I used to search incessantly for meaning in life. Work tirelessly to achieve, to be someone. Then, over the course of a year or so, my reality collapsed.
Now, I compartmentalize my life into two main parts:
life up to my breakdown at 19 and my life thereafter. I’m not the girl I
used to be and sometimes, I want to be. I wish I cared more, like I
used to live.
My whole goal in life used to be to “live life to the fullest”. Now, I am
afraid perhaps I don’t know how to live at all. I lived in fear but
faced it. I found solace in blood, sweat, and tears. And yet, was I
happy? My older self--after careful examination--says to my younger
self, “no”. But, am I happy now? Do I even know what “happy” means?
I often feel I am meant to live a life half awake; half aware of the world
outside me and halfway trapped inside my own brain. I experience
emotional highs and lows, of that I am certain. But when it comes down
to it, I wonder what I really feel at all. I am uninspired. Collapsible.
Educated. Relenting rather than relentless. Flat. Aware of what I must
do yet plagued by the possibility that I cannot do it.
I am a writer who does not write. A reader who struggles to read. An
artist that looks rather than creates art. A member who does not pray or
read her scriptures regularly.
I find solace in others’ words rather than finding my own. I search for
inspiration rather than choosing to be inspired. Sometimes all of the
words seem like crap. Nothing more. Vain dreams of the ignorant.
I know I’ll be worse off if I do or not do something, I make the wrong
choice anyway. I think sometimes it’s because I used to never give myself a choice at