Sometimes I get very anxious.

Sometimes I get very anxious.

I can’t tell stories.
I can’t seem to focus on any particular goal.
I can’t seem to be particularly good to the people I love.

I am not a decent, functioning human being.

Yet the days continue to pass without any serious prompting from me, resulting in a painless apathy.

The feeling that I absolutely must do something worthwhile with my life has not entirely left me; quite the contrary, as I tend to think on it often. There are many things I used to want for my life that I have now relinquished, for most of them were pressed on me by the desires of my family.

I was on the phone with Tony for a good two hours last night while he drove toward Channel Islands, and although we started out addressing his current dilemmas, we eventually moved on to mine.

I suppose this is one of those periods when I call myself depraved and disgraced, a failure in the eyes of everyone who used to think so highly of me. Now I imagine them speaking about me in hushed tones, heads shaking in dismay. What good is free-thinking if it doesn’t produce results?

Well, damn. MUST it produce results?

For a very long time, I felt guilty for not “living up to my potential,” for “not being on track” or even “falling into place,” so I never spoke about my own personal philosophy. Sometimes the guilt still creeps in, but I now have more control over it. I understand it better.

Thankfully, the disappointment I fear has begun to take a backseat to my more encompassing desires of my own enrichment. Whatever that means.

I still think I can bend Life to my will, that my life can progress on my own terms, regardless of the many expectations set for me. I always imagined I would break the cycle of school, work, spouse and children. What need have I for a husband and a brood of my own?

It isn’t a horrible thing to want to be aware of my motivations. On a daily basis, we deceive ourselves into actions that should give us more pause.

My greatest fear is waking up one day with the realization that I am living someone else’s life, that I duped myself for the last thirty or forty years.

Of course, I may always change my mind. After all, I believe I have no one else to answer to other than myself in the end. While this might be depressing to some, I find it rather invigorating. For as long as I remain vigilant and self-aware, how could I possibly lead myself astray?

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