People who don’t know me well know that I am a private person. I keep to myself and only speak when needed. I am not giving towards my likes, dislikes, worst of all, my fears. But, here’s my baby-step attempt at being more open, more vulnerable, more accepting of myself. Read along and let me know your thoughts. I wrote this about three years ago, and nothing much has changed. Maybe it never will; maybe this “back-handed compliment” that I keep giving myself is what pushes me to do better. It’s all a BIG, resounding, MAYBE.
Some people are born with no purpose in their lives. They live. They die. And no one remembers them. They would have made you laugh with a line or two. Or come up with something really snazzy. Basically, they just have these “moments” All they have are “moments” to their name. Never full-fledged work.
They could write a limerick, but never a novel. From the 1,000 mindless thoughts floating around, 1 would be good enough to print. They are remembered no more than the current task demands. They aren’t at the tip of the tongue for anyone. No one thinks of them when there’s a job to get done. A portion of it? Their names are called. The task seems mundane; they are thanked. But then the chapter is closed.
I have felt like this numerous times. I haven’t found my calling yet. And that’s disturbing. There’s something I have got to excel at, right? If I am not an accident, then what am I put on this Earth to do?
Yes, I have a job. Yes, I am being paid exceptionally well. But, do I deserve it? I don’t think so. Yes, I should be happy with what I have, and I should count it a blessing, and I shouldn’t question the why of it. Still, I do because I want to be worth something. I like to earn my rewards. But honestly, I have no skills at all.
I try not to open this can of worms, but it’s hard not to. It’s hard not to ask the question: what is my purpose in life?
Early on in life, I understood that I hated Math and numbers. That sliced all the job opportunities by a quarter. I couldn’t be a doctor, or an engineer, or a manager, without some element of numbers. Around the same time, I learned that I love writing. I could write for hours and not tire. I created small scripts while growing up for my cousins and me to perform. I wrote poems, and I thought, hey, maybe writing is my calling. I dreamed then of being an Editor in Chief one day. Of a prestigious magazine. Now that dream has dwindled. Four years of being a content writer have done that to me. Now, I feel incompetent even as a “writer.”
I now have decided that I cannot write to maybe even save my life. Let alone make this my profession. Yet, here I am. A Copywriter. Writing to make a living. Irony? Definitely.
I’m turning 28, and life still hasn’t hit me yet. Will it ever? I am moving in strides that I think would be good for me. And I have only been waiting forever to find out.
