And so it begins

In the deep crevice of my mind, there is this nagging feeling that there is something I should be doing. Instead of grasping the red thread and following it down whatever whimsical path it might lead me down, I decide that it’s better to distract myself from these ideas that wonder through my head, like a horse and rider through a dark valley in those western moves that would come on the television when we were younger.

Maybe it’s safer to divert my thoughts rather than pursue them, and see where they might guide my mind, my life. Attempting dreams doesn’t always work out, you know.

Perhaps it’s better to not try and reach them, rather than attempt, and fall short. Perhaps it’s better to never know, rather than be aware of the fact that I am not good enough. I’m not capable of whatever it is I should be doing.

And shit- the sun is already setting again and one more day has passed with nothing to show for it, but the idea that my day is wasted- and who else is there to blame but myself. Me, myself, and my lazy pile of bones.

It’s like the handful of brain-meat in my head isn’t shooting it’s electrical currents around the way it’s supposed to; there is a gap that needs a bridge that isn’t quite built yet. The way things are looking, that bridge might never be built...

I see all of these lovely, creative people out in the world. They have something to say, or paint, or write. Some news flash that catches the eye of hundreds, or thousands of people. A purpose that is so bright and obvious, strangers can’t help but to take notice. A dream they are successfully following, like that cowboy follows the stars in the lonely night sky.

I have to wonder, though, what makes these modern artists special, and unique? Why are they capable of this self motivation that I endlessly grapple with? Is it just repetition? Doing the thing over and over until something sticks?

Is it as simple as Shia LeBeouf and Nike™ make it seem? Are they really onto something?

Maybe I haven’t quite grasped this thing, this idea, yet because of my uncertainty; all my questions. The clear lack of self confidence in the work that I put out. The poems, the bizarre art, and even the arbitrary paragraphs I type out. Cozy in my bed in my small corner of the world, hoping to be seen, heard... understood by anyone. And yet not really putting myself out there to achieve that.

And that gets me back to where I started this whole thing, anyway.

What is it I should be doing? Feel the pull in my heart and follow that red string?

Whether it’s writing this long winded and clearly erratic article. (It almost feels like a diary entry.)

Or going on a run.

Pulling out the sketchbook, even though it’s been months since it has seen the light of day.

Maybe my purpose is to be unheard for the sake of finding comfort in my own void. Exist happily in my vacuum, learning to be unburdened by this massive and draining need for validation.

No. Can’t be. That’s a little deeper than I care to think about on this chilling Sunday evening.

Maybe you can find comfort in this. Knowing that I’m here, too. Screaming into the expansive emptiness with my unanswerable questions, alongside you. Wondering what my purpose is, or if I even have one.

And maybe that, itself, is my purpose after all.