I haven’t written anything for pleasure in a few weeks as I’ve been busy building the foundation for my business.
I have spent a chunk of my life being aimless, not moving in a particular direction, but rather, the opposite.
I am capable of manifesting many things, and I have proven this to be a skill set of mine through the years. The downside to this great power, however, is that if I do not want something, I cannot make myself get it.
For example, I do not want to work for anyone else. It disgusts me to think of the fact that I should have to spend hours crafting a piece of paper called a “resume” to look suitable enough to pass a scan from a computer system, so some 24-year-old entry-level HR employee who does not do what I do can decide whether or not I interview with someone.
The process seems illogical. Corporate America is illogical, and I, for whatever reason, was born with the inability to handle illogical.
Another thing that’s illogical, in my opinion, is giving even one-sixteenth of a fuck of what anyone thinks about you.
Five-year-old Andee didn’t care. 35-year-old Andee doesn’t care.
I always believed this, but it was truly solidified this summer when I read “Meditations” by Marcus Aurelius.
As I think about this piece of literature being written in the year who fucking knows, sometime between 121–180, and the relevance it holds to this day, I realize now more than ever that nothing I do in my life will withstand the test of time.
I am an artist, but no art that I create will immortalize me.
I can perhaps achieve some fame or success, but still, the large, heaping, breathing, fucking, shitting majority will never know or care who I am.
Maybe it’s the 12 years I spent in the sardine can of humanity that is New York City, as here, no matter who has reached the highest, most grandiose achievements — the large majority of people do not know that person and do not care about them.
For that, I know, now more than ever, that to really give a fuck about what other people think of you is meaningless.
I used to give a fuck about other people in the way that I wanted no attention whatsoever. I didn’t want praise or pity; in fact, I didn’t even want acknowledgment. I wanted more than anything to go live on top of a mountain, and “wait it out.”
It just seems wasteful to do that now, though, because in the years I spent wanting to do it but not having the capital, I acquired a specific set of skills that other people want.
I know how to change when odds are against you, and when everyone tells you “no.” What’s better is- I know how to teach that process to other people.
I was not given a map, and somehow, by just trusting my own intuition, I have arrived exactly where I want to be at this age of my life.
It is uncomfortable at times, being here, as no friend or family member I have does what I wish to do, or so much as knows anything about it. In fact, I’ll venture as far as to say none of them care. They have their own lives.
I often feel like a combine harvester. Until four years ago I didn’t even know what that was, but if you do, you can picture the way I feel as I’m shoving my way through life.
I know one thing for certain, though. People can be living better lives than they currently are, but they need someone to show them how. If I can help people be more content with their existence, and if I can do it repeatedly, successfully, my life will have meaning… to me.
I will eventually go live on top of that mountain and “wait it out,” but not yet. Not today. I have things to accomplish first.
This piece of writing was overdue and much needed. A catharsis of sorts. It wasn’t a “how-to guide” or some deep personal essay about my crappy childhood. Rather, just a blurb that doesn’t seem to fit with any of the other blogs I keep.
I’m happy I’ve chosen to keep all of my writing public throughout this year. It holds me accountable to myself, and that’s very important to me moving forward.