the struggle here is internal- in which i perpetually feel that inside of me there rages a monster. but this is not some satanic grotesque typically associated, but a beautiful articulate. i ask myself- "what is to be my life's work?" because i am ready to pour everything. ive narrowed it down, yes, today, but it seems as though tomorrow it will widen out again. in times when nothing is certain, i fumble over what i am supposed to be doing while the clock still ticks towards judgment day, and i am scared that i will be judged by my achievements lack thereof.

but still, i must write my manifesto. i must trudge on in the blink of nihilism, on the verge of feeling, like God, as though i am attempting to create ex nihilo. but is it to be a manifesto of nothingness? i find a cycle like the Judges- the thought occurs to me that at some point all of this struggle to create will be synthesized into some epic being that will win from me its independence. i keep feeling as though in some moment of transcendence all of my artistic efforts will magically transcribe themselves onto a permanent page and thus be entered into the great historical canon of human art. most importantly, i will reap the satisfaction of knowing that my message has been broadcast into space, and i have received an intelligent reply. it is legitimate. i feel as though ive found my calling, and i am ready to get to work.

but every time i start, i get depressed. i suddenly feel incapable of writing anything. then i criticize my own method of validation by artistic achievement, and i decide to just be. i decide to perhaps never write again. and i decide to be ok with myself if this happens. i decide to not attempt to "force" writing. so i dont write.

then i start to think- "what is to be my life's work?"