Apologies in advance for the existential crises that I may very well spark with this post.
I think I’m on like my fifth or sixth quarter-life crisis, so… yeah.
If you’re someone who gets freaked out by existential ‘what am I doing with my life?’ stuff, consider this your warning!
I’ve never really wondered about what my life’s purpose is — my life’s purpose is books.
I’ve never doubted that I’m on this planet to read and write.
I don’t doubt it any more than we doubt as a species that we’re on this planet to breathe, eat, and sleep.
No, what gets my head in a twist is not the what… it’s the why.
Why is my purpose books? Why do we have ‘a purpose?’
Does everyone have ‘a purpose?’ And if not, why not?
Are we supposed to do something in particular with this purpose once we’ve found it?
Is there a pass/fail on this purpose? Is there a form we’ll have to fill in at the end of it all justifying what we’ve done with our individual purposes?
Are these purposes decided for us by some deity/deities/the fabric of the cosmos?!
See? I’m good at the whole ‘putting the nature of reality into question’ thing. Sometimes I really wish I wasn’t 😅
Basically, I have no need to search for my calling.
I just have no clue why I have one, and what I’m supposed to do with it now that it’s here!
Isn’t finding the calling/purpose supposed to be the end-goal? Once we have one aren’t we just supposed to… know what we’re doing?
