One thing I’ve been trying to elude to lately, but haven’t really wrapped my fingers around the neck of, is purpose: that something missing from what you’re doing now. We do what we have to do, or need to do, which is generally what others want us to do, and that’s fine; that’s life. “You’re gonna have to serve somebody.” I can’t help but hold on to a little bit of ego, which is why the Zen thing really didn’t pan out for me. I was so force fed my greater purpose when I was growing up, and I was so beaten over the head with how talented I was over the course of my life, that I can’t help but feel like I am on this planet to accomplish something extraordinary.
That’s just my thing. It’s always been my thing. I love working with people creatively, and hearing their stories, because I love people. I do it creatively because that’s where I’m most comfortable. I prefer nudity because that’s when people are the most honest. The mundane aspect of life and work and all the other stuff doesn’t simply bore me, it makes me angry. Life should be more than this, shouldn’t it? I must be a victim to the severely misguided romantic movement, because I just want something grand to write about, but I have never gotten the opportunities that I continue to see people get and not appreciate. Some would say that’s what I’m doing now, with the opportunities I have, but pointing at something greater. I didn’t get to where I am by having been born, though. No one just up and offered me chances of a lifetime. I’ve spent my life making the most of what I have access to and working the best I can, left feeling the constant emptiness of not being good enough. I have begun to ramble, drifting off into one thousand and one different irrelevant directions. I guess I just still have that lingering belief that my life would serve a greater purpose. I’m stupid enough to think that I have something greater to offer the world than what I do on my little mountain.
What am I going to do, though? People take me way too seriously, but, somehow, they don't take me seriously enough to just understand what I'm doing. It's like everyone just sees the photos, but they forget what I've been writing for the last seven years, because it's basically been the same constant argument written in different ways. I constantly find myself at a loss for words because I've been repeating myself for the better part of a decade and no one seems to understand anything that I'm saying. That's just on these blogs; on a practical level, going through my stacks and stacks of journals, I've been repeating myself for decades, and...nothing.
That's fucking depressing.
I adore the few that take the time to read through my ramblings, but they are few and far between; little glimmers of distant souls around the world. In the practical bigger picture, I don't exist. I'm nobody.
I don't know.
I don't know.