To name myself a thing seems less than honest. Labels as a rule are too confining. Despite the mental conflict it has caused, I’ve never fit. I’m equal parts too large and too minute.
I do not wish to be a writer, or a boyfriend; I do not wish to be a nutritionist. When I write, I wish to write well, and truly. When I love, I wish to love well, and fully. When I eat, I wish to eat well, and consciously. I will never be a business tycoon, and if I were I’d never say so. I will never be “a man”, or very wise.
This lack of definition is my bane. To act without a title is to act without a name. To act without a name is to ignore the institutions this society enforces as a law. I admit I’ve never known true hardship, loss or pain – my struggle is to define myself.
That’s right – I hear it, too – the subtle narcissistic tone: my greatest strain in life is to define myself, while millions of others starve in silence on the streets; while military missiles screech through windows of a noncombatant house. And I would help them all! But who am I to offer help when I don’t know myself?
What service could I offer that would not be self-indulgent at its core? Inside, I wish to DO, and do well only. (Beside it still a voice asserts that I must also BE: a thing, anything; a someone, anyone.)
The time is likely coming to be discharged from this void: choose a thing to be and then stick with it! (As my person shrinks to fit inside the word; as my person strives to meet all that it means.)