"Know thyself," people say. The idea that we don't -- or sometimes even, can't -- really know ourselves fully sits at the back of our consciousness, a broken lighthouse trying to pierce through the gloom. We ignore it for the most part, preferring to navigate our waters by ourselves, believing the wind will sway us where it wills us to be, or maybe our hand will take up the oar and we row. There are times, however, when the light sways our direction, hitting us square on our faces -- and it will not be ignored.
Three weeks into this job, and three things I have always known about myself have been reinforced quite strongly. These I say with complete objectivity, nor do I pity myself for recognizing and owning them: (1) even if I try, even if I persevere, and no matter how much faith I shine onto it, my written voice will always be as it is now, and I can never call myself a writer; (2) this must be true for most of us, but I am deathly afraid of the world, of life itself; and (3) I will always feel guilty about being alive, I am now, and I have always been.
Three things, and it seems they answer any question that may be asked about me. Why can I not keep a job for long enough? Why can I not commit? Why do I not have anything to turn to, to feel good about myself? Why, when it counts the most, do I retreat in the dark, preferring the company of my own gloom rather than being with friends? Pick one -- (1), (2), or (3).
The lighthouse is still, and the beam of light does not sway from my face. I nod a greeting to no one in particular and I sit back on the boat, feeling nothing but the gentle cradling of the waves. There is no wind, and I have thrown the oars to the waters. I know where land is, but I much prefer being here.
