I have a tendency to get stuck up on the old, antiquated ways of doing things. My actions have become anachronisms to my present self.
It is as though I cannot push away from what it was that I was.
And so I carry on in the way that I have always done things. The way in which I have always thought. Stuck in a forever loop of cause and effect. My being me being the cause and my enacting that being being the effect. That being being me and my way of being who it is that I have chosen to be. Presently. And yet ever part of the past. Memories that haunt and inhabit me. From the moment I wake to the next. Where it is that I exist is never mine truly, but a part of a continuing timeline that has been passed on. From one moment to the next. Like a soul ever in search of a body that feels like home.
Why is it that I cannot break free from this never ending cycle of self?
Part of me understands that with every new beginning comes a kind of death. Be it one that is marked with pain or beset with struggle. Another part though, seeks to come to terms with the inevitability of that pain and struggle. Working hard to make me believe that making a change is not worth it. That who I am and where I am is enough. Always. Ironically, it is that part that keeps me up at night. That makes me question the value of my existence the most. For it is in this contentedness that I oftentimes feel the most discontent. It is in the achievement of everything that I seem to have been in search for that I discover that hole which will never quite ever be filled. In my heart of hearts I understand its purpose. To keep me awake. Alive. In search. Questing.
For what it is that is beyond my reach and understanding – ever pushing me to work towards new beginnings over, and over again.