Searching for meaning

For a while there, from the time I posted my last blog to the time I wrote this one, I did not write. Oh, I wrote, an honest and vulnerable blog here, a story in my mind there (I didn’t publish those blogs, though, as it would be like taking my skin off and walking into a patch of thorn bushes). But I didn’t really write write, if you know what I mean. It’s not that I believe in inspiration, I don’t. I believe you sit down and you write, inspiration be damned.

I also don’t even believe in writer’s block — you don’t get talker’s block do you? Well, actually, yes, I do. I get mentally blocked and then I have no idea what to say next and I stuff up, as if I have mental constipation. But I never get writer’s block because I have a thousand and one writer’s ideas — I have books full of exercises and inspirations and quotes and pictures. So, the ideas are there, either in my head or written down somewhere. What happened was, I lost my purpose. I lost my center and got mired inside the squirrel cage of self-pity. (An aside — if you get a moment, see an interview with Stephen Fry when he’s talking about the evils of self-pity. It’s brilliant. And yes, I did write brilliant in a British accent.)

I don’t know if this happened gradually or all at once. All I know is that I wanted to review my life’s purpose in my journal and couldn’t think of it. What was the purpose of my life? Was it to…