Being Young · On Writing

What Do You Call a Life Devoid of Inspiration and Passion?


Must inspiration come to you daily?

Sometimes, most times, I’m so dry. There is nothing to talk about, nothing to note down. Life goes on. Just one other day of your life. Nothing out of the ordinary. The same, the same. And yet, isn’t it this very sameness of so many ordinary dailies that accumulate to make up the whole of one’s life?

Would you consider each day a page in the book of life? Or perhaps, rather a two-line section in a more compact, cohesive version of the book of life.

It is possible to experience whole lives in the course of a day.

Mrs. Dalloway comes to my mind. I haven’t reread this book and a lot of the details slip out my mind. The book takes you through one day in the life of Mrs. Dalloway. Maybe I should pick this up again soon.

My eyes are distracted, my mind diverts. I am tired of reiterating again and again how tired I am. Is there no solution? Must I, like my parents and the countless others of their generation, relent at the face of survival, money, practicality?

No. All my life I have lived in-between, neither here nor there, wanting the best of the worlds at whose peripheries I lie. I won’t give in, I will never give in.



There is a poignancy in parents’ sacrifice and a sweetness in the utter lack of bitterness that they harbour.

Earlier today, it slipped out of my mouth that it would be better to live for oneself and for one’s dreams rather than for anyone else. Of course I don’t believe that. And I weep for having let that slip out my mouth. Of course I know it isn’t right to live for oneself alone. And yet, I look at my parents, look at them foregoing their passions because of the many responsibilities piled upon them. It isn’t right, they shouldn’t have let their passions melt away like that. But there is a poignancy in their sacrifice and a sweetness in the utter lack of bitterness that they harbour. Their responsibilities had, at some point in their lives, perhaps taken the place that was rightfully that of their passions’. Some time in their lives, their responsibilities had, perhaps, taken on the role of their passions.

I won’t shrug off responsibilities when I must take them on. But I hope I have devised of some way in which to retain, maintain my passions when the time comes, if it has to come.

I do not want to live a life that is concerned only with me. What a terrible life would that be, so terribly hollow. Filled up only with food and Netflix and YouTube. Divested of warmth and companionship and family. Ah, terrible, terrible life.



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