And I find myself at the keyboard at 5am again.

Writing somehow calls out to me whenever I have too much on my mind, and yes, more often than not during the pre-dawn hours when I find myself sleepless.

This brain congestion was brought about by said brain, suddenly realising that it was going to turn 29 (and soon, 30) really soon. This simple realisation unwittingly brought about a wave of indescribable, complex emotions.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I really want to do. What fuels me? What are my passions? How can I live my life so that I will not regret a thing when unknown forces beyond my control decide to take it away without notice?

I can’t say that I’m unhappy now; but I definitely do not feel like what I am doing serves any purpose, personal or otherwise, other than providing me with a generous helping of character building opportunities. Yes, there is satisfaction in knowing that what I’m doing and what I’ve done, were achieved completely with my own two hands — plus immense mental strength. But then, what? Am I solving any real problem? Am I not just feeding the whole superficial, materialistic culture society has nutured? Is this really what I want to do?

Perhaps it will be easier for me to see it as a means to keep myself alive. We do live in a world that is run by currency afterall. Maybe it is a good thing that I am not doing what I’m truly passionate about as a profession or job? Money can corrupt even the things (or people) you love most.

I’ll just have to keep pushing forward, while keeping in mind that this is just a means to an end. And the end being the ability to pursue my passions freely — finally take that solo trip around the world I’ve been craving since I was a teen; finally sitting down and banging out an app or site that’s been on my list; going to take that dance/singing/instrument/skating/muay thai/yoga/ driving/biking/painting class I’ve been putting off forever; pursuing newfound areas of interests like photography and videography; rekindling old ones like writing and reading.

Because life is short, and as my paranoid tendacies constantly remind me, infinitely fragile. It is so much more than our unhealthy obsession with money making. When I’m on my deathbed, I want to be able to proudly declare that I’ve seriously kicked life’s butt, and lived a life so full of rich memories and experiences it’ll make most people envious.

In fact, I want to be able to declare that every single day while I’m still alive. I’ll have to constantly remind myself not to define myself solely by the amount of money I make, and place more emphasis on living as awesome a life as I can manage. Constantly dislodge myself from my comfort zone, and keep attempting new things/skills, even though I would quite possibly fail at them.

As I always tell myself using the inner voice in my head: Push.