Main impetus: that there is still something to be said that has yet to be said perfectly to the right audience. That in continuing to write both the mundane and the profound, I will inevitably unleash something revelatory, inspirational and novel. The disappointment comes when I read what I’ve written and realize that I’ve already said it many times before, or some greater thinker already said it hundreds or thousands of years before me.
Is the main impetus born out of an egotistic desire for glory, or a true, God-pushed sense of mission?
What have I not said that could be something left to for me to say?
For some, the ultimate moment in history will be when humans create an artificial intelligence that is smarter than us and outlives us, and indeed co-exists within the human organism in such a way as to make manmade components, machine-made components and nature-made components indistinguishable and inseparable from each other. For others, the ultimate moment in history will be when Jesus returns to the earth to separate the wheat from the chaff. For still others, there will come a day when all of humanity learns to cooperate and get along together, and no human being on earth will have to suffer, live in poverty, or be treated as less than human by another human being. For a few, there will be a moment in the evolution of human consciousness when we finally become prepared to talk to our ancient alien star ancestors. For those with much less of any sort of teleological bent, there is no such thing as an ultimate moment in history. Our civilization will die like so many others, and what comes to replace it won’t look that much different than our own, but will be better in some ways.
It is impossible for me to overthrow the drive in my brain that dictates to me that I live purposefully. Some days, I am doing nothing more than hanging on until I have an inkling of what my purpose is, and other days, I think I know exactly what my purpose is. But, the sense of needing to live and exist until death with actions dictated by some inkling of an ultimate purpose never escapes me no matter how hard I would will it to.
Generally speaking, when I query that voice that compels me so, it responds with a “help others…” and little else. Is what I’m doing with my writing helpful to others, or is it simply the work of an ego that wants to be remembered for having done something–or is my ego a symptom of this drive that is within me–the ego is a means to get me to do my purpose here on earth whether I feel like it or not?