I come from a family of psychological isolationists. I have spent years, analyzing me in the vacuum of me. I wasted untold longing on wanting a purpose, and expended years of jealousy on people who have just ‘always known’ where they fit. I tortured myself with needing to know why I was. Human consciousness is not a kind jailer. Last year, I made a practice of not asking what my purpose is. In that state of non-asking acceptance, I wrote some poems I find beautiful. I lost weight, which I needed to do. I began to enjoy the things I used to feel were chores. I stopped working long hours. I engaged in activities that I enjoy, without putting the burden of Purpose on them. Ultimately, the suffocating weight of Propose is what killed my love of novel writing, that and some ridiculous idea about “virtual shelf space.”
Oh, but who hasn’t wanted to be saved by the posthumous recognition of her brilliance? Yet most of us, even me, will live and die without leaving any lasting ripples. And that is okay.