Effort, effort, effort. That’s what it’s got to be, but it has to be organized. I have to zoom out sometimes and get an overview, I have to point my strength in the right direction. I have to go but I have know where I am going.
Every trip is a little death. I don’t want to be on my way, I don’t want to go. For a few days I’m trapped, unable to work on what really matters to me — and then I come home and I can’t work on what really matters. It’s too staggering, too imposing, too monumental. It’s the white whale and I’m just a tiny human on the deck of a tiny ship in the ocean. The disproportion is immense.
I don’t know where to put myself other than beneath its shadow.
Typing feels right, though. I know how to do this. Run, run, run. A waste of energy, maybe. Certainly directionless — but no movement is a waste because you end up somewhere other than where you were before, and only that way can you get any idea about whether it’s the right direction or not. Sit still and you will only be confused.
What is this feeling that I have to be somewhere other than where I am? It’s what the little ant feels when the parasitic fungus infects its little brain, inspiring it to climb upwards toward the light so that the fungus can complete its lifecycle. The spore of something greater infects your soul and moves you toward a greater purpose.
Two possibilities:
- You will never be happy except by choosing a purpose outside yourself.
- Choosing a purpose outside yourself is a way of escaping from what really matters.
I’m not sure which one it is. Probably some strange combination of both.