To Where Does This Road Lead?

It’s a question that I’ve been asking myself a lot lately. Perhaps because I’d be 30 in a couple of months. That in itself is not a scary thing — age probably doesn’t scare me as much as it does most people, and certainly not the more cosmetic aspects of it… the not-as-supple-as-before skin, the low metabolism, the other saggy bits. But it does bother me that at almost 30, I still don’t know what I want to do with my life. And the problem is I don’t know if I really want to know. Perhaps it doesn’t matter afterall, to have a concrete goal, to have a job, to “know” what it is one is supposed to make of one’s life. Who says you need to be anything, anyway?

The thing is, I know I should really be telling myself “fuck it”, but there’s just this nagging feeling picking at my mind, saying that “you have to know”, “you have to know your worth”, “don’t waste your potential”. I tell others I’m a writer, but I hardly write because I’m too afraid to write a crappy piece of work or something that somehow adds rubbish to a world full of rubbish. As a person, I’m an absurd figure of contradictions. I’m a writer who doesn’t write. I’m a student who hates studying. I’m a wife who’s not much of a wife. What the hell am I doing here?

There are points in your life, though I wouldn’t call them turning points, but points that become significant enough to make you reflect on your life, your habits and your choices, and tonight was such a point for me. I had failed in an endeavour that I was sure I was going to do well in and it made me question my worth and ability in the whole endeavour. In some people’s lives, there are only those few things that determine your worth and your ability, and for me, being able to articulate my thoughts and concerns is one of them. And when I feel like I’ve kinda gone off the tangent (or lost my groove, so to speak), I can’t help but feel that years of hard work to somehow get somewhere (even if I don’t really know the destination) have been a big fucking waste of effort.

If I’m already full of self-doubt, I am, at this point, so saturated with that evil sense that I’m cooked. Because “points” such as these not only make you feel like shit, they make you feel like you’re wrong somehow — even though at the core of your being, you somehow know that you’re right. You somehow know that you make sense. You somehow know that in your own clumsiness, you have a valid point. It’s not just a romantic’s (or more accurately, a loser’s) attempt to regain whatever’s left of her dignity; it’s the conviction that they can break you, but not that guiding needle.

Nevertheless, they could confuse you to the point where you feel helpless and powerless. It is moments of weakness and vulnerability such as these that you succumb to the path of least resistance.

What’s worse? Succumb, or to continue to act like a knowing fool?


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