Often as a way of searching for inspiration we turn to purpose. We think to ourselves, "I don't know what to write about," or to be passionate about, or to live for, or to want in life before we die. Along the way we may want for new things, bigger things, more or less of things, but we know those are distractions. We know those are distractions from our path and yet we forget what is our path. Perhaps this is because we have wandered so far from it, towards our distractions, we just can't see it anymore, but I think purpose plays a roll in our wandering. Purpose: The ever-hardening path we create through the forest of distractions; leading us, we begin to hope, any way out of it.
Rather than waiting for and accepting inspiration we force ourselves to find purpose, because we are scared. We are utterly afraid of what truly inspires us, which is why we cannot ask. When we are afraid we offer answers, responses we have forged, we can back up, we can stand behind; but to face questions, the unknown, with no shield, takes courage. And who are we most afraid of but ourselves?
What if my inspiration doesn't make me rich, doesn't find me love, doesn't make my father proud of me, isn't plausible? What if I fail, does the world end? Even if it doesn't, what then is worse than living the rest of my life in misery knowing that I can't achieve my dreams? But is today's misery any more comforting, telling myself, instead of never, that my dreams reside in later on? Wandering from purpose to purpose, stopping only to rest, we ignore the significance of dream, our inspirations shown to us because we were too afraid to ask.
What mercy it is to dream, what cruelty is it to bury dream in purpose?
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