I Will Define My Life


I’ve been hit with some sort of stirring in my soul. I feel compelled to see as much as possible, to take on many projects, to be incessantly inspired, to cater to my creativity, to drink up every moment for it may be as precious as my last. To quench my thirst with new vocabulary, new conversations, new foods, new languages, new experiences. To be unafraid of my fears and unashamed of my indignities. To inundate myself with opportunities for growth, to crash through the barriers of my comfort zone, to stretch out to the limits of my potential and then push further. To realize this moment is actually no less precious than my final one; I’m just struck by juxtaposition to my mortality. To be definitive in not allowing my life’s meaning to be dictated by its finiteness – bolstered, reinvigorated, and contextualized – yes; but not defined. I will define my life.

For life’s fleeting, fickle existence, it shocks me simultaneously into existential trances and out of mundane consciousness. I need more as I want less, more or less; the more I focus in on what I actually want, the shorter that list becomes, but the more intensely I need all that’s on it. It’s a sensation to make you feel like you will burst at the seams in the most necessary way possible.

What am I here for?

How often, if at all, do you ask yourself that? It’s a question so simple, so simultaneously exquisite and anguishing. It’s a question that demands an answer, or many answers, or a journey in pursuit of an answer. It requires respect. Silent speculation will be good but it will not suffice. It needs more. It needs a willingness to sacrifice the fountain of youth on behalf of a mountain of truth.

From there, the path is new, the sky is not a limit but an invitation. From there every moment is breathless. Hairs stand on end, but not because you’re cold; because they stretch out to meet the edges of the universe as it extends against your skin as if to welcome you, finally, to your own existence.

I’m in this space shaped just for me – as you are in yours – and to waste it would be an egregious form of self-betrayal, some terrible self-imposed heartbreak.

In the end, for any of us, perhaps the greatest defeat would be to not try to become all we may be capable of, to not at least discover the extent of our potential, even if we never fully convert it to motion.

Lately I feel certain that if you don’t utilize whatever is churning inside of you, it will expire, and that is a tremendous waste. We all have to nourish that energy source inside of us, we cannot count on it for infinite invincibility; it requires our care.

Whatever gets you excited and motivated – that project that tears you from your REM cycle at obscene hours of the night because even in your most subconscious state, it’s manages to demand your attention, churning ideas, revving the adrenaline that can only come from obliterating passion – take care of it. Not everyone finds it; if you do, consider yourself lucky and act accordingly. And don’t be afraid to totally disassemble your understanding of your calling and rediscover what it is; it might be something you didn’t expect at all. When that surge hits you in the chest, you’ll know, even if it’s nothing you’ve ever seen or felt or pursued before. That doesn’t matter – just see it, feel it, pursue it once it’s made itself known. Be overtaken by it – not necessarily forever, or always, but initially at least; don’t do yourself the disservice of being one foot in, one foot out when it comes to what you love. Head first dive, all in, come back to life as the icy sensation of purpose sears across every hair follicle and pore and molecule of your being.

The prelude to the epiphany might tickle your consciousness with its presence, issuing a silent warning that could be mistaken for the wind blowing or eye contact or a near miss with fate. But you’ll know, somewhere deeper within your consciousness, you’ll know. There might be a vague restlessness, familiar in some ways but utterly unexplored in others. It’s not the restlessness of deflation – the kind that antagonizes you and is a symptom of being crushed and weighed down by a gaping lack of inspiration so empty it’s heavy. This restlessness is different, it fills you rather than drains you; it’s the same restlessness that comes when your senses tingle to let you know you’re moments away from what you’ve been seeking. You don’t see it yet – at least not more than the occasional flash so instantaneous and brief you almost doubt its existence – but you feel it, which is somehow more powerful. This restlessness is a gathering of all your unapplied energy, rallying into an army prepared to fight for and defend your passions unconditionally – the restlessness is the force in that army’s bated breath, waiting for you to lead the way.