The biggest problem with this conceit of mine is that it’s basically the only thing tying me down to life. If I ceased believing I was special, if I accepted that I am, after all, just an ordinary person, I would find no rational reason to continue on. Somehow, I have managed to live my life so that the necessity for my existence feels rather marginal. I feel like other people are needed. It may be for the most mundane of reasons, but nevertheless, they exhibit dependencies, real, concrete dependencies, such that if they suddenly disappeared, life would catastrophically change. I can’t help feel, because I have semi-consciously willed it to be so, that if I were to cease existence, people would be, at most, mildly inconvenienced ([I hope] I understate dramatically.) In other words, people would be momentarily upset, but nothing would topple.

Oh well. Perhaps I am only deluding myself. I’ve been pretending as if I could disappear with little to no consequence, but who can really contemplate their own non-existence?

But it doesn’t change the matter: I still feel no driving need to go on. There are the base reasons: pleasure, wealth, power, but the knowledge that they are base, and worse, effervescent, almost increases my non-desire to pursue such ends.

I need a good solid, as-permanent-as-the-human-mind-can-imagine reason for living. The drive to become a physician had been the only thing I had to hold on to, but now that I am standing on the far bank of the Rubicon, I wish to return from whence I came. There is scant pleasure in this type of existence so far, and my only release is this pad of paper. And yet I am reluctant to accept what perhaps is my true vocation. I said it once, to the one person I have met so far in this simliary disoriented state of not-knowing-what-you-want, (and yet undoubtedly she knows what she wants better than I know what I want), but I am afraid that if I take it to heart, I will fail again, and this would truly be the final evaporation of my will to survive.

The past is no comfort to me, for I do not know success, or if I do, it is always tempered with pain. There are few things in my life that I can unequivocally point to as success, and my pain in this matter is further accentuated by the vast resources that I have had access to.

It does no good to tell myself to get over it. It has sat on my shoulder for much of my conscious life, a blood debt of at least three generations, and I can’t help but feel that I ought to make an attempt at restitution, however futile it may be.

How do I, without succeeding, pass down what has been given to me? I do not wish to be a parasite of the universe, and yet I do not know well what it means to give.