The world has never appeased me but in texts; books, quotes, articles. Anything in its raw form where I can put together my own meaning. I hate everything that’s manufactured or put together towards an end result in mind. Don’t think on my behalf! Thinking is my life. I like to pick stuff apart. I like to figure out how they work. And whenever I’m rushed or find myself in the midst of way too many moving parts that I’m pressured to accomplish a certain task with, I shut down. I retreat into my shell where I have to make sense of where I’m going, why I’m going, what I’m going to do once I’m there. I’m not an organized person by nature, but because of the anxiety caused by a very busy world, I have to keep tabs on everything before I venture out. So I run the risk of procrastinating life if I’m averse to taking a certain trajectory and I don’t have an immediate alternative. Intrinsic motivation is not easy to find. It requires a lot of introspection, a lot of risk, a lot of uprooting whatever truths you’ve taken for granted.
It seems like it’s easier to be pushed through the cracks and submit to gravity. But so is death. Life is a struggle against returning to non-existence. As long as I have a soul, I’m constantly pulled and pushed to bigger and greater things and in my resistance and reluctance I shall find my torment. If I abdicate my power to grow, I’ll be left with the pain that accompanies growth but with no actual result.
Like a phantom pregnancy.
I don’t want to discover on my deathbed that my life was empty, in vain. I don’t want to spend my life staring at it, expecting it to take the shape of some deeper meaning or legacy only to die staring at a blank canvas because it wasn’t a canvas, it was a beautiful painting that I didn’t unwrap.