Thinking

I want to write. But I lack clarity of purpose. I don't want to write without a purpose for writing.

I have been selfish for a long time. Every decision, action, thought is all about me. Me. Me. Me. My writing has been about me. How bad I have felt; my suffering. I wrote about it because I thought the writing would give me something. Like peace. Or comfort. Instead, the lamenting just led to more lamenting.

The suffering has become a kind of identity for me. An identity I wish to shed.

I want to write. But I don't want to find myself in the same place again. Stuck. Whining.

My life is filled with apathy. I want to feel something other than that. I want to write about something other than my apathy. Or my suffering because of the apathy. Or the apathy that has replaced the darkness that, for so long, clouded my mind and my life.

I want to have a purpose.

Maybe the best I can hope for is that, eventually, everything will work itself out. And, maybe, I can just write about that.