It is not comfortable here. Not the sounds, nor the vibrations of the Earth that I feel crawl over my skin as I adjust to this new reality. To most people’s surprise, this is my first time here, and though it may be a road well traveled for many, it is a road less traveled for me (Robert Frost). This is a territory wholly unfamiliar to me, and in every way beyond what I thought to be possible, and I am not alone. I sense someone following me as if they can touch me from afar, but I cannot see them. There are no mountains here, just pure un-forbidden landscape — endlessness — that makes me shudder. Above of me is only sky (John Lennon), bellow my bare feet is ground, hard but sandy at the same time — sandpaper like. At various moments I am starving or nauseous, dehydrated or drowning in sweat, burned or frozen, in pain or numb, barely crawling forward, angry and strung out or absolutely “done”, dreading the next step or screaming for the end, confused or stubborn. I am not going insane, I am simply uncomfortable. Of course, forms of discomfort are not entirely unfamiliar to any person, but to feel them all at once, in varying degrees, constantly, seems an impossible way to live. Yet, the most uncomfortable feeling of all is that someone watches me through all of this, waiting to appear. I feel judgement, perhaps some scorn, as I go through all these different feelings and sensation and yet nothing happens around me. The sky is blue, the air is neither humid nor dry, the ground is solid beneath my feet, and yet all these emotions flow through my like lightning; coming up from the ground only to disappear in the sky as if they never happened. I look like an insolent child, full of privilege. What are they waiting for? I do not know. Perhaps it is a grim reaper, ready to hack through me as if I am a mere pile of sawdust, insignificant. I go through this display, these moments of unrelenting tears, yelling, hopelessness, fear, exhaustion, different aspects of being human, yet I feel terribly alone, watched, judged. To me these are new sensations unjustly put upon me, yet I cannot realize one particularly valuable lesson; I am not alone. That person watching me has no judgement or scorn in their heart, no unjust feeling against me. They simply wait for me to wake up, to sit in my discomfort and own it, to walk in it as if I am made of steal, not unbreakable, just fixable. These feelings are not new, they are not random, they only require another step forward, an outstretched hand, a compassionate heart. Maybe one day I will feel the watcher’s compassion, accept that outstretched hand, but for now I sit in this desolate place, without understanding, and I lament myself.