Purpose...

I was just watching the bucket list and there’s this scene in which Edward’s watching a baseball match in the hospital and he asks Carter what he’s doing…
Carter says “scribbling.” “Scribbling what?” “oh nothing just scribbling” he says, and that line actually got me thinking; there are thousands of times in a week when I would want to write something down, something I would feel like telling people, but I never do that, why? I dunno. Its not like I don’t have the time, god forsake! But I know I have more time than anyone in the whole world… but then do I ever put it to proper use? The truthful answer, no.
Then I start thinking, what is writing to me? Why is it that whenever I think of something there’s an urgent need or rather a want to write things down? I think it fills up the void in me, I feel like my existence is rather, let me use the term, primary.
I have basic needs and I feel like all I do in my life is to fulfill them and do nothing in order to get what I want. The truth is when I write I feel complete, I feel like there is something worthwhile that I actually do, but then why don’t I when I know that I should be doing it? That again is something I could never understand about myself.
The need to express your thoughts should never die, not in a human at least, what then would differentiate us from an inanimate object?
Paulo Coelho in his book The Witch of Portobello says a human to tap his true potential and inner self needs to be able to concentrate on a task completely and should also be able to fill the blank void in between, the void in which one could think of unnecessary things. My life feels like that void, but when I do write, its objective all of a sudden, it’s as though I am filling my purposeless existence with a reason to go on.
To write is to look into myself, to search deeper, because being able to give words to your thoughts, is to give meaning to one’s soul, one’s living. I see people everyday who would say to me, “why do you waste your time thinking of such useless things?”
Surprisingly all I can do is laugh at them, I think to myself, “if only people realized what they could achieve by diving deep into themselves.”
So today all I do is try to put my thoughts out, its an outburst, a revolt against all I did till today, its to say I need words to fill my life, give them to me, and give me the power to fill the void when I want to.
To whom I say this, I do not know, all I wish is that I can satisfy it.
There are times of sudden insight that every person gets once in a while, and I should think that is when actually a person is truthful to themselves, these moments should give u happiness as to who you are what you do, but why do I feel hollow?
There’s this strange sort of emptiness within me. I have everything I need, but then there’s this restlessness inside me which is slowly eating me away, how do I pull myself out of this mess? Out of this whole lack of understanding of myself?
I should think the answer to that is the the most difficult task ever, which is to write. When one writes he needs to bring in meaning to every word he puts on paper, every word needs to shower enough meaning on to his thoughts so that what he wants to say has value.
Meaning is what I truly need, and this is the lock that I have been dying to destroy, and strangely, there’s this lightness I feel and I think I just lost a stone which was drowning me.
Search is a way of life.