Writing, or a lack there of

I am not writing because I want to, not because I have to, nor because I am expected to; I am writing because I feel a innate opportunity slipping by. I watched "Into the Wild" and couldn't help but feel an intense sense of jealousy as well as a hand slapping me squarely in the face.

I went on a journey not too long ago, yet such a time has passed with little reflection upon the actually trip that its memory seems a lifetime ago. I returned from my trek renewed, so many of the questions I had been asking had been answered, but then a realization struck. In finding the answers to many of the thoughts pinging around in my brain I found that I now had so many more questions taking the place of those answered. And so I wonder, is that what life is about? Is life a journey of perpetual questions, a trek of unanswerable depth, or is this just a reality for those few unfortunate souls who truly wander?

When I say wander I am not just talking about the wandering of perpetual movement, no, sometimes one can wander more when the vehicle is only one's brain.

I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. This was never a concern until my dad passed away two and a half years ago. For some reason my life's calling up until then never touched on any real concern other than just to be, just live life. And so I have lived, my chosen life has been one of extreme ease. I have made a career of college, six years of classes, parties, and friends gave way to more classes in a campus a little farther south. For the past 16 years all I have known is a true or a pseudo college existence, and that was always okay.

The change in this I guess came with the realized mortality I guess, though I cannot help but think it runs a little deeper, delves more into the soul than that, has more to do with never really taking the time to connect with my father and having to watch him pass knowing I did nothing about it.

Soon after the anger, the anguish, the mourning passed I began to realize that living my life with no direction just felt wrong, it felt like I was wasting everything: any talent I may have, other people's money, my time, my life. But in that realization came another of greater depth: I knew not, nor trusted, my talents.

Throughout my life I have always marveled at how easy the world was, how simple living life was. I had always asked and received; my life was seldom rife with struggle. Recently I have noticed that life doesn't seem as easy and I wonder, is it me asking for more than I deserve, am I being told I need to work before I can be handed what I want, or and I simply not seeing the answers, too clouded in my own malaise, my own self-inflicted state of wander?

And so I choose to write. Not something I am good at, having to create, putting my thoughts down on to paper, because they seem so much clearer stuck in my head. My goal is my book. I am struggling with what to write, and how to start. I guess doing this after three months off is a start.