Wasted years. That’s what I’m thinking about lately. I look in the mirror and see an older face, and I think about what he’s done along the way to this point. The answer is, not enough. Something, some stuff, but not enough.
I cannot be the judge of myself. What I’ve done is never enough for me; I could always have done more. I just have to do everything I can and lay it out there for other people. It cannot be done for me or for my sake. Put it out there for the others, put it out there for the other people.
All the knowledge I have, the skills I acquired, will become obsolete in no great while. It may take less than a decade for skills that took that long to acquire to become pointless. Better to devote oneself to developing skills that will still hold their relevance — therefore better to try making a living with them.
I don’t know what those are, and I don’t know where I’m going with any of this. But that’s the point of this dumb little corner of the internet I made for myself. I don’t have to go anywhere in particular, I just have to focus on writing for some short period of time until I can’t stand it anymore and have to move on to the next brief, instantaneous amusement the hyper-connected world has to offer me.
It’s so hard to focus. Focus is what matters when it comes to making the most of the limited time you get to do anything well.
Why any of it matters, what the point of any of it could possibly be — is not a question I have to answer. The purpose of the world lies outside the world itself; I’m just part of the machinery. True faith lies in the ability to let go of questions you’ll never know the answer to, and to move forward with what makes you feel good.
The point, as far as you need concern yourself, is to do what feels right and to pursue what your innate senses insist you need. Live first and ask questions later.