I wonder sometimes about the purpose of my life. Not for too long, mind you, because I’m certain that there is no overarching purpose. Nothing magnificent or overwhelming. There will be no heroic movie about my art making where I fling paint on a canvas while a cigarette dangles from my lips.
At best there will be a 30 minute clip of me bickering while playing games posted on youtube.
These types of certainties are disheartening to say the least.
However, isolation and insignificance drive me to one thing and one purpose - to figure myself out. How did I end up here? Why? and, to be grandiose, who am i?
Normally, I’d chalk this up to 21st century narcissism, however, I don’t fancy myself. I do the opposite. I loathe myself. If anything I recognize that my biggest failure is me. (which apparently is good ol’ fashioned narcissism after all)
So, I wander about in my memories–trying to trace the events that steered my course. Hoping, perhaps vainly, that I can at least provide a slight insight to fellow isolated wanderers - stay off this course. etc.