Perhaps life is just one long succession of getting lost and being found.
She asked him “what are cities for?” – a question that confused her even in the formation and asking of it. But he understood completely, if not the literal meaning, then what she was getting at – the heart behind it. They were walking down Gertrude St eating stone fruit. It was the end of summer, but the peaches still held its heat. This particular peach accompanied by this particular question, caused the pair to pause. They leaned against a shop window, passing the dripping fruit between them, unpacking the question and its subsequent answer with each juicy bite. This wasn’t just time spent eating and talking. They sensed the import of the moment, how time slowed slightly, how every word landed like seeds into a very new garden, how each bite seemed more nourishing than just any piece of fruit.
“I think we get lost in cities, revel in the anonymity. Or we go to cities to be found.” This statement, in actuality, was never said on that afternoon, but one she came to weeks later, walking along Brunswick St after a jam, missing something she had once owned. This particular item, a water bottle, had originally found her the same day that the beginning of her journey did. She couldn’t help but feel that it had somehow served as a roadmap, only to be lost to the soup of stuff when a map was no longer needed.
Maps become obsolete in two scenarios: 1) when you know the geography without need for reference, and 2) when you’re so lost you couldn’t even locate yourself on the damn thing.
Both occasions can be liberating, if you allow yourself to be found just where you are.