Drive. This isn’t new. If you know me, then you know, I lack this… this concept, anyway. I will not say I lack the basic concept of drive: the idea of doing things with purpose, with conviction. Everything I do, I try to do with purpose, with conviction. The drive I’m talking about is more personal — a drive. A dream.
How can one be without a dream? Simply put, I didn’t really have one, really. I had little aspirations as a kid, wanting to be a doctor like everyone else. I know I want to fix things, make things better. But you see, my dreams, my hopes, they’re empty as they are. There’s nothing concrete about them, which leaves me confused. I don’t really know what I want, and even more so, I haven’t a clue how to get there.
So that is what I would change. I want to have a drive, an understanding, a motivation for some ultimate goal. Something that is so painstakingly important that I am full of endless methods to achieve it. This is greater than saying I want to go to grad school so I can get an MSW or an MLS. This is bigger than wanting to be a therapist, because I am just as quick to say, “I would be just as comfortable working in a bookstore, or as a librarian.”
I want to want. I know I’m driveless because I am listless. I still do things, not because a part deep in me wants to, but because I know I have to. I don’t really care if I do or don’t, and I want to change that. If I could change that part of me, then every waking moment would be filled with truer purpose, a more worthwhile conviction. Living, not just for the sake of living, but because it has meaning. Because there’s some greater goal out there that makes me happy to want and try to realize.
I look around this room of mine, filled with things. It’s quite messy, I will not lie. But it also doesn’t bother me. It seems to bother everyone else, but not me. And that’s kind of what that drive would do, right? Nag. Nag at me to bring it closer to fruition. Leaving me restless and sleepless as long as its incomplete.
I suppose I have some conception of this need, just in wanting it. It bothers me that I don’t have one, and that alone is a drive. But I want to get one now, and everyone else seems to have one. Why not I? We’re all the same kind of smart, or so I thought. Simple enough, the answer.
I guess, what makes it so pertinent, pestering, is that I’m afraid that there really is no drive. That everyone fakes it. And that everyone is really just living for the sake of it. That no one really lives because they want to, but because it’s what they do. And that we’re no better than plants, machines, wildcats, and all that. Everything that’s aware, the idea of being aware. I don’t want that to be a lie, too.