I want to write. Preferably fiction. Imaginary worlds in parallel with the current one.

Nothing has influenced me more than books have. Articles don’t do it for me. Non-fiction doesn’t do it for me (with exceptions). Good fiction rarely fails me. They suck into me into a state of flow that no other form of writing can do to me. But that’s not the why.

It’s a job that will leave you unsatisfied so long as you keep growing. Your past work will miss the wisdom that you have now. You may have external markers of success, but you can’t fool yourself. Your mind knows bullshit when it reads it.

To change my own mind. I try to create a new vocabulary or terrain for myself, so that I open out — I always think of the Dutch claiming land from the sea — or open up something that would have been closed to me before. That’s the point and the pleasure of it. I continuously scrutinize my own thinking. I write something and think, How do I know that that’s true? If I wrote what I thought I knew from the outset, then I wouldn’t be learning anything new.

Marilynne Robinson, on why she writes.

I’ve never really written fiction beyond school assignments. I find it hard to tap into my imaginary realm of thought. Perhaps because I never try for long enough. Yet I’ve convinced myself that this is what I want to do. I even bravely penned it in my seventh grade autobiography for class.

Out of all the lives of artists I’ve read, I’m most fascinated with that of writers. Authors. Their work ethic is chaotic at best. They are frivolous or stringent, with many holding work as their sole raison d’être. They have an insatiable fire within them that can’t be placated by promises of praise, nor threats of destitution. The mere act of reading about them, rather than trying to become one, is a telltale sign that I’m not like them. I don’t have it, but I’m still going to do it.

I don’t expect to have a career in writing. But this thought allows me to attach a tangible meaning to everything I do, to every success and every misfortune I have. This is a string that connects me to my past, and that I still hold on to as a source of hope when there is none.

Also, I might change my mind.

Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving.

Terry Pratchett

The reason I talk about moving to a new country as “when” and not “if” is because I will do it. When the time comes, I will leave my current life, move to a new country, and do as the locals do. I will do it because this goal precedes any other goal I may have.

I find 1-3 years to be the sweet spot before making the next transition, enough to go through all the phases of cultural shock: honeymoon, anxiety, adjustment, and adaptation. The path to adaptation is emotional and unstable, as it has been in my past 2 moves, but that’s what makes them important. You can’t grow if your reality is never challenged.

I look forward to shedding my identity in the face of new social rules. I like to play the part: dress like them, eat like them, behave like them. I want to seep into their community as seamlessly as I can, and when I go home at the end of the day — I will come back to myself feeling richer inside.

While the physical moving portion is the ultimate goal, it’s not the end goal per se. I will continue learning languages, devouring books based in different cultures, and immerse my mind in other worlds all the same. You see, this goal can’t fail me. A tangible way to do this can enforce the transition, but it’s not a requisite.

It makes me happy to think and plan for the Next Move. It’s aligned with my values, it gives me something long-term to look forward to, and it makes me appreciative of everything that has come before this moment. Every priviledge, every achievement, and every failure I’ve had — I thank them all.

I used to be deeply affected by natural disasters and social issues. I wasn’t personally affected by them, but seeing how people had to ration their water supply while I was taking hot, steamy showers every night was a horrible feeling. Why did I deserve hot showers when others barely had enough to drink? I felt like I was contributing to their misfortune. I dedicated my high school and college years doing community service, because I was convinced that there was nothing more noble that I could do.

I mostly advocated for social issues, and strived to inspire others to dedicate their free time to volunteering. They were great experiences, but I ended up feeling more at odds with myself. I was disappointed that my actions were temporary. What was the point if everything will just revert back to its status quo?

Since graduating, I’ve been able to distance myself from the things I feel I “need” to do and have turned to just slowing things down. I’ve turned inward, scouring books and inside my mind to understand how I should live my life.

I came to the conclusion that, while spending time contributing to others can help both parties grow, I cannot depend my sense of achievement on them. I can’t make my life purpose to help x number of people. I can contribute for the sake of contributing, but my life purpose will always be something within my control. Whatever I dedicate myself to, that’s the thing that will have the biggest impact on others.

