Mental clarity is a far-off shore. I remember being confused in high school, but not about my passions. The things I was passionate about were clear as the sunshine. I looked up, opened my arms, fell on the grass and felt warm thanks to my devotion to writing, to music, to friendship.
Right now, the day is foggy. Sometimes dramatic irony is the clearest way to explain something, even when that something is elusive and confusing as hell.
I don’t remember if what I wanted then is the same thing I want now, and whether what I want now has changed (already) or should change, and if it has changed, has it changed for the better or the worse? Have I sold my dream for hush money (ie. rent)? Is writing what I’ve always wanted to do? Have I ever questioned it? Is it even the right choice for me? Even if it’s not the sort of writing I want to be doing? Will I ever do the sort of writing I want to be doing – and will I, at that point, have enough knowledge and experience to actually write in a way that pleases my sensibilities, or will my fiction, my poetry skills be weak when I’m ready to put them to use? I feel as though they already are, and I’m not a year into full-time.
Full time. Didn’t the industrial revolution try to ensure a shorter work day so that we get paid more but work less, so that we have more time with our families? So that we’re no longer slaves?
We’re still slaves. Not like those of the past, to be sure (although slavery does still exist). But we only have energy enough for TV and dinner after working, after commuting. Is this what older people mean when they talk about “paying your dues”? This is utter bullshit. This indignation I remember from high school.
I’ve started thinking about trades recently. Before, I never thought I could reeducate myself, partially because I was hoping I wouldn’t have to, partially because who the hell “reeducates” at 23, and partially because I hadn’t given what I wanted a go. Others struggle for years trying to make this work, but I have always moved on quickly if something isn’t working, in order to figure something else out. Maybe that’s the right choice. Maybe it’s not.
The problem is that the answer rests on me, and all I have in answer is anxiety.
Does travel constitute as escaping in this case, and if it does, is it bad to escape “reality” in search of a bigger purpose?
Follow my blog with Bloglovin