Today, the way is not so clear.
The things I want to do have evaporated, and I am unsure of what God wants me to do. I can no longer pretend that I am actually somebody great waiting for the right moment, because I’ve met and talked to a few people. I’ve lived enough to see that underneath the mediocre false self was a mediocre true self. This isn’t depressing. I’ve been depressed and I don’t feel depressed. Instead, I feel incredibly blind.
I was always blind, but now I know that I am blind. If I am ever going to see, then I will need a little more direction from God to point me toward the right pair of corrective lenses.
I get moments like this–sometimes only a few minutes alone. Sometimes I am at my absolute best, most of the time not. And I know I’ve had all kinds of things I want to say, that nobody else really cares to listen to.
And then, I sit down here, and it all disappears.
Or, I start trying to write something–anything at all–and it reads like me repeating myself for the hundredth time or more. The truth is, I do want to change and I don’t want to go back and relive the past and I don’t feel a need to be reborn here on earth and I do want to go out and help people and not just read books. But then, life seems to have a way of presenting any number of barriers–things that I must do first before I can actually go out and do good things.
So, writing becomes a compromise. Maybe if I write something that is at least halfway inspired or inspiring, it might one day be read by someone and help them. This is the grand illusion that has kept me going for so long, but it is now at its end. The only person I’ve been writing for–the only one who will ever take the time to read what I’ve written–is myself. And honestly, I don’t care much for a lot of the things I’ve written. They were written in moments of great pride or wrath.