There’s an unshakeable pain within, fueled by a burning desire for a vision I cannot clearly see — I feel a twisting of truths within and the storm is nowhere near over.
I don’t know when it will be over. If ever.
I have journaled, meditated, and soul-searched my way into peace, but still, peace is not yet seen, not yet felt, and not yet entirely mine.
The light exists, but it merely exists. The calm comes and goes, never staying for long, never finding a home within my soul — for it is too restless, too full of strife, too full of division and disintegrative powers that promise to build me up.
Yet I am anything but built up.
I shouldn’t have anything to worry about, should I? I shouldn’t have this maddening dissatisfaction that eats away at me the more I watch dreamers from the sidelines and neglect the dreamer within — the one I should be evolving into. I shouldn’t have to grapple with the intense fear of the loss of my identity, the one I still have yet to solidify, but the loose definition of myself, comprised of meaningless words and insignificant and broken parts, is all I have to hold onto.
But is this shallow understanding of myself even worth holding onto?
I haven’t scratched the surface of who I am — for someone who is seen as more introspective than most, there is so much I don’t know about myself, so much I cannot bear to see, and so much I want to see but fear never seeing.
Inner power evades me. Continual strength is out of my reach. True wisdom is disgusted by my folly and does not have the patience to drive it out.
Can I ever be gentle with myself? Can I ever be still, for once, and see myself as I am without fighting against her? Without spiraling down into a dark pit, one that is always the same yet growing all the more sinister, the more helplessly jaded I get?
The uncertainty from this utter lack of concrete answers is unsettling.
From a rational standpoint and from the perspective of those who don’t judge me as harshly as I do, I am more than okay.
I am not falling behind. I am where I’m meant to be — not at the peak of the highest mountain, but in a beautiful place where I am blossoming at my own pace, honoring nature’s timing. I am not a tortured, grotesque soul. I am not broken beyond repair. I am not irredeemable.
But even when there is nothing inherently wrong, nothing I have to obsess over to the point of maddening rage, this rage still consumes me and makes itself known only to me — a quiet, almost undetectable one, but it consumes me nonetheless and leaves me hungering for an existence beyond anything my limited and naïve mind can envision.
What can I bring to a concrete reality? What more do I expect from myself? Why am I always dreaming restlessly, fueled by agony, internal division, and a burning desire to aim higher than where I think I should aim, based on what limiting beliefs dictate?
The unwillingness to settle for less is a vice, stemming from a lust for power, not ultimate power because it’s unattainable, but for a power that raises me up just enough — to the point where I will never have to be brought down low again. Where I can be indisputably good enough and doubt can be cast aside as much as possible. Where I can love myself enough to the point where the madness won’t rule over me the way it does now.
But the thing is, I don’t know where the point of good enough can be found. I don’t see it. It’s either too high or nonexistent. Or perhaps both?
I could be sad, but there are deeper emotions — raw and real ones that cannot be reduced to a simple diagnosis of a condition. I am all over the place and nowhere at once. Or maybe I am just tired.
As for this brokenness, I cannot pretend does not exist. I cannot zen my way into self-acceptance. I have to soldier through it and do the only thing that will weaken it — to prove that I can be enough, to raise my expectations higher, to settle for nothing less than the highest potential that is realistic enough to attain but also more than what most can do in a lifetime.
But will I prove anything worthwhile?
Only time can reveal who I am, yet I am unwilling to allow it to tell me who I am supposed to be, if it means I have to escape from my brokenness and pretend to be okay when I am not. To pretend to love my weaknesses when I despise them. To pretend that I will be fine if I never tap into my potential or demand more from myself when I really know I ought to do so much better — to express myself more eloquently, to create what’s missing from the world, to excavate my darkness but transform it into an unrecognizable glorious light.
The darkness within is maddening, uncomfortable, and full of anguish that eats away at me — more so from inaction, paralysis, and self-doubt — but to pretend that it isn’t there is worse than expressing it as it is.
And perhaps, I will find what I am looking for on the other side.