What is about the vaccume that gets to us? Why are we so scrared of voids? Of silences? Why is there such a premium of living a full life? What if your life is half empty? What if it is all empty, except for one glorious momment of sheer exhilaration? Is that one momment enough to redeem a half lived life? Will it make it full, complete?
I've been harping about this sneaking emptyness in my life for a while. I can't point to what is missing, but I know that somewhere, something is. The day I think I have that figured, I'm sure I'll find that there is something else that is missing. It's like this endless puzzle, this maze, that changes every other minute.
So I bury myself in work. I read till I can't keep my eyes open anymore, so that I don't have to face those nagging fears that always surface while I wait for sleep to take over. Then I have weird, broken dreams, that leave me with this strange sense of dissatisfaction when I wake up.
Happiness, said a friend once, is the easiest thing in the world. And I believed him then. I still do. But contentment? I'm not sure. They say you should have a purpose. I have one. And a good one. I have no big dreams of changing the world, I don't agonise over matters much larger than me, over which I have no control. I don't make very unreasonable demands. But I refuse to compromise. I HATE that word. If there is something that can be better, I think it should be. And so, contentment is something that does not last for me.
It's very simple, when you look at it like that. I live in a constant "what next" mode. Somehow I think I've alway lived in the furture. So much so, that the present never seems good enough. Is that a bad thing? I wish I could be sure.
What did I mean to say? What did I end up saying? There seems to be this void between those two points. Is that a bad thing?
Why this cluttered post? Because something told me to react to this.