It’s pulsing through my veins. I was born into it. Expected to be someone. To have a purpose.
I can’t tell whether it has taken form as my own voice or if it has always echoed in the world around me – “you must have a purpose.” Either way, it’s loud, and it lives.
Purpose, purpose, purpose. I am driven to fulfill it. Each time I miss the mark, I fall. I get bent and bruised. But I don’t break.
My last fall was a bad one. I’ve yet to recover. I’m floating in white space, hoping desperately for someone to connect the dots. I can’t even find the dots.
My feet know no route.
People ask me what I want to do with my life. I usually make up an answer I think they’ll want to hear.
Always searching for the next hero. Always seeking a new, extraordinary story. Our society just wants a savior. I have already found mine. And although I have no purpose and I’m not a hero, I’m learning that “real life” is not about creating our own empire, it’s about helping those in shacks. It’s not about storing up treasures, it’s about giving of ourselves even when we have nothing left to give.
I’m without purpose, and it has never been more valuable to me. It makes me appreciate the ordinary. It makes me rejoice in the simple. It forces me to be content with the present. That’s all we really have.