Most of my life I’d had a deep desire to make a difference in the world. When I was young it was a hot and burning desire that filled me with both motivation and frustration. It hurt to see all the pain and suffering, I felt as if there was something wrong with the world, and I wanted to do anything I could to fix it.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve change so much, I no longer feel like that same person anymore. I’ve achieved a level of peace where things don’t feel so urgent anymore. I hope we make it. If we don’t, it was a good run. I still want to do everything I can, but I no longer feel any desperation, and it isn’t necessarily because Of any confidence that I will be able to make that difference in the world, although I do feel I’ve made a few tiny little dents.
A lot of what I’ve spent the last few years doing is unraveling my ego, finding who I am beyond all the stories I’ve become accustomed to telling myself, forfeiting all ideas that my own happiness is reliant upon any outside circumstance. I do have to admit, I miss the fire.
I don’t truly believe that the passion is gone, and in fact where I can muster it up, it is far more sincere and reaches much further than it used to. But realizing that everything is always perfect despite how we may perceive it doesn’t exactly leave one with any urgency about anything. I could just stay in bed, so it takes that extra bit of desire to not be in bed to get me out of bed. Fear of failure doesn’t motivate like it used to. It’s all good, so damn good, but I sure wish I knew how to keep the fire going as hot as it used to be, this time running 100% on love.