This is the story of the Child of His Time.
He was born in an era that mastered distraction.
From a young age, he carried a quiet injury—hard to name. It wasn’t visible, yet it ached. A sensation not of pain, but of absence. A missing note in a familiar melody. A restlessness that did not come from lack of ambition but from something more elusive: some kind of forgetfulness.
He had forgotten something, though he could not recall what.
So, he searched. Not with his hands or his eyes, but with a kind of inward motion. The others around him called it “being lost,” but he knew otherwise. He sensed that if he could just hold still long enough—beneath the layers of fear, behind the theater of desire—something would speak.
So, he walked. First, he walked away, then he walked inward, through the corridors of his own being. There, he found strange things: urges dressed as intuition, fear masquerading as wisdom, ambition wearing the face of virtue.
He saw, too, that many of his beliefs had been inherited like worn-out clothes—never questioned, only tightened to fit. The code of ethics he thought he lived by—was it devotion? Or merely a well-polished disguise?
One night, as he sat alone in his small apartment, the lamp flickering like a breath unsure of staying, he remembered something he had once heard:
“To surrender the heart to impulse is like hanging a lantern on the neck of a donkey and calling it vision.”
He closed his eyes. And in the stillness, he heard something. Finally.
A voice—not from outside, not even from within, but something in between. A voice that did not speak in words but in clarity. And it said, not in instruction, but in recognition:
“You do not suffer from lack of purpose. You suffer from the absence of orientation.”
He opened his eyes. The lamp had gone out.
He became quiet after that. Not silent in the social sense, but internally. He began to listen not only to what people said, but to what moved them to say it. He noticed how often their declarations of “truth” were reactions—how often conviction was just anxiety dressed in certainty.
He studied psychology. They said it would teach him about the human mind. And it did—but only to a point.
What it could not explain was the pull he felt at dawn, when the world was asleep and the soul was exposed, raw and unmasked. It could not account for why, after all the therapy and insight and self-work, a human being could still feel utterly distant from themselves—like a house with perfect walls and no light inside.
He wondered, often in secret:
Is the soul not more than its wounds?
Is healing merely an improved version of brokenness—or something else entirely?
These questions were not in the textbooks. And when he asked them aloud, the air in the room would tighten. Some things, it seemed, were not welcome in professional settings. Especially not faith.
The Child of His Time learned to wear masks with grace. In hospitals, he spoke of “trauma,” “coping strategies,” “boundaries.” But in solitude, he whispered of mercy, longing, surrender. He could not split himself without feeling the fracture.
And then came the dilemma that would not leave him:
How do you counsel hearts when yours is still in search of its axis?
He began to walk again. But this time not away from questions—but towards them.
He asked himself:
Was it really courage that made me leave the comforts of home—or was it pride cloaked in spiritual language?
Is it humility that keeps me from going back—or is it shame, too proud to bow?
He wasn’t sure. And he learned to sit with that not-knowing.
He also learned that solitude had layers.
There was the kind that made you feel small, forgotten, unequipped—the kind the world feared. But deeper still was another kind. The solitude that didn’t isolate, but clarified. The solitude in which one begins to hear things—not imagined things, but unveiled things.
The voice again. This time, more steady:
“You declared war on your ego, but forgot that war is not always noise.
Sometimes, the ego wins in silence. Sometimes, it retreats only to reroute.”
He laughed. It wasn’t funny. But it was real. And in that laughter, something shifted.
He realized that perhaps this entire journey wasn’t about becoming someone else.
It wasn’t even about returning to some purer version of himself.
It was about remembering—the kind of remembering that makes one suddenly aware of the Divine gaze, the sacred measure.
One morning, in a café crowded with laptops and existential fatigue, a colleague leaned in and asked,
— “What drives you?”
He hesitated. And then said, with more honesty than he’d expected of himself,
— “I’m just trying not to obey the wrong voice.”
The colleague laughed. Not unkindly.
But the Child of His Time—now no longer a child—was not joking.
He knew now that freedom was not about doing whatever you wanted. That was merely another cage.
Real freedom, he’d come to taste in brief but luminous flashes, was alignment. When the voice you obey inside matches the One who fashioned your heart.
And so, he still struggles. He still forgets. Still doubts.
But his axis has changed.
He no longer seeks a final answer, but a question that refines his steps:
The voice I hear, the path I walk—where does it lead me?
Toward light, or toward illusion?
Am I shaped by guidance, or merely social programming with better vocabulary?
Whose command do I follow, truly—the fleeting trends of the age, or the One beyond time?
He is still the Child of His Time.
But he now walks toward a dimension where time and space are irrelevant.
Where hearts speak not in noise, but in clarity.
Where healing is not an outcome, but a surrender.
Where solitude does not abandon, but escorts.
And in the quiet between two breaths, he asks himself again:
Am I walking toward Him?
Or am I just walking in circles—beautifully explained?
