WHERE IS THE CENTER of me? Every time I cry, or laugh, or write, I know I’m near. My body’s been holding onto the past. I feel it all, and it’s a gift, and it’s brought me pain, and I thought that meant there was something wrong with me, but now I know the pain is there because I feel the world, and it’s my path to feel it deeply.

Our world breathes love — destructive love, beautiful, energetic love; love that’ll tear us apart, love that we can hardly comprehend. The love derived from knowing how it feels to hurt.

We’re not meant to suffer. But often, we don’t know how to not. Pain is a feeling, a key to fit within the lock of reality itself. We suffer so we may wake up. We suffer so we might make the changes in our life that steer us closer to our center.

I thought I was just healing my back; I have to leave that reality behind, that of physical back pain and all the information I’ve accumulated while trying to heal my body. It was never about that.

Back pain forced me to dig deep into the well of joy within, and to embody that joy however I could. It’s asked me to be me, unashamedly and wholeheartedly. I’m now discovering what that means.

I believe there’s tremendous change occurring in the world, simultaneously with my own, which, like many things right now, is beyond my comprehension. It can feel like the world is crumbling, as the good is eclipsed by the negativity, but the good is there.

To be a warrior poet, part of this vanguard of light, I gaze into the abyss of self; as I do, I hope to elucidate what I see — an animal, a kid, a man with faults, a lover, a warrior. I feel life deeply, and I long to experience it all.

I’ve been re-reading one of my favorite books, The Story of Philosophy, by the renowned historian Will Durant. I love this book because it’s not necessarily a philosophy book — it’s a history book that walks through the eras and circumstances that birthed many of history’s greatest minds, starting with Socrates in Ancient Greece.

In the year 399 B.C., Socrates — the wisest man in Athens, according to the Oracle of Delphi — was ordered to drink poison on the charge of corrupting the youth. These were the last words of Socrates, according to Plato, his pupil:

“‘Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt?’ ‘The debt shall be paid,’ said Crito. ‘Is there anything else?’ There was no answer to this question. In a minute or two, a movement was heard and the attendant uncovered him. His eyes were set. Crito closed his eyes and mouth.”

That just makes me happy. Going out like a champ. Socrates was approximately 71 years old. Plato was a man of 28, like me.

“His (Plato) efforts to save Socrates had marked him out for suspicion by the democratic leaders;” writes Durant.

“His friends urged that Athens was unsafe for him, that it was an admirably propitious moment for him to see the world. And so, in that year 399 B.C., he set out. Where he went we cannot for certain say; there is a merry war of the authorities for every turn of his route. He seems to have gone first to Egypt; and was somewhat shocked to hear form the priestly class which ruled that land, that Greece was an infant-state, without stabilizing traditions or profound culture, not yet therefore to be taken seriously by these sphinxly pundits of the Nile.”

“And then off he sailed to Sicily, and to Italy; there he joined for a time the school or sect which the great Pythagoras had founded… Twelve years he wandered, imbibing wisdom from every source, sitting at every shrine, tasting every creed. Some would have it that he went to Judea and was moulded for a while by the tradition of the almost socialistic prophets; and even that he found his way to the banks of the Ganges, and learned the mystic meditations of the Hindus. We do not know.”

“He returned to Athens in 387 B.C., a man of forty now, ripened to maturity by the variety of many peoples and the wisdom of many lands. He had lost a little of the hot enthusiasms of youth, but he had gained a perspective of thought in which every extreme was seen as a half-truth, and the many aspects of every problem blended into a distributive justice to every facet of the truth. He had knowledge, and he had art; for once the philosopher and the poet lived in one soul; and he created for himself a medium of expression in which both beauty and truth might find room and play — the dialogue.”

This passage hit me hard the first time I read it, but this time, it felt like another puzzle piece in the story of my life falling into place (a good reason to re-read books, as you are a different person every time you read a book).

I’ve known since graduating from university seven years ago (right around the time the back pain started) that traveling, learning, and telling stories is my calling. Still, I’ve been afraid to embrace my nature fully. Shouldn’t I figure out where I want to settle down? What am I really doing out here? Why do I want to live in foreign countries?

Now I realize that fighting my nature instead of embracing it has caused me pain. I read the passage about Plato with this new knowledge of what’s happening in my brain and body, and my soul ignites. That is a sign.

