There is some impulse in me to struggle. I do not know where this comes from, but given the choice of peace and its unfortunate alternative, I have a habit of siding with the latter, and in that, all of my life is defined. In the two most vital things I have for myself, questions come first, and love comes second. All I have are questions: why can I not resist the pull of a longer, more arduous day? Why do I intend to use all of my faculties until they stop working? The other night, after a spell of working non-stop on trivial things—only some pay my bills, some help me feel I’m making a difference with my life—I looked at the screen but could not read. All my sensibilities, all my words stolen, I sat there in disbelief, looking at symbols I felt I did not understand. These very words were lost. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes, and when none of them worked, I went to sleep. There was no answer, only exhaustion. When I woke up, I did so with a terrible headache, and after a few cups of coffee, I began again.
In some twisted, some grotesque way, this was my peace. It was also my great moral dilemma. The world wanted me to believe there was peace in the not doing of things, but my body, my mind, and my wits said otherwise. There will be answers, and when they arrive, they will be glorious, but there are just questions for now. For now, I am unfaithful to my desires—I only want to live days without doing much in particular, but I deny myself of this very thing over and over again—not in words, no, but in action. I feel happier when I am exhausted. There is little I can do about this. I do not know where it comes from—this wanting to do things—but we did not have to know where a tool comes from to use it well, and much like a hammer, I shall too use this gift, in all ways possible, for even destruction appears peaceful, beautiful, when looked at from afar.