Alex Honnold is the first and only climber to have free soloed the 2,900-foot El Capitan in Yosemite. His main life purpose is to become the greatest free soloer that he can possibly be. After his documentary Free Solo came out, many people were inspired — but that’s a secondary effect. He never set out to inspire others, but he’s done so precisely because he’s focused on achieving his goal of greatness. He’s also doing this by causing the least amount of burden on nature as possible, by living a low-budget, vegetarian lifestyle.

I want to achieve my form of greatness at the lowest cost to nature as well. I want to contribute to the communities I immerse myself in, but my heart and soul will always be devoted to that thing that speaks to me. Only then can I say that I am living my life; I’m not living yours, and I’m living for you, I’m living for myself.

I do wonder how things would differ if I had been raised under different circumstances. Would I have arrived to the same conclusion? What if I were to have kids? Would I see them as an extension of myself, or would they force me to reevaluate my life?

I think we all harm ourselves inadvertently. We scold ourselves for acting like a fool in front of others. We think ourselves weak when we oversleep. We long for things we don’t need, in attempts to mask our true unhappiness. We harm ourselves mentally, because no one can see the damage with which we treat ourselves. It has become such an immediate response, that we no longer question how we treat ourselves.

I tend to talk down on myself to the extent that physical symptoms manifest. Back pain, irregular heart beat, tiredness. As a teen, I didn’t make the connection right away. How can my mind cause physical pain? It’s easy, actually. Remember when you would have a stomachache every time before a stressful presentation? It’s the same thing for your other emotions — only, they become more permanent when putting yourself down becomes a constant in your life.

We’ve all heard the same old advice that You should treat yourself like you treat your best friend countless times. Maybe it’s too soon to call myself my own best friend, but I can see myself becoming one. I got my own back, but I also call myself out when I act out. But if I just talked down on myself all the time, my life would be purposeless. The voice inside my head would not give me a chance.

Now, my reason for not talking down on myself is simple: I want to accomplish my goals. I need the freedom to think and ponder about any kind of thoughts that come across my mind. There is simply not enough space for “talking down on myself” anymore. It doesn’t do anything but sink me deeper into a dark hole. It prevents me from making progress, and affects those around me.

I don’t claim to be free from mental self-harm, but it helps to have a very clear reason why I should invalidate it in my life. It’s not about being kinder to myself, because emotions can be a fickle reason to do anything. Rather, it’s about achieving my goals, something that I will always strive for regardless of how I feel.

It’s late at night, and I’ve been twisting and turning for hours. Why do I want to do it? Should I do something else instead? What will people think about it? I’m such an idiot.

Rumination sometimes leads to inaction, but more often it leads me to an intense desire to redo my actions. It’s like this urge to paint over the canvas before it dries, because I just can’t let my painting sit like that. Sometimes, I take it as a good sign that I’m growing. Other times, I wonder how traumatized I must be to not be able to face my own work.

When I first started blogging, I had a hard time re-reading my posts. I just wanted to tap “Publish” and start a new page. It was easy to do that. Then I started creating videos, and it got worse. I just could not watch a second of my video after I published it. Ironic, isn’t it? If I’m posting something, I can’t be embarrassed about it; otherwise, why the hell would I post it?

I always hoped that my skills would level up to that of my creative eye. To match my creation with my expectation. Both are in constant flux, but my eye seems to change faster than my skills can keep up with. It’s like when you try to draw a face, as an untrained artist. You can see how it’s supposed to look, you can even picture it in your head when you’re not actively looking at it. But when you lean your head back to get a good look at your drawing, it looks awfully unproportional. The eyes are too big, the nose is not right, and it doesn’t resemble the actual face at all. You may know how it’s supposed to look, but your skills deceive you by penning only the most memorable parts of a face and leaving out the rest.

I’m not mad about this dissonance. If anything, it forces me to write more, create more, and post more. I want to receive praises and criticisms — I take them all. Not because it will change what I ultimately create, but because I know I’ll grow immune to them. They might signal validation (or lack thereof) of my work, but the only criticism that matters is that of mine. If I can stop listening to others’ criticisms, then maybe there’s a chance I’ll grow more resilient to mine.