A Journey of One

It's incredible to look back when I self-published the book " A Journey of One" over ten years ago, in 2014, and what strikes me now is how much these words still resonate with my journey .. 
So much has changed since then, yet the raw passion and unfiltered love of that teenage self still leap from every line. It's a powerful reminder that some truths are timeless.

.:THE GUIDED REFLECTION:.

  • Where the Concrete Blooms: A Story of Finding Home

    The air in Belgrade was heavy with history, a chill that clung to the bones just as tightly as the expectations I felt from my family, from myself. There, my name was David, but I felt like a ghost in my own life, a carefully constructed version of a son, a brother, a man I wasn’t sure I knew. My inner world was a secret, a flickering candle I cupped in my hands, terrified the slightest breeze of the outside world would extinguish it. The dream of New York was a distant lighthouse, a beacon promising a shore where I could simply be, without definition.

    The first few weeks in Jersey City were a shock of noise and speed, and a profound, crushing loneliness. I hated it. Manhattan was a glittering, intimidating wall across the water, and the city felt aggressive, indifferent, a concrete wilderness that had none of the soul of the mountains I missed. I pushed myself, working two, sometimes three jobs—washing dishes, stocking shelves at a deli, delivering food late into the night—a relentless cycle just to meet the end of the month. My English was clumsy, my savings were non-existent, and the freedom I had craved felt like just another word for exhaustion.

    One afternoon, I wandered into Manhattan, finding myself lost in the canyon of Broadway. Surrounded by thousands of people, I had never felt more invisible. The sheer scale of it all, the noise, the rush, it was a constant reminder of how small I was. Standing there, under the giant, flashing billboards, the question I’d been suppressing finally broke free: Was this worth it? All the goodbyes, the fear, the bone-deep weariness? Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos around me, and I wasn’t sure where this new life would lead.

    My journey didn’t have a single turning point, but was a slow, quiet dawn. It began with small acts of seeing. I started noticing the city wasn’t just a roaring monster, but a collection of a million tiny, quiet lives. An old man meticulously feeding pigeons in a small park. A musician on a subway platform whose melody cut through the chaos for a fleeting moment. A brief, knowing smile exchanged with another tired worker on the late-night PATH train.

    Slowly, I began to exist in these small moments myself. I started talking with Priya, the older woman who ran the deli, learning about her grandchildren in Mumbai. She started saving me the best bread. I found a small, quiet coffee shop where I could just sit and watch the city breathe, and eventually, the barista knew my order. These weren’t grand friendships, but small, sturdy threads of connection, weaving a net I hadn’t realized I needed. I was Leo now, a name I had chosen, and for the first time, it felt less like a costume and more like a skin I was growing into.

    Everything, eventually, worked out. I found a better job, one that didn’t just pay the bills but opened doors. The relentless struggle eased, and soon, I found myself surprisingly rich, with a level of financial security I had never dared to dream of. It wasn’t just about the money; it was about the quiet it bought, the freedom from the constant, gnawing anxiety that had been my companion for so long. It left space for air, for thought, for life.

    One evening, a year after my breakdown on Broadway, I found myself sitting on a pier in Jersey City, looking across the Hudson. The skyline glittered back at me, no longer an intimidating wall, but a familiar, sparkling view. It was just me, the river, and the city’s hum. I looked at my hands, the same hands that had felt so foreign for so long, and they were just my hands.

    I thought of David, the boy from Belgrade, not as a ghost I had to escape, but as the foundation on which Leo was built. I hadn’t found a new life so much as I had finally learned how to live inside my own. The quiet inside me was no longer a secret to be protected, but a space of peace.

    A sense of calm washed over me, as vast and steady as the river. “I’m here,” I whispered to the city, and to myself.

    And for the first time, it felt like enough. I was free. I was home.

    David E. Kiefermond's avatar

    David E. Kiefermond

  • Mother’s letter: 5th Child

    In the quiet tapestry of my life, you were the fifth thread, woven with a brilliance and a shadow that none of the others possessed. You were not the first to carry the weight of my name, nor the last to inherit my legacy, but you, my child, were a universe unto yourself. In you, I saw the reflection of my highest triumphs and my most profound failings. You are the best of me, the unwavering resolve that built our home from the unforgiving earth. You are the worst of me, the tempestuous storm that could shatter the calmest sea. But in the intricate and often contradictory landscape of my heart, you, my fifth, are my favorite.

