I need freedom. No, not the kind of liberty that breaks chains and opens up previously unseen worlds. No I need freedom to know who I can be and, in a way, some sort of slavery that binds me to who I am. I know it may sound absurd, but that is what I'm looking for: something tells me who I am and what my purpose is. I guess you could call it an anchor, but it has to be so much more than something that holds me down; that's not freedom. I need something that inspires me to reach out and continue to achieve more.
Burning this match at both ends creates a blinding smoke that I cannot see through, and it chokes the air from in front of me. Just tell me what to do. Tell me who I am.
Though I can already see that part of that is where the problem lies. I will not let you tell me who I am. I will not conform to your standards or expectations of who I ought to be. I will not be your marionette. All the boxes you create are confining and I don't fit. Can't you see that's why we're leaving these paradigms behind? Still, I want something that won't choke me when I am merely months in.
Something that involves storytelling. Something that lets me be myself and pushes me to discover more of who I am. Something where I am teaching but I am not a teacher. Some sort of influencer, but not the sole source. I need to be able to look up and over while talking down and out. I don't want to talk down and I'm sick of feeling down and out.
Give me a personality test, or better yet, an aptitude test. I'm inept at talking back to my reflection. What could it possibly have to say to me that I do not already know myself? How can mentor the youth and be a storyteller? How can I use my professional skills, both acquired through education and through practice? How can I open the seemingly locked windows to my secret strengths that weren't hidden in diplomas and certifications? Where can I be myself and not become so complacent as to be stagnant and die?
I want to rely on sleep for rejuvenation, not as a means to just escape into dreams. I want to find the motivation, the ganas, to work when I'm inspired. I want color flooding back into my life, not just a flash here and a flicker there. If this is me dreaming, why can I do little more than sleep when I return home? Why does the picturesque mountain village feel more like a bland desert town made for industrial, nomadic cowboys without a home? Why are the edges torn and faded and where did all of my friends go? Maybe this is just the opposite end result of some recent mania, but it keeps coming back. Why? Where did it come from? Where did I come from? And where am I going?
Everyone's leaving and entering this place, but I'm trying to find a home. And those who have only ever known this place can't wait to escape. I'm falling into their trap and fall further down Maslow's hierarchy every day. Nowhere is safe in compassion fatigue and no one will save you if you're the imagined superhero martyr. If you're swimming away from the life preserver, you cannot blame the lifeguard when he doesn't save you. If you're avoiding the hammer, you might be safe from the pain, but how effective can you be? The nail must hold the planks together and it cannot do it alone.
Alone. That's it. Maybe that's it. Alone. Take a vacuum to this clean room and suck up any semblance of life that still remains. And that is where you'll remain: alone. Complacent. Barely beyond useless. Don't blame the other for your own ability to escape the comfort of the soft cover. A softcover.
