This week’s blog post is going to be short.
I don’t think I really had goals in life until recently. I had things I wanted to get and experiences I wanted to do, but I have never been that person who knew what she was supposed to be in life. I envied that. The ability to know from a young age who you are and what you have to do to get there. It felt as though I never outgrew that child who pretended to be a different occupation every week. From doctor to chef to marine biologist and astronaut. On one hand, I don’t really feel envious to see someone else living my dreams. If anything it shows how obtainable they are. On the other, I am consistently reminded of how unfulfilled my days are knowing I don’t feel like I have a set purpose in life. On bad days, I question my entire existence, but that’s depression for you. Malfunctioning brain chemistry aside, it is difficult to live life not knowing where you fit in. How am I supposed to contribute? What part do I play in the system? It’s like I jumped off the cliff and I have to fashion a pair of wings from whatever I can grab on the way down and the only thing in reach are bricks. Somehow, I ended up back to writing. It’s the only thing that doesn’t feel like it’s weighing me down.
I want to be an author. A somewhat successful author that gives black people quirky characters to invest in and weird yet familiar worlds to explore. A lot of mistakes lead to this realization, and I’m sometimes haunted by my failures, and on bad days, I can only focus on my regrets and doubt. I still don’t know how I’m going to do it. I will though. Maybe my purpose is the be a beacon to my fellow free-fallers so they can have a softer landing than I did. I can live with that.
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