What if I’m giving up too soon?

When does the struggle to know the purpose of life end? Or can it at least sit quietly at the back of my head?

This has been a week of sadness. Yesterday I had a panic attack. Funny, I almost forgot how it feels. I always almost forget how things feel until they come back to me. How crushing sadness and forgetful happiness can be. How waking up and moving your limbs can be a feat. How the ray of sunshine warms my skin, how the rain and cold get into my bones.

The same questions resurface with a new force – is this worth it? Is there anything that will make my life feel like a worthwhile pursuit? These thoughts got out from the wrinkles of my brain, even though I carefully hid them in this jungle. I try to catalogue them, put them on the shelves that would fit into arbitrary categories of what my life should be and what I want it to be. Soon the shelves crack and my thoughts go back to their unavoidable state of entropy, like pieces of a puzzle from completely different boxes.

How much do you weight, thoughts? How come other thoughts, weighting the same number of letters and words, do not weight on me as much as you do? Is it possible that you occupy more space and have more mass then some of your siblings and distant cousins? Maybe that’s why you don’t want to leave me – you feel at home in the cracks of my skull and refuse to move out. Go find somebody else who would want you. Your time has passed, thoughts. I should have broken up with you the day I met you. You bring doubts to everything I do, question every decision, judge me when I need your support.

Am I giving up too soon? When should I give up on my life and try to get the little things that would make me happy in my dull life instead of endlessly chasing the big ones?

Maybe I should have a family and hope that my biological material will do better in the next generation. Perhaps it’s time to put the weight of my hopes and dreams on somebody else’s shoulders; holding them hostage to my half-forgotten passions and unrealised potential. Maybe they’ll make it, but what if those pieces of me, carelessly scattered in my family-to-be, rearrange themselves to form the same doubts and fears?

Maybe I should stay lonely, wait out these years until I can safely exit the game nobody can win. Maybe I shouldn’t wait and end it, saving myself disappointments along the way. What if I don’t wait this out long enough? Maybe the wrinkles carved into my body need to match the wrinkles in my brain in order for me to understand – what’s it all about?

I told you many times, thoughts, that I will see a specialist, a lawyer for unwanted thoughts, and I’ll divorce you. I’ll turn my passions into after-hours shameful hobbies reminding me of what could have been. My obsessions will turn into passing thoughts I’ll be able to shake off like a shiver in a summer rain. I’ll settle down choosing a life of a quiet impersonation of myself.

But maybe not just yet.

*written back in May.