    You are the thunder that echoes my unspoken thoughts, the powerful voice I often kept silenced. You are the glistening of tears that blur the edges of my widest smile, a poignant reminder of the bittersweet journey of life.

    I am with you in the endless cycle of the seasons, a constant presence in the turning of the world. Each time the sun stands high at its zenith, casting the shortest shadows, I am there, feeling the warmth of your ambition. As the dark nights of winter recede, giving way to the promise of spring, I feel your restless spirit yearning for new beginnings. In the sweet burst of a ripe berry on your tongue, I taste the joy of discovery. With each bountiful harvest, a testament to your labor, I share in your pride. And in the quiet contemplation of a sunset gaze, as the sky bleeds into a masterpiece of crimson and gold, my spirit settles with yours.

    From the moment you drew your first breath, I have bestowed upon you gifts, not of silver or gold, but of the very essence of my being.

    I gave you the gift of courage, a blazing fire in your soul, so that in your strength, I could feel my own resolve rekindled. I watched you stand firm against the howling winds of adversity, a lone sentinel against the storm, and in your defiance, I found my own fears quelled.

    I gave you the gift of love, a deep and endless wellspring, so that in the warmth of your affections, my own heart could find solace. I have seen the gentleness in your hands as you mended a broken wing, and the fierce loyalty with which you defend your kin. In your boundless compassion, I feel the purest form of love.

    I gave you the gift of desire, a burning ember of ambition, so that in your passions, I could feel the vibrant pulse of life itself. Your relentless pursuit of knowledge, your insatiable curiosity about the world, has reignited the dormant embers of my own youthful dreams.

    I gave you the gift of wisdom, not from ancient scrolls, but from the whispers of the wind and the lessons of the earth, so that in your understanding, I could continue to be a student of life. You learned to read the stories in the stars and to understand the language of the flowing river, and in your insights, I found a connection to the world around me.

    I gave you the gift of temperance, the quiet strength of a steady hand, so that in your balance, I could find my own center. You learned when to let your passions rage and when to seek the tranquility of stillness, a harmony that has often eluded my own restless heart.

    I gave you the gift of endurance, the unyielding spirit of the ancient mountains, so that in your resilience, I could feel unbreakable. Life has etched its lines upon you, as it has upon me, but it has not broken you. With every challenge you overcome, my own spirit feels fortified.

    And finally, my child, my fifth and my favorite, I gave you the gift of life, a sacred flame passed from my soul to yours. In your laughter, in your sorrows, in your very breath, I feel a sense of permanence, a connection that transcends the boundaries of time.

    David E. Kiefermond's avatar

    David E. Kiefermond

  • The Spark Within: An Honest Gaze

    Here it is: I’m putting my story out into the world, the deepest and most private parts of myself. I’m sharing myself with you, but you aren’t listening or truly seeing. How long it will take for people to start noticing the depth in others, nor if they’ll ever explore their own being. But this I know: the choice to seek is theirs, if only they have the will.

    I’m not writing this so much for other people; I’m doing it for myself. It’s for that solitary part of me, wrestling to understand and learn about itself. I’ll never grasp why we are so blind in front of ourselves. This story has taken me years to complete. It was a panful battle of mind, soul, and body – which ironically create the life we live. I don’t even know exactly how long it took, but it was certainly hundreds of full moons and countless stories I started just to complete this one. It was for sure a painful and difficult process, I can tell you that. Every second of this work brings the torment of incompleteness and imperfection.

    This work makes you feel so fulfilled, The paradox is that you feel like you gain nothing except the relentless urge to prove yourself more perfect. The concepts of time and limitation are crushing, as is the fear of being misunderstood and ignored.

    I spent so many hours changing the story, thinking it was naive and childish. I spent so much time trying to write something that everyone would understand and like, just so I wouldn’t be ignored, because that really hurts. At times, I didn’t even care if I was understood, thinking my own world was better than others’. That was truly childish. I only started creating when I let go of the need for constant perfection and the daily pressure to fit into human limitations. This material work now stands as proof of my personal struggle, written for you, the witnesses of the era in which it came to be.

    No one can believe how truly happy I am right now. No one will ever truly see what I feel in my heart. I know my eyes appear subtly gray and empty, and no one can see them the way I do. For too long, I looked into my own eyes and lied to myself. But no more. Now, I transcend everything that exists, everything that moves. I dare to change and love this world in a way that is uniquely my own. What I am now is full of life’s joy.

