being without being witnessed
who are we without a connection to others?
it’s the middle of the night, I am on a solo trip in a new city, slightly drunk. the window next to me is giving me a slight breeze and the streets outside are still filled with noice, for whatever reason children.
and me? I feel like I can’t hold back my inner philosopher who ponders on deep questions for days. so what else to question on a solo trip if not human connection and its importance or lack of it.
the whole point of my trip is to get away from my life, my job, my people and to spend time reflecting on who I am.
the reality is that I have been texting friends all this time, catching them up on fun things I am experiencing. I am being witnessed through them which very much defeats the point of my time here.
I went on a run earlier but strava as it turns out didn’t record. so I stepped of the track disappointed, not as much by the lack of data, but by the fact that no one would see that I had just ran around a castle in another city hundreds of kilometers from home. I was mad about the lack of being able to show people how great and adventures my life is and how fit and cool I am for doing that. f me, honestly. I hate that version of me.
and that’s what I realised in that moment.
a much wiser version of me (weeks back) planned to give me a break just exactly now and here I am. here I am not letting go, not sticking to the plan. this trip is not about cool pictures or showing others how much my life offers. it was meant as a reminder that there once was a version of me that was witnessed by no one. that being witnessed is something I have gotten used to, more than I would have liked to.
the version of me that booked this trip realised that my support system had gotten so strong and full and lovely, that I had almost forgotten the version of me that felt utterly alone. a version of myself that wasn’t witnessed by anyone but myself, and that I don’t even know who I am when no one sees me.
my home is filled with love and support. my inbox filled with people checking in. my writing out here potentially seen by hundreds of people.
but who am I when there’s only me left? when I do things only for me to see? who am I when nobody is witness to my waste and my downfalls, to my epiphanies and strength? what is going to be left of my life once I return?
it’s a strange place to feel resentment towards what I have build and always wanted. I don’t resent it at all actually. I find it hard to believe that it is me. if younger me knew that there are people who want to be part of my life and my adventures, that there are people I can reach out to anytime to get support from, she wouldn’t believe me in a million years and ask me to check whether it is just wishful thinking. it’s not, I promise.
but the question stays as I walk through unfamiliar streets. who am I without being noticed? what is my writing if never read? does art only become art once it is seen by someone else than the artist itself? is you reading this what makes this list of words something written? if so, can I spend my life listing words and carrying the hope that people will turn it into writing? that they will take the time to witness the ways in which I put together the words we all share.
if I would never end up being witnessed, if no one ever saw my hours of work, would I still be happy? would I still find joy in my doings and calmness in my soul? who am I if nobody would witness me?
a part of me wants to explore the effects of not being witnessed once more in my life. who would I be if I were 18 years old again after my friends from school all started a new life, leaving me with no one to hold onto? who would I be if I would move to a city far away with nothing to furnish my own apartment with once more? which hobbies would I choose, which people would I meet and how much or little would I keep to myself?
there’s a gratitude that I can’t imagine being that unbound in life again, that I have people who won’t leave me unless life takes them from me.
but with some sense of shame to it, I quietly ask myself who I would be if I were fully detached.
it’s like when you go shopping with someone their opinion and taste will influence your purchases and you will become a bit more like them. but what if you wouldn’t? what if all I ever did was shopping alone and never looking up stuff on social media ever again. how would I dress? which things would I start liking and which disliking?
there’s that question of who would I be without it all, but would I trade it? trade it to find out who I am without it all?
as much as my curiosity loves the idea, I know I would never do it.
being witnessed by people is what makes me feel alive in a way that myself never could.
when I told a friend that being alone feels neutrally good but being with people is offering the high highs and low lows, that’s what it comes down to.
being witnessed offers a new dimension to being alive. it offers conflict and closeness. it offers influence on one another.
at the end of it, this trip is the closest thing that I will have experienced in a long time when it comes to not being witnessed. nobody knows me around here, nobody stops me from anything. nobody influences my decisions, nobody witnesses me being. I am alone again, for the first time in a long time and I missed it.
I missed its clarity, I missed it selfishly.
there are ways in which I have become who I want to witness in myself and there are ways in which I didn’t. what I am gaining is a clear view on it. which parts are mine and which ones are borrowed, borrowed from people I love nevertheless.
and with that I will leave this here. another update to look back to in months or years and reminisce.