Where?

It is hard to explain where I'm slipping away to, or what exactly seems to be calling me. There has been a general lack of interest that has been building for some time, which has been coinciding with the lack of thoughts, together with the fading and drifting feeling. I can't really say that I have been lured away by Facebook, because I was already having issues with insufficient thoughts for writing anything of substance long before I started that. Am I drawn in by pretty pictures, humourous tidbits and inspirational quotes, or is it just because it is less involved... Or... perhaps it will provide a nudge for the reality of my existence.

Struggling with the reality of my existence... Yes.. Because I was defined for so long by what I did, it is as though I no longer exist. What I was is no longer what I am. I no longer serve the purpose that I once did. How sad is that? That a job, not a career, a job...  and an office job at that, can be your sole reason for being for more than half of your life? It was what I let it become, and it became me. Sure, when that ended rather abruptly after more than twenty years, I recreated me immediately thereafter, but then that me died too after a couple years. I realize that if you don't have a purpose, then you have to want something... anything. To do something, to have something, to be something. If you have no purpose... if you have no wants, then you must resign yourself to existence, for living is beyond you. You must resign yourself to existence... or die. If ever there was a dream... or a desire for something more, you get to the point when you can no longer see them or think them and they become as a far distant memory. Something that is no longer a promising future, but a fading past. If you have no dream nor desire, then you must accept things the way they are and fall through the cracks of life. If you do not want something more, then you will die alone on a cold floor in an empty house.

I wrote that with tears in my eyes, but looking up across the room, by the kitchen window I see two roses blooming. It is not that they are inspiring nor that they give me some measure of hope, but I look at them with a sense of wonderment. It had been starting to freeze at night, so ten days ago I had brought them in the house, as buds, not expecting nor hoping that they would bloom, but wondering if they would. And ... they did. What does this mean? I don't know. Such a simple thing. Something from my garden that should have withered away and died, but didn't.

As I sit here thinking about this, I realize, and not for the first time, that I am more likely to do something if it is for someone else, than if it is for me. Does that make sense? If it is just for me then why bother? I struggle with getting my life in order, with living life, because it would be doing so just for me. In some strange twisted way, perhaps it is that I don't think I'm worth the effort. I'm not useful or essential to anyone, I do not serve a purpose, I do not create anything nor provide any service, so why am I here? What is the freaking point?

End rant. I'm fine.