    Everyone else sees my eyes as a sad reflection of humanity, but perceive them as the only sincere source of life’s joy, a spark of happiness that surrounds me. This spark of happiness comes from the fact that I’m alive, able to love.

    I’m finishing this confusing, yet beautiful story. I’m happy because I know this story will be the only one worth reading for people like me—those who might not always know what they think, say, or write, but who think, speak, and write from their soul essence, because that’s who they are.

    No one will ever fully understand you; rest assured of that. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you understand yourself, because that’s how you grow. No one will tell you how hard it is to be in your own head, how heavy and unbearable those feelings of sadness and happiness are. No one, absolutely no one, because no one else will know the exact same feelings as you. They might feel sorry for you, or sympathize, but don’t even allow that. You are strong enough to fight your own battles. You just need to admit that to yourself.

    Finally, I’ll give you one piece of advice. Observe people not solely through their actions, but by what prompted those actions. Please, use this when you judge, or even admire, another ordinary human being. If we choose, we can be part of that effort, but only if we have the strength to confront ourselves.

    David E. Kiefermond's avatar

    David E. Kiefermond

  • UNKNOWN BROTHER

    You fell, my dear, 
    from the heavens to hell
    and from hell to the heavens.
    Oh, where is the hell now when I need it?
    Where is heaven when I stand alone
    In life, I don't confess.

    What can one do to be dam from hell and heaven?
    What can one do to go back to either one of them?

    I stand alone, silent,
    praying to the One,
    the great, the beyond, over and over.

    To the silent and ignorant one
    For those few who have ears to hear
    it sings the music of many,
    for those who can't
    It’s just the noise of a few.
    Give me courage,
    Give me strength,
    Give me one more chance, my only father
    to see the tears of my mother
    I beg you!
    At least one more time

    But this time I will stand with my brothers,
    Let be dam the fear which brought me back,
    Let us be blessed by the love that brought me back to them.

    They might not see me as I see them
    my tears will flow into the northern rivers
    as long as it needs to guide them back to the south. 

    Alone, standing on the shore, 
    I watch them leave in the silent sunset dream,
    but on my back the new sun rises,
    and my face became meek,
    until my time comes to hold eastern gates.
    David E. Kiefermond's avatar

    David E. Kiefermond

  • The Unsettling Mirror:

    A Descent into the Psyche’s Shadowland

    The dream begins with a deceptive sense of solace. The “stray dogs, shabby, dirty, yet very joyful and cheerful towards me” represent a primal, untamed aspect of the self. In the narrator’s profound loneliness, these creatures offer what is so desperately craved: unconditional affection and a sense of belonging. They manifest raw, instinctual joy and acceptance, a balm to the narrator’s emotional wounds. The act of “caressing their curly fur” signifies an embrace of this untamed part of the psyche, a part that is not governed by societal norms or moral constructs.

    However, the dream takes a dark and violent turn, revealing the dual nature of this primal energy. The same dogs that provided comfort become instruments of brutal destruction, tearing apart a “defenseless body” with “ferocity yet cheerfulness.” This jarring shift from affection to violence, without a change in the dogs’ joyful disposition, is the crux of the narrator’s internal conflict. The dogs symbolize a part of the self that operates on pure impulse and desire, untethered to a moral compass.

    The victim of this brutal attack is highly symbolic. A “girl around sixteen years old, with pale translucent skin, delicate silky texture, and neatly combed long blue hair,” she represents innocence, purity, and perhaps a fragile, idealized version of the self or of femininity. The blue hair, an unnatural color, suggests something ethereal, a dreamlike or fantastical quality. This victim could symbolize the part of the narrator that is being sacrificed or “torn apart” by the more primal, untamed aspects of their nature. It could be the loss of innocence, the destruction of a deeply held ideal, or the suppression of vulnerability in the face of overwhelming emotional pain.

    The most tormenting aspect for the narrator is not the violence itself, but their own inaction and the disturbing realization that “Their happiness was more important to me than morality.” This is the moment of horrifying self-awareness, the confrontation with a part of the self that is amoral and driven by a need for connection, no matter the cost. The narrator’s detachment and failure to intervene, despite believing the dogs would have obeyed, underscores a profound sense of powerlessness or, more unsettlingly, a tacit approval of the destruction.

