An End.
Human beings are complicated.
I’m probably one of the more complicated of the bunch. I tried to be objective as possible in my analysis of all things related to life, but I’m more susceptible to my subjective feelings than the average person. I seek perfection in others, yet fail in the same pursuit in myself. And I quickly notice others’ shortcomings yet am slow to realize the same shortcomings as the ripples subside to reveal only my own image. I change my colors but conduct the same, expecting different results. Insanity ensues.
I’ve been thinking of a lot of things lately. I tend to think and overthink a lot anyway, but it’s been much more pronounced in recent months. I’m not happy with my boss or my job. I’m in a limbo and may be making some enemies along the way. I can be charismatic, but I somehow lost the sight of finesse required in maneuvering around the office politics. I could be out of a job soon, and my lower than desired GMAT score doesn’t help. I know I’m going to an MBA school this time next year. Yet, even the most glossy veneer of introspection reveals just how unprepared I am. I rationalize this whole process by making myself believe…. that as messed up as my life has been and continues to be, it MUST be better than others’. I silence my own voice of doubt and force myself to close my eyes every night, scared of the dawn that will bring upon my worst nightmares. Surely it must be better than the day before. But morrow upon morrow, I fall short of my expectations.
Surely an MBA will fix my entire life. Surely. But what makes me more worthy? I hesitate in an attempt to portray humility, but an amateur observer would note it’s out of sheer uncertainty. Out of some unknown desire, I willingly carry the globe upon my fragile back and damn the consequences. I am no Atlas. I am angry. I curse the gods: this is not the way it should be.
Even more complicated is my ultimate love/hate relationship. It would seem that I love to hate God and hate to love God. It’s somewhat simple, really. I demand nothing less than god-like perfection. And I want all of it. Anything less would be a disappointment. And I wonder why everyday I return home less than satisfied.
This sickens me: it is during the time of self-doubt that I find myself turning to God. Is it because God is the only constant that I make Him out to be? I look down on the two-Sundays-a-year attendees and forgot to take out the speck out of my own eye. I convince myself that it’s not because I don’t need God. It’s because I’m too mature to seek out only on Sundays. I question the motives of those that attend: be it mere fellowship, tradition, or divine intervention. Hah! I’ve matured… because I seek the same outside the brick walls.
I’ve recently come to realize that prayer isn’t powerful because God necessarily answers one prayer or another. It’s powerful because it reflects unconditional faith in someone other than myself. And that commitment scares me. Let go. Take the pill. But at least the nightmare that I live is the nightmare that I know.
I deserve it, god damn it! I’ve never been overbearing. I never prayed for miracles. My life never exceeded my means. Can’t you see my intentions are good? Surely I MUST be more deserving. But strip me of my overcoat, and you’ll find a frail body and soul, devoid of substance. Did you expect something more? You fool.
Spiritual maturity beckons. I hark and follow. But wait, was that my ego I just left behind?
Two steps forward, three steps back