Useless Self Indulgence.

Clearly, structure and adhering to deadlines is not my strong point. I guess it doesn't help that I set them for myself. No punishment if I don't comply.

Useless.
That's what Id describe myself as.

If you are expecting purpose from this post I'm going to stop you right there. Do not. If you still do, I appeal to you to quit reading this now and move on to the next post. This is me being self indulgent.

I wanted to write something, anything. Just because I could. Just because they've always told me I could. Yet, as I sit here, yearning to share, to explore, to relate... I cant. There a block, a wall if you will. I do not know how to get around it. I do not know how to find that inspiration that used to strike so easily. I never had to go looking for it. It was always there, triggered by a word in conversation, lyrics to a song, a friends smile.
I now find myself struggling.

The only reason, I believe, this is happening is because life itself no longer has a purpose for me. In school, when my ability to write was at its zenith, there was purpose, something to look forward. I was happy, I was growing up.

What changed? I'm still growing! I'm still happy sometimes, even if it is rarer than it used to be.
I am aware of a void, a lack of purpose.
Why should that exist?
I found a goal, a purpose.
I have a plan. An academic plan, a career plan.

Yet, this void exists. A dissatisfaction.
The logical conclusion would be that I have reached that point where I begin to ask questions like "Who am I?" and "Why am I here?", all following some existential strain. I haven't begun to question, nor do I desire to.
I know many who would direct me to spiritual texts and different faiths.
Yet, in the moment I may be intrigued, but 20 minutes later, I don't want to know.
I know who I am. I don't know why I am here but I don't think it really matters, not right now. I don't care if my life is ruled by destiny or a series of coincidences that were my choice, free will. To conclude, I don't believe this is an existential crisis.

Yet, it shows all symptoms of one.

Look, a post, a piece of writing! I guess I did manage to succeed halfway. I say halfway because I am in no way satisfied with it. All I have done is attempted to explain a void, one I don't understand, one I want to fill and lament the lack of inspiration.

Like I said initially, Useless.