My life has been somewhat dishevelled lately. Picture me, flowy dressed and all, weaving through fragmented pieces of possible worlds and lists, and lists, and lists. I confess this entry may be slightly tinted in the after-thought of a drug induced 20 hours. No I am not an addict, although technically I do shoot up in my house (read here for memory refresh). Back to some sort of literary structure-- my life, in all its fragmented glory (ironically, much like this entry), has now gotten to a point where there is some undercurrent of peace.
If you are living in society, or have a general affinity for numbers, or are naturally ruthless, then a rather large portion of your material success is entirely dependant upon finding within yourself some sort of exploitable trait with an obvious economic value. David Foster Wallace in a commencement speech once said ‘that which you worship, you will never have enough of’. I can identify.
It seems that within my yearning to follow my passions I have encountered two roadblocks:
- an inability to clearly define a ‘singular’ passion, and
- an inability to believe that any of my passions hold any smidgen of talent.
So when I start, I do the one thing no one should ever do- I compare. I compare my writing, my looks, my personality, my success, my age, my blog, my entirety of my life. Obviously the comparison is so I can ‘grow’, ‘learn’ and ‘research’ ideas. But to the detriment of my self faith.
To finalise: for the moment I no longer care, my mission statement as such is as follows:
· To write whatever I desire
· To understand rejection
· To have faith in my eyes and the tiny world I see
· To explore my goals
· To have a quasi-narcissistic faith in my perseverance above all else.
P.S: by now you’ve most likely noticed my penchant for list making. I’d make a list of reasons why, but that would be taking irony way too far.