Far Behind

I don’t know what I’m writing for. What is the purpose? For what… what am I hoping for? What am I hoping to accomplish? A little part of my mind, or rather a large part, is hoping for some sort of success. Some sort of win. Some rather large sum of money to fall into my lap. That’s truly all I want. Is it? But then, what would I do with my life?

If I were to have won such wealth, what would I do with my life? Would I still care to write? Would I still care to exist?

Have I wronged myself?

I take a pause and look: it’s as if all my care, all I’ve ever stressed and imagined, has had to do with becoming wealthy and free. To gain enough so that I could finally have enough, and no longer worry about not having enough, or a potential future where I do not have enough.

What is the point of it all? Am I even really living? Is it all one giant survival loop that I am stuck and beholden to? What is it that I’m doing?

What would I be doing if I had this magical amount of wealth that I seek? Would I still be writing? I fear the answer is naught. What purpose am I writing for? It should be as a hobby, to create some form of art; but a large hope exists within me that such art should bring me wealth beyond desire.

Which, in itself, would ruin such art; for art should be for the sake of art, not money. I would love to have money, but true art is not made from the desire for money. Only cheapness is. Art is from a form of soul and heart. From the expression of the deepest parts of the self. A form of discovery, an adventure within yourself.

Which I hope can be rewarded with wealth.

But c’mon. I am selling myself, and as a result, I am weakening my art. If you would even call this art. It is partial, since I hope so much from it. Why, why can I not simply relax and not focus so much on wealth?

All I concern myself with is how and what I could do to make some, but all I do is lose what time I have. Maybe I should just exist and let it come as it comes. Would I even pursue half the things I do if it were not for the potential of wealth?

What would I do if I had all the wealth? I would still pursue a greater me. Which is true; maybe writing would be part of that me. I think it would. This is a partial art.

I wish for more, and I want to become more. Regardless of the status of my wealth, I will aim toward that direction. I need to do more, I need to be more, I need to stand more. To get up and move. To move faster and faster and to never stop. Let death be my end, not my bed.

Though I do hope that I can get some wealth. For it will be a comforting freedom. But will I write if I find my wealth? Maybe this very pursuit of wealth is what drives me. It does a little. But it feels dirty.

Because it is.

I have far to go.

The only thing that should matter is that I am making a living and living amongst people. For the better. For my better. For all our better. In whichever way that means.

Maybe I am a writer. Maybe I will enjoy it forever and ever.

I must keep doing whatever it is that I’m doing. So far, it is not enough. I need more, for I am nowhere near successful.

I am far, far, quite far behind…