    This internal schism is a direct reflection of the waking state of “emptiness and longing.” When an individual experiences such profound emotional voids, the psyche may generate extreme internal scenarios to force a confrontation with the source of this pain. The dream suggests that in the desperate search for connection and an escape from emptiness, the narrator may be sacrificing a vital part of their own humanity or innocence.

    The dream has stripped away all self-deception, forcing the narrator to confront a terrifying truth about their inner world: a part of them is capable of observing, and even finding a perverse sense of satisfaction in, the destruction of something beautiful and innocent, as long as it alleviates the gnawing pain of loneliness. The true horror lies not in the dream’s imagery, but in the self-recognition it provokes. The madness described in the opening lines is not just a product of sleeplessness, but of this brutal, internal war where the lines between love and destruction, morality and desire, have become terrifyingly blurred.

    David E. Kiefermond's avatar

    David E. Kiefermond

  • BROTHER

    My dear older brother,
    The one who pushed me beyond firmament and back
    The one who gave me wings to fly,
    The wicked and holy one, 
    The one who confused already confused one
     just to go through the fires of heaven. 

    I gave you myself,
    I gave all of me to be loved and belong,
    The naive one saw in everyone the right one,
    Listened to all of it and haven't complained, 
    suffered just to be loved, to be a part. 

    The noise which you used
     to wake me up is the noise
     which created the worlds,
    My path is our path, 
    My life is my journey and
    I'm myself only judgement. 

    So brother,
    I'm taking your power over me,
    I'm redeeming myself in one,
    Perfect but not perfect,
    From the one but not the one.

    I will ask you to push me again,
    But brother let me heal the wounds 
    of the holy war which happened in me.

    I was my judgement and my eye,
    And just, just a bit you pushed more
     then my love could survive. 

    I missed my opportunities,
    But my opportunities are just to come. 

    Be there for me brother,
    When I reach the stars  again,
    But hold my hand and we will create harmony over noise.
    David E. Kiefermond's avatar

    David E. Kiefermond

  • Prologue to Myself

    I write these words as an intimate foreword to myself, or perhaps, to the person I’ll become after shedding the skin of my present being. To the future version of me, who will inevitably cast sympathetic eyes upon this distant past, where I now stand and inscribe these lines.

    This is the state of who I am now, so listen carefully, you little pathetic fool. Tomorrow, and the day after, this will likely contradict your future perspectives and beliefs. So, with full awareness of my future self, I offer you this:

    Remember, what you are now will surely be surpassed. You’ll no longer see yourself the same way. You’ll likely try your best to erase or even forget everything written here. Please, I beg you, don’t. You would erase a part of yourself forever. The beauty of human life lies in our continuous struggle against ourselves in pursuit of perfection. Each moment, every word written here, bears witness to your journey. The imperfections you discover within this story only magnify its significance, for it is within these fleeting moments that one perceives their own essence. Though you’ll never experience these same sentences in the same light again, that doesn’t mean they are lacking.

    Do not cast harsh judgment upon these past words. Tomorrow, they might appear feeble and pitiful to your eyes, but they embody a vivid reminder of your limited present existence. Don’t judge yourself too harshly for what you write here, as these words, shallow and pathetic as they may seem to you tomorrow, are a reflection and a memory of the limited life you are living right now.

    Remember, this is how we make ourselves better, stronger, and wiser. This is not a reason to discard yourself as you once were—weak, limited, and fragile. Rather, it is the very process of acknowledging and embracing your flawed nature that allows for transformation. Many might say you’ll become “something better.” But don’t trust the many; trust yourself. You’ll never truly become “better” or “perfect,” because what is “better” for you today won’t be “better” for you tomorrow.

    Remember, if you hadn’t written these words, you would never have realized your imperfection, which continues to shape the pursuit of your personal aim for perfection—a relentless journey that defines your essence.

    Remember how imperfection is always sealed within us humans, like a reproductive organ, indispensable for creation and life itself.

    Remember that it is not worth escaping the pursuit of perfection within imperfection. That is our pilgrimage, to touch that elusive realm.

    And finally, although it is never truly the end, remember that these sentences, paragraphs, and the entire story are the embodiment of the struggle between me and myself. So, have respect for us, and for the pain-born child within us.

    With love, to my future self,

    The Author