What's the Point?
"It sounds emotionally manic rather than leading to the point of the post."
That's what Kendall told me about a post I recently shared with her for feedback.
I've written three different posts this past week alone, all trying - and failing - to communicate what I've been experiencing this month. Every critique I've had from people has been this: You're rambling. What's the point?
So here's the point: I don't know my point anymore.
"What's your dream job?" a friend asked me on afternoon over half-priced margaritas.
I didn't have an answer for him.
I've been immune to this helpless feeling of "What is my point?" for my entire life. I've always been ambitious, always had some sort of end goal to reach for. Of course, the goals have changed over the years from veterinarian to screenwriters to PR in the music industry, but there's always been a dream.
But now? I have no goals. I am without a point. And that scares me.
Last summer, I wrote a post about not knowing what was next for me after graduation. But even then - though distant - I still had goals. I could still offer an enthusiastic answer to "What's your dream job?"
It's different now. My goals have changed; they've disappeared altogether.
And that leaves me feeling incredibly empty. It's given way to my life's second Emotional Renaissance, leaving me crying without warning over silly things like Ryn Weaver songs.
I desperately want a point. (Don't we all?)
And I don't mean that in the "does my life have worth?" sense. Of course I know my life has worth. I just want to know that I'm actually doing something worthwhile with it. Because right now, it feels like I'm not. My days seem stagnant and directionless.
I look around at my friends who are pursuing dreams that have ached unceasingly within them for as long as they can remember, even if following that desire meant sacrificing a steady income or moving across the country. And though I'm happy for them, I'm jealous, too. I want to dream - I want a dream - again.
I know that we aren't supposed to have everything figured out at 22. I know that what I'm feeling right now isn't unique to me; I can read the other posts on That First Year to see that.
But I've always been one to imagine wild, color-splattered plans for myself - plans that have made my family laugh and urge me to "be realistic." But now I feel lost, like a dreamer without a dream, a writer without a point.
Or maybe I do know what my dream is. Maybe it's the thing I continually refer back to in posts, in my own personal journals and in my conversations with friends.
Maybe the real point is this: I'm too scared of my own point.
[Photo by Juliette Kibodeaux.]