Bring Me That Horizon: Going West

I grew up in New England, sandwiched between ocean and trees with a smattering of stars above me. One thing I always feared about going to college was that I would no longer be able to see the stars that seem to shine so much more brightly here. Every friend I’ve made so far has been from the city, where light pollution blots out the stars. I wonder how they’ve made it so far without those little points of light.

Having grown up in New England, I lived between two staple literary symbols with similar meanings: the vastness of the ocean and what once seemed like the vast, untamable county of America that lies to the west. Both are symbols of freedom and adventure, as at one point they seemed like insurmountably large places to be explored. However, they are both also symbols of danger. The sea and the large forests that used to populate my home (and still do to some degree) are both easy places to get lost. I went west in the literal and metaphorical sense, coming to Bard.

              

Last night I got lost. It was dark, I was alone, and I ended up on the opposite side of the campus from where I should’ve been (or where I meant to be – are those always the same thing?). I told myself again and again that I had loved the stars too dearly to fear the night as I quaked in my converse and anxiety labored my breathing. Was it fear of the unknown, or fear of isolation?

             

I am terrified. I am alone and terrified. I look around myself and I wonder, How the hell did I get here? Am I good enough, or will I be dragged to the depths with the first unsatisfied roll of the ocean? I want to say I can do this. But right now, I’m not even sure what “this” is.

             

Fascination with the stars is fascinating. The black of space is infinite, and it holds far more that we don’t know than we know. How is it that something so foreign, something that is quite literally alien, can bring the comfort of home? It seems that I am alone here, but the multitude of stars tell me that I am not alone in the universe.

              

I am terrified and alone, but I am not. Everyone else, or at least a good portion of everyone else, is terrified and alone as well. We all have somewhere, even if it’s not presented in quite the same way, an image in our heads of ourselves standing alone at the head of a ship, staring into impenetrable ocean. But the image is flawed, because we’re all standing on the deck together, if only we could make ourselves believe that.

              

The forest is mysterious, and we can’t know what it will bring for each of us as individuals, but the forest has always brought truth. And the ocean has always symbolized new beginnings, so maybe with the two symbols together we can decide what some of those truths are going to be for ourselves. The sky is cloudy, the canopy is thick, and the North Star is nowhere in sight. But we often have to get lost before we can find any direction. So it’s time to stare out into the seemingly endless ocean, say “I’m ready”, and keep going. Some things should be done because they’re terrifying, and because we don’t know.

The compass is spinning, so bring me that horizon.