complex nothingness

There are over 2,000 hours in three months, which is a little less than the amount of time I’ve had this summer. To do anything, something, to create. I got an email from my mom with her blessing for my walkabout, as it were. My spiritual education. My bliss of nothingness. And it made me feel better. But there’s still that wound of feeling like I’ll never be able to succeed in the way that matters to the rest of the world. It doesn’t matter how smart or passionate I am. What matters is that I know people, what matters is that I have experience written down. What matters is that I have something to show for my time. And I feel like if I could only reach into my head and pull out my brain and staple it to my pristine and unmarked resume I could prove something. Not sure what that is.

Anyways, 2,000 hours. I could have written a book. I could have written a short story. I could have written a stupid piece of erotica and gotten some e-karma at the very least. But what did I write? How can I measure a blog post in any credible form of currency? I could have written a book. I could have been published. I could be raking in the dough. But I don’t even know what I want to publish as. Or who I want to publish as. Sometimes I think the only thing that I do have straight is that life is messy and it’s best to be honest about that. The pieces don’t come together very neatly. I don’t even know what you’d call me. But it is what it is.

I might not have done all those big adult things that I keep telling myself I’m finally going to do. But I do feel like I’ve finally got my head on straight, which I suppose is a lot more than some people could say.

 

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