The wandering wonderer. The meandering marveller.

22nd August

This morning, from the comfort of my mum's Victorian armchair I have a new clarity. I’ve been reflecting on the nature of being, and the difference between spectacle and substance.

We talked about Diogenes, the Cynic in his barrel, and how his was a life of performance. All spectacle, and no true sufficiency. I saw in him the same emptiness I’ve felt from too much television and too many stories, those "black holes" that pull you away from what is real.

But I realised that I am not seeking a life of spectacle. My journey is the very opposite. It is in the quiet sufficiency of this moment—the breeze from the window, the chatter of the crows, the simple fact of being here.

My past, and the pain from my family, is a part of my story, but it does not define my present. The true value is in how I choose to respond to it. I am not a pilgrim searching for a holy land; I am a marvelling meanderer, a pérégrinant on a long, winding journey.

I am not Latin, but a wanderer and a wonderer, a man whose words and identity come from the very soil of this land.

And in this moment, I am at peace. I have found what I was looking for, both within and without. The journey has begun.