It doesn't make sense to me that it would only be a matter of choice - what to do with my life. It always made sense there'd be some mystical aspect to it. I'd receive some kind of figurative vision, an epiphany, some burning fucking bush to guide me. But, no. Never. Not a goddamned thing. I've just drifted. A mote of dust, inconsequential. A fiery ember, setting fires wherever I land.
Other people devote themselves to tasks. They pursue things. They have goals. Is it just clear to them, or have they made sacrifices I find too disgusting to even consider? My interests are so varied, I can't bring myself to settle on a single one. My philosophy, so ascetic, I can't help but be cynical of even my own desires.
I don't belong in this world. It's too specialized. I belong in a world where generalists are helpful. I belong in another time, where I experiment with timber and stone, with water and clay, with glass and light, with plants and animals, with pen and paper. I belong in another time where my atavistic impulses would earn me a courtyard full of playing children instead of looks of derision in the public square.
But I'm not one to simply give up. Where is the societal keystone? Where is the one institutional block I can knock loose and have the whole thing come tumbling down? How can I help to return the world to a place where we're safe to be animals - as well as explorers and teachers and dreamers that we associate with our higher functions?
Or am I obsolete? Should I be content just to drift, taking pleasure in my mere existence and that no one has yet determined it necessary to eliminate me that I might corrupt their precious civilization and all the accommodations for their insecurities that it promises?
Where do I belong? Where can I do the most good? Where can I help the most people? Where can I fuck the most women? Where can I grow the most fruit? Where can I have the most time to invent? Where can I have space to wander and be left alone?