Why Am I Lost..?

small poem interposed on a image about being lost

After a lot of contemplation, I registered this domain on Jan – 2020, created this website on June – 2020 and am now writing my first article in Sept – 2020. It took me nearly 9 months to write 1 article. What does that say about me? It says that I suffer. Procrastination, distraction, confusion, indecisiveness, the list could go on. I describe this predicament as “being lost”.

And I often ask myself –  how did I manage to waste so much of my life? It’s not like I lack ambition. I don’t doubt my talents, I have realistic goals, so why can’t I get anything done in time?

The Problem Of Existentialism

Oh wow! How fucking cliched and unfortunate. Truth is, I’ve never fully recovered from having asked the fundamental questions about existence – “Why are we here? What is the purpose? Who is the creator?”.

For most of my early 20’s, I read and I read looking to find an answer to these questions. I spoke to Muslims, Christians, Hindus, Buddhists etc. but religion never agreed with me. Philosophies that aligned with my worldview tended to conclude that life was meaningless. So I’ve lived my life like a hedonist, believing in nothing and just chasing pleasure. But not a day goes by when I don’t feel weighed down by the futility of it all.

a small poem about being lost in life

A Perpetual State Of Limbo

Whenever I think about taking some risks and chasing my dream of being a writer, a huge dark cloud comes over me. I convince myself that now is not the right time, I should probably get a job, make a stable living and then pursue my dream. We wouldn’t want to be living as an unemployed struggling writer now would we? And what if it doesn’t work out!

So I end up doing a stable job, half-heartedly. Being unable to fully to commit to either – the job or the dream.

It’s Hard

Being a writer is not easy and only intermittently fun. It’s mostly frustrating. In terms of being enjoyable, it doesn’t compare to all the other things I could do with my time. There are times you can go on for hours without writing a word, suffering your own thoughts in the process.

Inspiration is a fickle fiend.

What this means is that one has to chose to suffer of his own accord. Willingly suffer. For months.

Maybe “suffer” is too harsh of a word but how else can I describe this. Imagine being in a room alone and trying to think of ways to get this point across. And the words just don’t come, I’m trying but I can’t think of anything right now. Am I suffering? Is this fun? Will I enjoy doing this over and over again for months? Life is grim. I’m grim. Great now I’m distracted. Writing is hard.

But Let’s End On A Positive Note

Fortunately after so many years I feel genuinely exhausted living this life. Although, I still oscillate between being suicidal and being motivated to chase my dreams.

I’m in my 20’s. Late 20’s. I’m 28. So hopefully I’m wrong about some of this and things will get better. For now I don’t intend to do much else with my time except staying home and writing.

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