You ever have one of those moments where you see/hear something, and it kind of ruins your day, and then you begin to wonder what’s the point of living anymore?
That’s pretty much it.
My first attempt at this tribal tradition we call job hunting has ended in failure. Now I know that it’s nothing to be miserable about, and that the average fresh graduate spends an average of half a year being unemployed before landing themselves a job. Hell, some people who were hit particularly hard during the recession haven’t had a real job in years.
Still doesn’t make it suck any less though.
It doesn’t help that I’ve been brought up believing that I’m supposed to end up doing something great for humanity. It doesn’t help either that this belief is continually reinforced through the words of those who surrounds me. But really, through these jade-colored lenses of mine: hardly anyone around me are living the life they want to, much less creating that legacy we all believe that we will leave behind.
Now here I sit in my living room, feeling that awful cold, empty feeling of despair gnawing away at my stomach. It’s completely illogical, I know; but also entirely probable that this life will end like dust in the wind.
Who am I? I’m no Mandela. I’m no Rowling, King, or Gaiman. I’m nothing like any of these great souls who make being a legend look so easy. What guarantee is there that I will ever end up doing anything of significance? That I won’t end up like one of those washed-up, cynical folks whose lights have long faded from their eyes?
I don’t mean to be pessimistic. I don’t want to be pessimistic. But the feeling is that all my optimism and hope for the future all this time has been nothing but a comfortable illusion. A cozy ignorance of the facts of the real world. As far as these misty eyes can see, living in the real world means that you can’t always get what you want. In fact, you’ll almost never get what you want; and most of us just end up settling for the next best thing, because it’s at least better than nothing at all.
To a certain extent, I guess that’s what I’m really afraid of: the next best thing. To live a life just short of what I wanted it to be. To make it as a professional writer, but never one of significance. To write a few works that receives nothing more than lukewarm responses.
I’m afraid of finding myself in a job that does well to help me pay the bills and go on the occasional holiday, but sucks the life out of me so that I’ll never have the energy to write another word of fiction. It’s already happening right now, as I slave away voluntarily on this video project – I haven’t added a single word to my make-believe world since NaNoWriMo November, save for that little short story last Friday.
Damn it all to hell. What’s the point of living if you don’t live the life you’ve chosen for yourself? What’s the point of existing if such an existence if of no consequence? Last Friday when I wrote Live Free, I thought I agreed more with Marvin. Today, I am fully and firmly over on Lydia’s side.
Nothing has given me more meaning than writing and creating stories. To live without it would be to live a hollow, sorry excuse of a life. Damn it all to hell. If no one’s going to pay me to write, I’m writing anyway. As long as there lives someone to write for, I’m writing anyway.
God help whoever tries to stop me.