Nonsense

The line between motivated and giving up is thin. I’m in constant contemplation of my purpose and nowhere close to finding the answer. Why is it that I write? I have these wild dreams and vivid imaginings of recognition and fame that I do not deserve. Nothing I have to say is any special, so why do I trick myself into thinking words are my purpose?

Is it my fear of death that drives me? The intoxicating idea that long after my body has been disintegrated by the kiln, my words will live on? Whether or not people read them, they will sit eternally on a hard drive until it gives out to climate change and fossilizes? As close to living forever as I can possibly imagine. I know for a definite fact that one day Earth will be swallowed whole by the sun when she transitions into a red giant. I certainly have no hope for humanity to last that long. And I’m skeptical to believe in some kind of afterlife.

If writing is my way of finding meaning, then why must I insist on putting it off? I’m restless, irritable, anxious, and disheveled. I do not take care of myself properly. At all. I eat poorly, and I hardly muster up the energy to brush my own teeth. I wait, and wait, for this imaginary 'big break' that will never come. It will never come because I do not even work towards it. I have all these ideas, and I let them stew until they’re overcooked. They turn into fleeting memories. Sometimes I don't even know if the good ideas actually exist. Is the highlight of my career really going to be three little awards I won during my undergraduate? Is that all I will ever amount to? Am I doomed to work for someone else until the day I die? Because Lord knows there will be no retirement for my generation. Why is it that I can’t do what I yearn for? What holds me back time and time again? Is it pure laziness? Fear of rejection? Something else entirely?

Why is it that I must be constantly distracted by a screen? I can never live in the moment and enjoy things because my mind is perpetually at war with itself. When I get a moment of peace, I think, what else could I be doing right now? I should be doing this, that, and the other thing. But instead, I will scroll, scroll, and scroll a little longer. It’s exhausting. I don’t know where to begin to make my life more meaningful. I’ve gone from living in a trap house with a drug dealer, abusing psychedelic drugs, and nearly dropping out of college, to having two degrees, being a homeowner, and being a parent. I have all these things, material, that would make the average person happy. Yet, I am indifferent towards them. I always yearn for more.

It’s revolting to be completely honest. I can never be content. I thought writing this down would make me feel better, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. I really am gluttonous and narcissistic. Though, I always knew writers were narcissistic. Who else would expect everyone to listen to what they have to say all the time? What makes me better or more deserving than anyone else? These rich I talk about eating, why do I want to become them? Why do I want fame and notoriety for something as simple as drivel on a piece of paper? Why do I want my voice to be heard so badly? Is it that important? Am I different? I’m inclined to think not. I feel like a fake, a fraudster, a liar, and as Holden Caulfield would say, a phony. In order to be successful at what I love, I have to go against everything I believe in. How sick and twisted. I wonder if other artists feel this way, or if they even wanted any recognition at all.

Sincerely,

An artist.