Direction is not the same as orientation.
It’s a particular kind of disorientation: having all the reference points but still no idea where you’re going.
You can know the coordinates by heart—dates, milestones, the landmarks you’re supposed to recognize—and still feel unmoored. It’s easy to believe that if you just gather enough information, you’ll stop feeling lost. That clarity is something you can accumulate, like data or proof.
But the more you rely on the map, the more you start to notice its limitations.
Information doesn’t always translate to understanding. The trail of markers and instructions can start to feel like a performance—something you follow so you can say you’re making progress, even when nothing inside you feels any clearer.
Sometimes instinct is the only thing left to trust.
When the map fails, you have to pay attention to subtler signals: what feels alive, what feels honest, where the current seems to pull you. It’s harder than following someone else’s version of direction. But it’s also more real.
I’m learning how to move without demanding an endpoint. How to let the day be just the day, without forcing it to add up to something definitive.
Knowing exactly where you are doesn’t mean you know why you’re there. And sometimes that’s the most honest place to begin.
Longitudes Unclaimed 