The inadequacy of feeling Less.

The world is less than perfect. I can live with that. But what I cannot come to terms with, is feeling less than comfortable with myself. And somehow, that’s how I feel right now.

The Lessness of being has come to haunt me increasingly in my waking hours. The pointLess pursuit of satisfaction in a job. The meaningLess much ado about everything material. The useLess universal truth that urges us not to think beyond ourselves. The senseLess stupidity in expecting others to understand that this the way I am. The ruthLessly rising ratio of people and circumstances that make me feel totally worthLess and utterly ridicuLess in front of the world.

They say that in order for me to feel less Less, I need focus. That I cannot walk around without a clue in my head about what to do with my life. That I need to set targets, aims, goalposts, milestones, deadlines, ends of the road, destinations. And move towards one of the above, before it leaves me thoroughly confused about which road to take.

They say I need purpose. That everything I do must have some meaning to it. That the world has meaning. That nature, nations, nincompoops, love, laughter, leeches, armenians, art, arteriosclerosis, science, sledgehammers, sycophants, serial killers, even the birds and the bees, they all have meaning. And that I just cannot spend six and a half hours on getting a painfully beautiful tattoo that doesn’t say anything about me.

They say I need money. That I cannot spend long hours at work, doing what I like best and be satisfied with what I get. That it’s the age of asking for and even demanding more than what I deserve just because innumerable incompetent imbeciles are drawing more salaries than I’d ever earn in a lifetime. That it’s not about survival anymore, but about acquiring apartments, cars, expensive holidays, wealth and the wrath of our neighbours. That if I am not rich and famous by the time I am thirty, I should either resort to pretending that I am rich and famous or that I ain’t thirty yet.

They say I am not aggressive enough. That doing my work quietly is not sufficient until I shout out from leaking rooftops that I am doing my work. That humility and silence mean stupidity and snobbery, in that order. That I should have been born in the 70s and that I am just not smart enough to keep up with this speedy world.

They say I am not good enough. All the time. Always making me feel Less and Less good about myself.

And when they’ve said it all, they say I need a baby.

But they just don’t let me be. And what I am is a drifter. A nomad. A bohemian. A rolling stone. An offbeat tune. With no ambitions. No aim. No meaning. No purpose. No passions. No opinions. No biases. No qualms. No hassles. No greed. No hatred. And no intentions of making babies.

All I really have is a mind that is open to anything the world throws at me. And a heart that is a sucker for the people I love and the profession I love. But it seems that's not enough. It seems there’s more to life than just giving.

So while I blindly listen to everyone around me, I begin to live their lives too. Because that’s what they want. They want me to see what they see, taste what they taste, feel what they feel, live the way they do.

Perhaps that’s why I feel so inadequate. In this tug-of-war with the world, I have become so elastic, that I’ve forgotten the touch of my own skin. I’ve lost my sense of self. I’ve lost my spirit. I’ve lost my innocence. I’ve lost hope. I feel like I am living with something missing. In a vacuum. Somewhere between the stranglehold of suppression and the open arms of expression. It’s leaving me so empty, I’ve forgotten about the part of me that makes me me.

But I know it’s only a matter of time before I get back on track. Before I turn a deaf ear to the world, turn over and go to sleep. Before I go back to being myself again.

And when I do, I will know that the more we long for, the Less we live.