motivations turned to smoke

Part of what’s kept me in my hermit hole for so long is that my motivations have changed. I’m no longer moved as I once was, primarily by scarcity, urgency, approval, rebellion, or the idea of responsibility. My vices of men, attention, and alcohol are no longer relevant engines either.

My existential crisis left no stone unturned, and my motivations were not spared in this process. Along with my beliefs, values, sense of self, and orientation in the world, they, too, were rendered a smoldering pile of ash and rubble.

My motivations now turned to smoke, and I couldn’t move. Hence, the extended hermit hole.

At times, over the years of attempted reconfiguration (I think mostly out of desperation to get on with my life), I’ve dabbled with old ways out of familiarity. But they don’t work. Not even a little. The farthest I can get with them is ideation, but move me, they do not.

I’m only now learning new, more aligned ways of operating. The first realization is that I’m not one of those people who can move themselves with sheer willpower. I guess I value ease too much. Either that or I’m just lazy.

I have to be moved by something deeply intrinsic and generative. I simply don’t give a shit about the surface things that once drove me (although there’s a certain part of my mind that would argue otherwise). I no longer find destruction/rebellion compelling beyond fleeting romanticized machinations, and logic only works to fabricate intricate, sensical-looking plots that I can never take action on.

The only thing that seems to currently work for me is wandering deep into the wilderness until I happen upon a stream that tickles a fancy deep within. Only then can I glide on into the cool waters and be carried along by the current of creation.

Writing is one of the babbling brooks I’ve recently stumbled upon.

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