The Rest of My Life?

I’ve been asking myself for nearly a year now what I will do with the rest of my life and I can’t deny that it’s an impossible question.  I can barely say what I’m going to do with myself in the next 3 months let alone the inevitable 50 next years.  I’ve just turned 30 and all of the people who I went to school with are either married, getting married, well into having started their families, well into their careers, or otherwise successful human beings and that just doesn’t feel like me at this moment.

I’ve never truly known what I would be when I grow up, but I’ve always known what I like to do.  unfortunately, my likes are not special enough to make turning them into a career a very good option.  I like to cook (not in an industrial capacity),  I like to write, I like to knit and crochet, I like to plan, I like to do a lot of things, but me liking it and it being lucrative are two completely different things.

The past year has been very tough.  It’s probably the toughest year I’ve had to date and that is saying something.  The only conclusion that I’ve come to is that I really need to get off my ass and write my book(s).  The only thing that ever felt right was my being a writer, but how many others have said and felt the same thing to no end?  Sometimes it feels like the only contribution I can make to society is to document and chronicle the things the I seem and the things that people are too scared to say.  That being said, I hate to report that those things aren’t very interesting a lot of the time.

Who cares that the vast majority of people out there are screaming in silent frustration at the world around them?  We all know this, it isn’t a new observation for most of us.  The writers that are still read to this day found a way to break the human condition down to its base elements and resonate within their hearts.  What is my story?  What is the truth that I’ve got in me to chronicle?

I don’t have an answer.  I’ve heard too many times that if you’re trying to tell a true story and it is still to close to your own pain, then you won’t be able to effectively convey both sides that make it dynamic.  I still don’t know what that means, I just know that it rings in my ears as I fail to write something.  I’ve been recently focusing on fiction and that seems to be helping.  Taking the people who I know and love and translating my feelings of isolation into a world where we can all be together- it’s cathartic because it would never really happen.

So, my question to you- my two loyal readers- is this:

What is the point?  What is the magic that we are meant to bring into this world?

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