faith in him, had faith in himself, and when everyone told him that what he is trying to do is impossible, he tried it anyway, and sometimes succeeded. A person who had dreams others called ridiculous and unreasonable but he kept chasing them and he made some of them come true. A person of which I am but a shadow of.

       I'm looking at images, some of these are photos, some are memories but they both seem equally distant. They are the memories of someone else. A person I am not anymore. He rode a mare nobody other than her owner could ever ride before, and he did so without force or violence. He earned the respect and protection of his former bully not by fighting back, but buy offering him a helping hand when he was in need, without hesitation. He traveled through the Himalayas with very little money, no plans or arrangements, just a goal of reaching a tiny village in former West-Tibet, getting help along the way from numerous strangers he just met right when he needed them, guided by believing in his dream.

       This may sound like bragging, but this person isn't me. Not anymore. He was once a part of me, but I lost him long ago and I don't know where he is now. I used to look up to him, be proud of him and have faith in him. But I've lost him. I've lost the wanderer in me - and with him, I've lost my faith in myself and my dreams, and I've lost my peace, and the ability to face the unknown without fear. It feels like every since I'm asleep, and just dreaming my life instead of living my dreams.

       But I don't feel sorry for myself. I don't feel self-pity, or self-hate. I feel only that something is missing. He is missing.

       And I want to get him back.

       This is not a complaint. This is a declaration of war - on depression, on anxiety, on money and bureaucracy getting in my way, on pain, on loneliness, on fear of the unknown, on giving up, on accepting defeat, on helplessness, on stagnation, on the inability to act, on sadness, on burnout. This is going to be war - no, a rescue mission. I have to go and find him. I have to find my old self, the wanderer, wherever he is, and bring him back. I need him to re-ignite that fire.

       But I don't know how. Not yet. And I don't think I can do it alone. While the final battle I'll have to fight alone in the darkness of my own self, to defeat my own shadow, I'll need help along the way, to make it to this final battle.

       If only I knew where to start...