I haven't updated in a really long time, and perhaps I am now due to an existential crisis about what it means to truly exist and be conscious and simply "be" because I watched a marathon of Westworld. It made me think about life in a slightly different way, and I suppose I was already starting to do this, but it reinforced this idea of never winning. As it stands, there's a strange peace in knowing there is no such thing as winning. This life that we're given may in fact be the only one we are ever privy to and may be the only one we get (beliefs aside for a moment).
But in knowing there is no winning, then what is the point? As Ed Harris's character explores in Westworld, why do we keep going through the daily monotony if there is no actual way to get ahead. There's small battles that lead up to small wars and then what? More battles? More wars?
If life is a cycle, what makes it worth continuing?
I turn inward to my creative self, the self that wants to keep producing, keep making despite all the hardships and consequences of trying to achieve a creative life in today's time. Though, I wonder, where did this wondrous desire to write come from? Sure, I've been inspired numerous times in my life, by my peers, my teachers, random strangers, my family. But where did it all start? And more importantly, why did it start?
The first story I ever wrote was about a haircut. A girl who hesitantly entrusts her best friend to give her a haircut, even though he has no professional experience. Now, my best friend when I was nine was not about to give me a haircut. My sister, up until that point, had been my only hairstylist. Why that story? Why that idea? Why any of it?
When I take a step back, I come to realize that I write because of the why. There isn't any grandiose reason I chose to become a writer. There wasn't a single light bulb that turned on one day and made me realize "this is my way of being." I write because I need to explore. I write because I ask these questions, questions many of us never find the answers to. While that might seem sad or depressing, I'm actually okay with it. Maybe these questions weren't meant to be answered. Maybe they were meant to be explored again and again.
That's the interesting thing about existing and searching for answers you may never find. Once you become okay with the search, accepting that the search may indeed be endless and you may never find the treasure trove perfect answer (42), then life becomes much more enjoyable, because you can become more focused on living in the moment.
With all that being said, what prompted this mass exploration of myself and writing and what makes life worth it? Well, I spent the last week in a tremendous amount of pain, so much so that I had to swallow my pride and ask for help. I hate feeling reliant on other people, even my wonderful partner in crime, because I have this idea of me being strong and independent. Fact is, my body gave up. Something happened, or maybe many things happened, and my back could no longer support my weight, a result of massive sciatica. I could barely stand up or sit without assistance. I went to the emergency room and still don't have answers as to what exactly happened to me.
The pain made me question why I do the things I do, why I pursue the things that make my life so financially hard (and therefore, make acquiring healthcare hard). Ultimately, the answer remains that I do what I do because I'm in search of answers. And it's the search that makes life intense, unique, fun, and difficult. But if I could do it all over again, I wouldn't choose another life path. I will always choose to explore, however difficult that may be.
Here's hoping all of you have a wonderful, happy, and healthy holiday season. I am going to be more active on the blog going forward, because this is something I've been missing.