Maybe inner peace

I’m on day 13 out of a hundred and I’m still struggling with my writing grit. Every day I show up for writing, but I’m really just pushing it for the next number in line. At this point all I think about is mental boredom. I work. I mingle. I go out. I research stuff. I read a lot. I think a lot. I even understand a lot. Sometimes I feel like I understand the world. Hence, nihilism.

I see people on hamster wheels. Cars in lines. Places lost in time. Social movement, but just to move the water. Lake is still dirty. No peace.

I used to be an optimist. Now one of my closest friends for the past few years says she doesn’t know me as an optimist, but as a pessimist. Skeptical. Philosophical. Like someone who understands a lot, and yet because of his understanding knows the futility of everything. Maybe life really is without meaning. Maybe we’re just fooling ourselves and there isn’t something deeper. And this self-fooling becomes our escape. As is most spirituality.

Or, maybe I’m just in my early mid-life crisis. Like I was in my early adulthood that I had to accept. I accept life now as it is. Till I get new understanding and maybe find the Truth. Like Buddha. Or maybe I just have to sit under the tree for a while. And fight without fighting. To let go. And find inner peace.

This post is part 13. of my 100 Days of Writing Challenge.