A State of Consciousness: Two Journeys into Presence

It’s not easy to put it into words, but I’ll try.

There are two moments in my life—distinct yet connected—when I stepped into a state I can only describe as deep presence, a kind of consciousness that felt more real than anything else. These experiences weren’t identical, but they both led to the same stillness, the same silence beyond thought, the same feeling of belonging.

The First Experience: A Wave of Emotion

The first time was during a long period of sadness—months, maybe more. I was deeply unhappy, maybe even depressed. I had this desire, a goal, something I wanted so badly but had no idea how to reach. I tried different plans, but nothing worked. Everything failed. I felt powerless.

Around that time, I was reading Nietzsche—Thus Spoke Zarathustra—and it resonated with me profoundly. I didn’t just read the words, I felt them, as if I was hearing something I already knew but had never said out loud. There was a kind of warning in those words, a truth that echoed in my own suffering.

Then came a shift—subtle at first. After months of sadness, I started to move closer to what I desired. But I still couldn’t reach it. I could see it, almost touch it, and yet it always slipped through my fingers. My emotions spiraled: two days up, two days down. Then one day up, one day down. Eventually, I felt like I was breaking apart. The wavelength of my moods got shorter and sharper—violent even.

Then, for one brief, intense moment, I thought I had it. Some news arrived, a signal that everything I had worked for might finally come together. I saw the future flash before me. It was there—real and full of promise. I was ecstatic.

But only for a few short moments… it wasn’t real. It slipped away again.

The crash was brutal. All the hope, the weight of months—and maybe years—collapsed in an instant. The wave broke. I was under it. It was like death. Disappointment settled in. I sat alone. And then…

Stillness.

No joy. No sorrow. Just emptiness—but not the absence kind. A full emptiness. A kind of void where everything belongs. A moment where I felt: It just doesn’t matter. And strangely, that was comforting. It wasn’t numbness. It was being. I wasn’t reaching for anything anymore.

It was a sense of belonging—not to a person, or a place, or a goal, but to the moment itself. Like I had become one with everything and nothing at once.

The Second Experience: The Camino

The second moment came after. I was still searching, still unhappy. I realized I needed change. I needed to take on a journey—not just a metaphorical one, but a literal, physical pilgrimage.

So I chose the Camino de Santiago.

Before that, I had never traveled alone. Never flown solo. Never walked for weeks. I was terrified. But I needed it. I went to Naples first to practice traveling alone. Then I went to Spain and began to walk. And walk. And walk.

By the second or third week, I found myself alone in the open plains. Endless green fields. No towns, no people, just the dirt path pilgrims had walked for a thousand years. The horizon stretched where the blue sky met the hills, white clouds drifting by. The sound of birds, wind, and the crunch of dust underfoot were my only companions.

Each day, I walked from dawn to dusk. No thoughts of the stock market, no war news, no regrets, no plans. Just me, my pack, the road, and the sky. Step after step. Breath after breath.

My mind quieted.

I wasn’t thinking of anything. I wasn’t observing myself. I wasn’t split between the present and somewhere else. I wasn’t thinking about the regretful past or some hopeful future. I was one. One with myself. One with the world. The sun on my skin. The cool shadow of a passing cloud. The rustle of grain in the fields.

That’s all there was.

The Meaning of Belonging

In both moments—one through emotional collapse, the other through movement and silence—I felt a rare state of being. A state where I wasn’t split. I wasn’t an observer. I was.

And in that state, I realized something:

You don’t have to belong to a specific thing—a role, a career, a relationship—to feel meaning. You can belong simply by being fully present. When you are undivided, you are at home.

Of course, it’s beautiful to belong to something external: a sport, a partner, a job. But even if you lose all those things—if you lose your legs, your sight, your hearing—you can still belong. If you can learn the art of presence, everything can be your arena.

Maybe that’s what Camus meant about Sisyphus. You must imagine him happy—not because the task makes sense, but because he chooses the task as his arena. He accepts it. He becomes one with it. And therefore, it is meaningful.

Where I Am Now

I’m not a master of this state. I’ve only tasted it. But those moments were enough to show me it’s real. Maybe, with practice, I’ll get closer to it more often.

For now, I remember. I try. I walk. I write.