Every day of the week, I want to be something new.
This morning, I woke up with a strange, familiar grief, the kind that doesn’t seem to have a reason. I have everything I need. My parents are healthy. I haven’t lost anyone. But still, there it is, this heaviness. Why?
After some reflection, I realized something: I’m grieving someone I may never become, my future self. The version of me that lives in my imagination, that I chase in my thoughts but never quite catch.
Monday
I woke up excited to attend my university classes. I want to be a professor after I graduate. That’s the goal, right? So I need to study hard. I have to get top grades. Without a high GPA, it’s over. My dreams? Down the drain.
…Eh, whatever. I’ll study tomorrow.
Tuesday
I woke up listening to my songs, eyes closed, picturing myself on stage in front of thousands. It felt surreal, well, in my mind.
Yes, music. That’s what I love. It makes me feel alive. It’s air to me.
Maybe I’ll focus on my studies for now. I’ll make music during the summer. Yeah… sounds like a plan.
Wednesday
I woke up regretting everything. Politics? Really? What was I thinking?
I should’ve studied psychology. I’ve always had a deep fascination with the human mind. After all I’ve been through with my own mental health, there’s nothing I’d love more than helping others.
But wait… music. Teaching. Psychology. I want it all.
Thursday
I woke up feeling inspired to write. What if I started a blog? Maybe on Substack? This feels like writing in my journal anyway. I stayed in bed an extra hour to jot down my thoughts. I’ll probably be late to class, but whatever… this feels right.
Friday
I woke up with grief again.
I could be a professor. An artist. A therapist. A writer.
But right now, I don’t want to be anything.
I just want to lie here, drowning in this ocean of thoughts, dreams, and contradictions. My mind feels like chaos. I thought I had made it a pleasant place to live in, but maybe I was wrong.
Deep down, I want to be an artist. But would my parents support that? If I switch degrees, don’t even go there. Time lost, no support, the fear of falling behind…
Being a professor feels safe. But am I even smart enough to teach others?
Saturday and Sunday?
I’ll probably wake up grieving again. Wanting to do a thousand things.
And end up doing nothing.
But panic.
"Not to know what you want is considered a shameful weakness.
To confess it is to lose for ever not only the reputation of a writer, but even of a man. None the less, "conscience" demands such a confession.
True, in this case as in most others the demands of conscience are satisfied only when they incur no very dire consequences. Leaving aside the fact that people are no longer terrified of the once-so-terrible public opinion (the public has been tamed, it listens with reverence to what is told to it, and never dares judge)—the admission "I do not know myself what I want" seems to offer a guarantee of something important.
Those who know what they want generally want trifles, and attain to inglorious ends: riches, fame, or at the best, progress or a philosophy of their own.
Even now it is sometimes not a sin to laugh at such wonders, and may-be the time is coming when a rehabilitated Hamlet will announce, not with shame but with pride: "I don't in the least know what I want." And the crowd will applaud him, for the crowd always applauds heroes and proud men".
The Apotheosis of Groundlessness, Leo Shestov
I've been here. Life is often about not knowing the path to take, and hoping that everything falls into place eventually.