I haven’t written anything in 10 days. For some of you, that may seem rather common. For me, it’s unusual. I don’t feel wrong or jagged or like a salted slug. These are all good things. The bad thing is me and not writing. As I complained to a clever, grumpy friend of mine: It’s not that I don’t have the words, I just haven’t the heart.
I realized, in not writing, that I lack my usual inner fire because I’ve run out of fuel. The good news is, I’ve started reading again. And my words, ideas made manifest, derive from what dreams may come after entering other worlds. I’ve heard it said that apathy is the antithesis of love, that not feeling means a lack of heart. In most cases, I’d agree.
I’ve already gone on about struggles with motivation and where you can find it. I’ve even mentioned flexibility, in passing. I mentioned months past my ignorance as to the current flow of events in my life. Many have asked me what I’m doing now, what I’m doing next, where I’d like to be, and so on. Their motivations vary, yet are all equally meaningless. It’s not what others see for me but what I see in and for myself.
I know enough about my inherent self to not ceaselessly probe into the abyss of possibility before me. Instead, I admit my rudderless nature. I didn’t frustratedly throw my oar overboard. Nor did a major storm rend my mast or sails. All aspects of my current “ship” are intact yet I remain adrift. I presently find myself in an Odyssean state, drifting my island to island of unknown opportunity.
I never really connected with Homer’s allegory about coming of age until the composition of these words. Perhaps its the nature of maturity, or merely gender. I never journeyed far from home to defend it. It’s not in my nature, really. Despite my occasional abrasiveness, aggression, and overall vigor for life, I find myself uncompelled to journey far. In fact, the only moments in life I’ve felt a deep-seated desire to travel are a hunger for understanding others or running away.
Fortunately, my financial situation hasn’t allowed for much worldwide escapism. If I was in a place to afford such things, I’m assuming I wouldn’t feel the need to get out. I might not be any happier than my past self was bug I might not’ve been anymore miserable, either. There’s no real knowing, of course, which is perfectly alright.