Between Everywhere and Nowhere

Tag: curiosity

  • Astrology, Curiosity and the Search for Meaning

    Astrology, Curiosity and the Search for Meaning

    🎨 I Fantasins Värld, Isaac Grünewald

    Some questions don’t start with belief. They start with curiosity.

    Since my earliest memories, I’ve been trying to understand something beyond daily routines—something about potential, existence, and why we are here at all. Like many who get lost in such questions, I found myself moving between ideas, systems, and ways of explaining life.

    The more I read, the more I noticed something I couldn’t ignore: the universe feels incredibly vast. Yet, I keep returning to something very close: this planet and the bodies surrounding it.

    The Moon moves the oceans, causing tides to come and go. And at some point, I began wondering: if it can move entire oceans, could it influence something within us, even in ways we do not yet fully understand?
    Perhaps the question is not about proof, but about what we are willing to feel without measuring it.

    For the past few months, I’ve explored astrology—not daily horoscopes, but its symbolic language: planets, asteroids, and fixed stars. Not as predictions, but as a framework people use to interpret life. I even use my own experiences as a personal experiment to see how it resonates.

    During this learning process, one sentence resonated with me: “The Moon represents the left eye, while the Sun represents the right.” 

    At first, it sounded poetic, metaphorical, nothing more. But I remembered something I had never questioned before: my right eye has always been more sensitive; I instinctively avoid direct sunlight. The Moon, on the other hand, has always felt different—calm, quiet, and easier. Moon chasing and moon bathing have been my favorite nighttime activities for years.

    Could there be a connection? Or was I merely trying to find one? To test it, I did something simple: one day, at midday, I went outside and stood under the Sun, almost like declaring a small, personal ceasefire. Since then, my right eye has given more stable results at the ophthalmologist. 

    Was it coincidence, conditioning, or did my body respond to something it actually needed? I don’t know. Perhaps that uncertainty is part of the experience itself.

    There are so many things in life beyond my control—timing, outcomes, other people, opportunities. Sometimes, that lack of control feels heavier than expected. Perhaps this is where astrology becomes tempting. Not because it provides answers, but because it offers direction; a sense that moments carry meaning, that something might be aligned even if I don’t fully understand it.

    Maybe astrology is not really about planets. Maybe it is about how we deal with uncertainty. How we look for patterns when we feel we cannot control outcomes. It may not make it true, but it doesn’t make it meaningless either.

    The moment I started studying astrology in depth, seeing my existence through its symbolic “mathematical” lens gave me great excitement. It is an interesting experiment to see Saturn as a harsh mentor or Jupiter as a spiritual protector. I even unlocked a new adjective for myself: Saturnian—someone under the intense influence of Saturn.
    I found astrology surprisingly consistent with the layered structure of human experience: the Ascendant representing our outer experience, the Moon representing emotional tendencies, and so on.

    During this process, I also reflected on the Barnum effect—a cognitive bias where vague statements seem personally meaningful. Yet, I noticed astrology is ultimately about potential. Believing, doubting, or cherry-picking is up to each person. Darker, shadowy aspects of myself caught my interest more, for example.

    Also, when I shared my “new” curiosity with a friend familiar with the astrology, she said: â€śOf course you’d get into astrology. You have Neptune in the 9th house and a retrograde Mercury in the 8th house.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or take it seriously.

    Astrology may not be something we strictly believe in. But, for me, it gave goosebumps through its consistency. Then I thought: “Of course it reflects me—it’s a mathematical mapping of who I am.” 

    Perhaps it’s something we hold onto when certainty is unavailable, or when we are rediscovering our potential. A lens through which we attempt to make sense of randomness, find patterns, and navigate life with intention.

    Ultimately, maybe astrology is less about planets and more about ourselves—our curiosity, our reflection, and the ways we seek connection in uncertainty.
    It can even feel like a subtle collaboration with the planets, fixed stars, and our unique universe.

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  • We Float on a Planet and Yet…

    We Float on a Planet and Yet…

    🎨 Cloud Study, 1822, John Constable

    We actually live on a planet.
    Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Literally.

    A massive sphere drifting through an endless universe, carrying oceans, mountains, cities and us.

    And yet, most of the time, we hardly feel it.
    We wake up, scroll, work, eat, sleep, as if this is the only reality there is.
    As if the ground beneath our feet were fixed, stable, permanent.
    As if we were not suspended in space at this very moment.

    Sometimes I catch myself looking around and wondering how much of this I truly notice.
    How aware are we of the world we inhabit?
    Or more unsettling: do we really belong to it?

    Because when you think about it, the planet is not equally welcoming everywhere.
    Some places freeze you.
    Some burn you.
    Some suffocate you.
    Some simply do not allow you to stay.
    It is as if the Earth quietly draws invisible boundaries, deciding:
    Here, you may live.
    Here, you may not.

    For most species, that is the end of the story.
    They live where they can.
    And nowhere else.

    Humans, however, are different.

    Not long ago, I watched a couple of videos that stayed with me long after they ended.
    Not only because they were spectacular, but also because they made something very clear: we do not truly belong to some places on our own planet.

    In one, ski mountaineer Andrzej Bargiel climbs Everest without supplemental oxygen.
    Not rushing, just moving one step at a time. At that altitude, even breathing is uncertain. Each step grows heavier than the last. Not because the mountain is steep, but because the body resists where it is.

    His rhythm is no longer his own; it is dictated by oxygen, sunlight, survival.
    It does not look like mere freedom.
    It looks like freedom in negotiation.

    In another, explorer Chris Brown and his team journey to Point Nemo, the most remote place in the ocean.
    The deeper they go, the more their bodies resist.
    Dizziness. Nausea. Vomiting.
    It feels as if the water itself pushes them back, a reminder that this was never meant for us.

    And yet, they persist.
    Not because the place suddenly becomes hospitable, but because we find ways to exist within it.
    And this is what struck me.

    In these moments, I did not merely witness landscapes or feats.
    I saw what happens when humans refuse to accept the boundaries of where they are “allowed” to be.

    We do not simply remain where it is easy.
    We go where it is difficult: climbing where there is no oxygen, diving under crushing pressure.
    We live in extremes of cold, heat, isolation.
    And somehow, we endure.

    Not because the planet grows gentle, but because we adapt.

    And here is the most fascinating part:
    It is not only our bodies that adapt.
    It is our minds.
    Our curiosity.
    Our determination.
    Our intelligence.
    And, perhaps above all, our culture.

    We do not face the world alone.
    We create knowledge. We share it. We build upon it.
    We develop tools, technologies, and ways of living that allow us to survive in places never meant for us.

    We turn the “impossible” into the “manageable.”
    We observe. We learn. We strategize.
    Step by step, we expand the map of where we can exist.

    And sometimes I wonder: is this adaptation or something else entirely?
    Are we learning how to belong?
    Or simply refusing to accept that we do not?

    Perhaps the planet does draw boundaries. But humans are the only species that negotiate with them.

    We do not merely accept limits.
    We test them. We stretch them.
    Sometimes, we even redefine them entirely.

    In doing so, we transform not only our environment, but ourselves.
    We are shaped by the planet, yet constantly reshaping our place within it.
    And that tension is mesmerizing.

    It leaves us suspended somewhere in between.
    Between restriction and freedom.
    Between nature and intention.
    Between being placed and choosing where to stand.

    Perhaps this is what it means to be human:
    Not simply to adapt, but to learn how to move within the world.
    We may not belong everywhere. Yet still, we keep going.

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