the rant of the quarter-life crisis

I don’t like being told that I’m bad at what I do. I have this histrionic tendency to think that I’m the best, I’m ahead of the curve, and usually, I don’t really care enough about other people’s opinions to be hurt.

But really, my confidence is taking a beating nowadays. Part of me wants to quit, because actually, that is the reason why I’m probably not functioning on my best. But part of me wants to ride it out and show them that I am good, that I am frigging good at whatever I do.

I need to get lost again, and all of these things around me are keeping me from doing so. I obviously do not take criticism well, but really, it’s more than that. It’s more than being bored. It’s more than being passionless. It’s about finding something worthwhile, finding something real, something that matters.

Thing is, it’s very difficult defining what matters.

It is so existential, this mood I’m in. I’m not even being fair. But I’ve ridden this feeling out and told myself, I can do this. But despite the motivation, despite everything, the results haven’t changed. I still feel like this is not where I’m supposed to be. Maybe it’s time to quit.

You know what I wanna do? I want to travel. Be away from this place for a while because it is starting to smother me.

I want to not be comfortable and mediocre. I want to be edgy and dangerous and risky. And challenge my senses with things that I will not have control over. I want to live.

This endless web-surfing and compulsive-buying and weekend-gimmicks is not living. It’s dying. Stagnating.

I want to have the greatness promised to me. That greatness that is undeserved but for me. That greatness that is saving, that is true, that is so elusive.

It sounds illogical and unreasonable and too gorram idealistic. And selfish. But that is exactly it. That I have become too confined that all I can think about is me. There is nobody else in this box so I only share with myself. And myself is not content.

~ by denice on 26 February, 2008.