I’ve been writing a lot on a movie that’s about me when I was younger. I look at when I was a child and even up until a few years ago and feel like something is missing. The romance and optimism I used to have has pretty much faded and the version of it that exists now feels like an imitation of what it once was. I also feel like in my day to day life I’m mostly an imitation of what I want to be. I’m still a part of me but something doesn’t click, like I lack whatever spark would make me feel like I was a real person. Writing about my past feels like I’m celebrating what I once was and how I used to feel. Even when I felt afraid I saw a future for myself that was so bright it kept me going. Now I don’t feel so certain. Writing feels more like an extension of myself now than it ever has. Hopefully that means I’m doing the right thing.
I realize that in the end, happy or sad, I’ll end up the same as everyone else. I understand longing for a life of meaning and holding onto ideals may just be getting in the way of day to day life being easier, but obviously some part of me hopes for a specific feeling that I once had, but may never have again. I miss having things to rely on the way I once did. I knew that no matter what the day brought, I had my little family that was concerned about how my day was going, which made everything feel different.
I know that my happiness should have little to do with the things I lack and in so many ways, life has been incredibly generous. I’ve been given the ability to make things that I’m happy with, I have my health, I have been born of parents who have enough resources that no matter how poor I am, I will never be without a safety net and I’m blessed to have some people who value me enough to put up with the fact I’m a whinny brat about three fourths of the time.
I understand that life may just be a fluke, that the universe might not have any reason or order and that it’s just a big mess. If that’s the case then it’s all the more reason I should focus on being happy everyday, forgetting all my shame and letting myself take joy in everything I can… but somehow I’m so superstitious that I do think things matter and that blindly following every urge I deem is good is better in the long run even though day to day it leaves me feeling exhausted and alone. Hopefully following those urges is the right thing to do, or else I’ve a lot of mistakes.
