I’m slowly accepting the fact that I may never truly figure out what I want from life or what I am here to give. When I come across people who are content, I wonder if they are lying or have they just stopped wondering and questioning. All the same, I am jealous of them and their peace of mind. Because even in the happiest moments of my life I am never truly at peace. I can’t seem to take it for what it is. I poke it, I suspect it, I make things of it, to see if there is a sign somewhere in that moment to let me know what my calling is.
It’s difficult to explain to others the state of my mind. I’m not depressed just desperate. Desperate to be different, to be interesting, to be right, to be the one with stories to tell. Sometimes, this burn is good because it makes me go out there to try new things and meet new people. And for a while that helps, but then I am back at square one wondering what all those new things mean.
I used to feel guilty for being so restless. But now I realize that it’s a dangerous thing to be content at 27. I need things to keep me awake at night, to keep me busy, to not know what life is about. I need to wander some more. Then may be one day I’ll be okay, either because I’ve found myself or because I’ve realized that I dont need to know anymore.