Dear Universe,
I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know if you’re going to read this, and a part of me doesn’t really care anyways. I’m using this as a writing project to sink my teeth into, with no discernible purpose or end goal.
I always found it difficult to focus on a single writing project, the idea of writing a whole novel was genuinely intimidating to me, its like staring a tsunami in the goddamn face. I don’t know how people do it, regardless of whether the novel is good or not. Staring down an empty Google doc shows you what real emptiness, blackness is somewhat more comforting than whiteness since at least blackness is easy to find during the night.
Terrifying. My honest niche has got to be essay writing. There is something so satisfying with spinning a good yarn, letting that thread run around, weaving itself into a small little cardigan. If novels are massive tapestries, likened to the work of Arachne, then I like making little sweaters or beanies. Something warm and no open seams, with a singular theme or purpose. Nice and simple, and the reader doesn’t have to fuss about paying attention to detail, because it isn’t the point at all. There is something so relieving about writing without having some greater agenda to push or some deeper message to convey.
But a big part of my goals at this stage of my life is to divorce myself from purpose.
Does that make sense? I know usually we seek the purpose or meaning of our lives, but having a purpose felt so, constricting. I used to pride myself as someone who had clear cut goals and plans and a purpose for being alive, but the older I got the less I wanted it to be perfectly honest.
Why can’t I just be alive instead of living for something? Seems like such a sad life to keep running after the next goal or your new purpose, living without a purpose seems so freeing. Well, I wouldn’t know because I haven’t lived even a third of my estimated life span, but I am still going to philosophize. Why? Doesn’t matter.
Writing without purpose is somewhat freeing too, its like typing on a keyboard without shackles. And yes that is a terrible metaphor, so on the nose, am I right? Well, if you’re reading this expecting me to demonstrate my incredible writing prowess then I am not sorry to disappoint you. I am writing this with no goals whatsoever, so this is truly living my truth. Purpose is overrated: that is my hot take for the foreseeable future. This letter is structured so badly, it must be absolutely painful to read, like what is the goal here? What is the theme, where is the structure, where is the excellent wordplay? I have no idea too!
Love,
Laven
