I haven’t had much to say lately. Suffering has always been a prerequisite for my creativity, as I only need to write when unfulfilled or unhappy, and lately I haven’t felt either.
The realization that I was happy only came when someone asked how I was doing; I responded with my usual, generic, “I’m doing well, thanks”, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I didn’t feel like I was lying.
Not that the desire to write has left me completely. I still want to, though only because it’s an enjoyable exercise in itself, not because I need to get something off my chest. The world finally makes sense, and I wonder if it’s necessary to have this blog a place to sort out my thoughts anymore.
I’m satisfied with the person I’ve become. I’ve stopped trying to change, or constantly figuring out how to improve. I like me.
The serenity is getting better still, almost to the point where it’s an unconscious state-of-mind. Things don’t bother me the way they used to. I can dream without desire, I can live without bias, I can give without expecting, I can think without worry, and I can enjoy without guilt.
I turn 30 in half a year, and I finally feel like I’m where I should be.