Plato was a wrestler (his actual name was Aristocles, and Plato was his nickname, which means broad — either his shoulders or his forehead, apparently). He was an observer, which is why he wrote everything down we know about Socrates; Socrates wrote nothing, yet questioned everything.

The Oracle deemed him the wisest in Athens because he was the only one to admit that: “One thing only I know, and that is that I know nothing.” Socrates, the real MVP.

I can’t explain why I want to do what I’m doing. But I’m here for a reason, as pain has guided me toward my truth. Because of it, I’ve delved into myself to reach the light, seeking things I love, things that give me courage — and I’ve followed them.

I’m deeply inspired by Kevin Kelly, creator of Wired magazine, who spent much of his youth with a camera, exploring and observing what he has called Vanishing Asia. He writes in his book Excellent Advice for Living: Wisdom I Wish I’d Known Earlier.

“Your 20s are the perfect time to do a few things that are unusual, weird, bold, risky, unexplainable, crazy, unprofitable, and look nothing like ‘success,’” says Kelly.

“The less this time looks like success, the better it will be as a foundation. For the rest of your life these orthogonal experiences will serve as your muse and touchstone, upon which you can build an uncommon life.”

Plato became extraordinary because of his experiences. His years of wandering became the muse and the touchstone for his future brilliance, but that’s difficult to grasp when we’re standing on the precipice of our future, wondering if we should leap. Everything tells us to stay where it’s comfortable and to do what’s realistic.

But something tells us to take that step toward meaning; fall. What is meaning?

That’s hard to explain. All I know is how it feels. Something is meaningful because it has depth. It matters. Writing these words is more meaningful than anything to me. Overcoming pain has given my life more meaning than I can express. These pursuits are intertwined. And now, I’m finally understanding why.

A long road unfurls before me, cutting through my neighborhood in Tokyo. Dark blue clouds loom above the purple horizon, flashing brightly with lightning. There’s something magical about the thick, tropical heat.

Summer storms are more common on the east coast of the United States, not in my native California, where summers are dry and warm. These summer storms captivate me. They’re part of why I’m here.

I walk down the road into the lightning, for the rain revives my love of life and faith in the mission. And that is to keep walking. Keep going. The storm is beautiful, and it can’t hurt me.

Because one day the sun will shine, its rays warm on my skin, and my soul will know peace. Yet part of me will miss the disarray and wildness of the summer storm, my inner fire luminous and raging.

We’re after peace, no doubt. But there’s an animal within not meant to be tamed. An extraordinary animal meant to roam. Never let the embers die. Hold on to the love of lightning and delight in the smell of freshly wet pavement (I get that from my dad).

The flowers glisten in the storm. The sweltering heat of the day lessens. I’m somewhere new, somewhere I never expected. It feels like another world, houses crumbling, brimming with sparkling green flora, potted plants and marvelous decay. Am I close to home? I don’t really know. It’s raining hard, and as usual I don’t have an umbrella.

The summer is hot, the sky now completely purple and thunderous. I never had this type of weather growing up — continual, rolling thunder, lightning blowing up the sky.

The train goes by, and there’s a couple in kimono caught in the rain, trying to get into a yakitori restaurant; the sound of the gate at the crosswalk thumps as it closes: dum, dum, dum, dum; a red lantern sways in front of a store, and children laugh as they bike through the rain. They’re not afraid. Why am I here?

To witness. I feel like a kid, somewhere I never thought I would be. Where I never imagined I could live. But here I am, and people smile when they see the excitement in my eyes; some smirk as they see me dripping wet, wiping my camera with my bandana under an awning. The thunder roars in me. And I suppose, I just long to understand what’s roaring.

There are moments — often lately — where I’d kill to hang with my friends from home. I miss ’em. But I’m here, and reading about my man Plato helps me understand what’s within. He was just a lad who wanted to see the world, too.

Look for those clues: the passages in books you can’t get out of your head; the art that grips your soul; the songs that heal the day; the wisps of clouds and bolts of lightning that beckon in the distance. Pay attention to what moves you, and follow it to the ends of the earth.

There’s still so much to learn. Everything. Am I still at the beginning? Relax, it’s not the beginning. And if it is, ain’t that beautiful?