The Art of Finding the Way

Sometimes I feel like I’m speeding through life without a map. The days slip by, the years too, and the speed only seems to increase. There’s no way of knowing if I’m heading towards something meaningful or just further away from it. The thought creeps in: what if I’m racing in the wrong direction? What if the energy I’m pouring into today is pulling me away from what I was truly meant to do?

I’ve always moved by instinct. Not because I don’t trust myself, but because I’m not sure if I even have the tools to know for certain where I should be going. I act, I create, I follow impulses and sometimes that feels like the most natural way to live. There’s a strange comfort in imagining I’m not really the one driving, that some unseen current is carrying me to a greater place. But there’s another side to it. The knowledge that I do have a responsibility to steer, to take myself somewhere, even if I don’t know where or how. That I can’t just drift forever.

Over the years, I’ve done so many different things, each of them, in ways I didn’t realise at the time, leading me to the style of art I’m making today. A style I can proudly stand in front of. I’ve often said that my work feels alive. Its meaning shifts and morphs over time, revealing new sides of itself as I change. What I see in it today is not always what I saw when I created it, and maybe that’s part of its truth. It’s a reflection of the best parts of me: the curiosity, the beauty, the mystery, the desire to build worlds that don’t quite exist but could.

I’ve always been a dreamer, the kind who believes in the grand, cinematic ending, the one where the music swells, the camera pans, and everything suddenly makes sense. Maybe it comes from watching too many films, but I’ve carried that belief for as long as I can remember. I chase it in everything I do. And sometimes I put too much pressure on myself to make life look like that scene. The truth is, life is more subtle than a movie ending. The magic, when it happens, is scattered in small moments, a conversation, a finished artwork or a song on repeat.

Two thoughts are always there, wrestling with each other. One says: Keep going, it will eventually be worth it. The other says: Even if it isn’t, at least you spent your time doing what made you happy. I don’t know which will win, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe purpose isn’t a place you arrive at, or something you dig out of the ground like buried treasure. Maybe it’s something you make along the way .

And maybe the “right direction” isn’t a fixed point at all. Maybe it’s just wherever you’re fully alive, even if you only find it for a few minutes at a time.

Thanks for reading

-Fabian