There was a time before when all I needed in order to write were a piece of paper, a good pen, a constant supply of irony, and, of course, something intelligent to say. Much has changed since then. Nothing dessicates one’s spirit faster and more efficiently than work. Lest you misconstrue me a whiner and an ingrate, I love standing in front of my class and teach. I enjoy working with people who like me also want to have their place under the sun. Yes, I hate the daily commute. How I curse with so much vitriol the routine. But they’re not the reasons I find work harder to bear each day.
It’s the virtual lack of justification for all these that sometimes gets me. Some call it mission, others refer to it as their vocation, the religious charism.
Much earlier in my life I had had completely abandoned the idea of a mission. I quietly declared it’s a mere construct, and that I did not want to fall into the trap where most I know had fallen into, like flies attracted by the promise of a sugary juice in the stomach of a pitcher plant, that trap of giving weight to one’s actions. Of seeing one’s life as an extension of God’s or whoever that supernatural being’s. Of changing the world.
They pursue their paths with full intention and meaning; at times, I envy them. What difference would it make to live one’s life every day knowing that everything he does is for a lofty purpose? For most, the answer is obvious, a lot. Some have easily figured out their purpose early in their lives. They’re the children of God. They belong to that group of elite individuals who do not need to struggle against life because everything’s cut out for them.
I know that knowing what all these are for, or at least coming up with a rationale for all these will make the daily struggle less of a drudgery and more of a worthy oblation.
But we are fooling who?
Writing requires more than a paper, a pen, and a bag full of irony.