My life has been marked by lack of ambition. There is simply nothing I want thoroughly and continuously enough to diligently work for it day after week after month after year. I want things that make me happy, but that isn’t the same as needing them.
The distinction between want and need was one instilled in me by my parents early on, when I would rarely get things that my whims decided they wanted. I learned that really, I don’t need much at all. Most things are wants, and I can do without them. I’ll live without them. Don’t fret if you don’t get it.
What if I have applied this rule too liberally to my life? What if, in my (successful) attempt to insulate me from the pain of dejected desires I caused myself to never really deeply desire anything?
I know that is a false statement, though. There have been things I have wanted and believed in with all my heart, but as scars are wont to do, the failures are the ones that make themselves constantly evident to me. I believed in them, devoted myself to them, was willing to do anything for them. I turned myself into things uncharacteristic and unimaginable for them. And yet those causes were wrong. Totally, utterly wrong.
When I now look at them, I recoil. They make me unsure of whether I can ever again really trust my judgment. I recall the certainty with which I elevated my position, and the ruinous falls that would follow. How could I ever be sure of anything again? How could I ever pledge myself to something again?
It’s not that I don’t, but I feel like it has become too easy for me to abandon them if I need to. That when they’re declared void, I simply don’t care. It doesn’t affect me.
I don’t know why I’m fine. In a way, the fact that I am fine makes me think I am otherwise. The absence of feeling loss is what troubles me. All I feel is that, well, you didn’t really need them. You may have wanted them, but the fact is that you already have all you need. You had no idea of knowing whether they would have been any good for you in the first place, and there’s no use pining for losing what was ultimately a gamble. You ought to just keep on rolling the dice.
Do I not invest myself in people and causes anymore? Have I reduced them to dice, ready to be followed or forsaken according to whatever result happens to show up? Because I think it should hurt more than this.