At the moment, I'm trying to figure out what it is exactly that I live for. Something tells me that pleasures of the flesh aren't sufficient enough reasons to keep on keeping on---I could never pull off the Epicureanist with any sense of dignity, if I was to be completely honest. I use to think it was so easy: live righteously, live for yourself. But when you don't have a sense of purpose, everything just falls through. You lose joy.
And friend, I'm scared. I'm scared that because my future plans are so questionable they're practically non-existent, that I won't be able to take care of my family. I won't be able to help the starved, deprived, abused, enslaved. I'm scared that my failure to amount to anything will cause pain and suffering to those whom I wish only to give love. I'm scared that I might matter too much to a few people, and that their dependence on me will only lead to broken hearts and empty stomachs.
Love is not enough.
I'm torn between embracing this as truth or discarding it as heresy of the most brutal kind. But what I'm finding to be truth is shattering the very image of Athia that I had worked so hard to believe in---the mirage of martyrdom, of piety, of idiocy. The truth is, I'm not worth much of anything. I'm just another girl whose words are bigger than her actions. Just another kid playing dress up in big girl's shoes.
I'm going to fall into the cracks of mediocrity, and it's not anyone's fault, really. It's statistics. Emperical proof that there's nothing distinguishing about me.
And yet, I want to fight this feeling that threatens to overtake me, that threatens to paralyze my limbs. I want to say I am worth something emperical proof can't compete with. That my body pumps enough blood to fill an ocean. That my voice is so clear, God stands to listen. That my dreams create the very reality we live in.
I just have to believe it.