There’s something that motivates people to do things. Something motivates one person to become the President, or a lawyer, or a doctor. Something motivates one person to selfishly run the red light when it has just turned, forcing the oncoming traffic with the right of way to either wait, or go forward and allow the ass hole to either hit them or back the fuck up. I wish I had the money to teach people how to drive. By that I mean, money to replace my car whenever some idiot decides to take my right of way away from me and I decide to not let that shit happen. Instead, I meekly defer, and I even gave up on the commuter salute or cussing them out because they look at you like you’re crazy, when they’re the ones who selfishly forgot to take turns like we were supposed to fucking learn in Kindergarten. Something motivates others to be nice, even helpful and generous. Something motivates others to pursue darker goals.
Some people aspire to deal drugs, or fall into it by accident I guess. Or to manufacture them. They want to grow the illegal pot and then beg for legalization. They want to manufacture the meth and then sit in a hospital bed paid for by my taxes when it blows up, or sit in a jail cell paid for by my taxes when they get arrested, or both.
Some people get lost in life. They feel no motivation or purpose. Maybe they’ve been damaged by some trauma in their past. Maybe they made mistakes and can’t seem to get past them. Maybe they’re depressed, or maybe they get on medication and it actually helps them.
Some people aspire to write. They write beautiful things, encouraging words, lovely poetry. Others write shit.
Some people rise from their failures to become greater than ever. I heard that JK Rowling was having a difficult time with debts and bills, and got fired from a job while the whole Harry Potter series was dancing around in her head. She wrote that and is richer than the fucking Queen of England.
Some people are motivated by other people, who have encouraged them, or berated them, until they came to do whatever they do. Others are motivated by emotions, or personal drive. What’s my motivation?
There’s a monster outside. Or did I let it in? It wants me to suffer, it wants me to be sad, it wants me to be depressed, it wants me to give up. I look at those mental health sites and see, on one, that my life and my feelings fit a full nine out of 13 of those symptoms of depression or suicidal tendencies. But I’m not suicidal.
I think it’s something inside. I don’t want to die. I don’t have a roadmap for life, and I don’t have a roadmap for death either. Sure, it sucks, but everyone else has to figure this out, or take that dark path to its’ destination. I don’t want to go. I want to see how it pans out.
I’ve had the trauma, sure. I’ve had the failures, sure. I’m not happy, sure. I’m not successful, and I haven’t had everything in life handed to me on a silver platter. I’ve had to fight, I’m tired and I don’t want to keep fighting, but I have to, because of that something inside. I’m pretty sure there’s a top ten, or maybe even twenty, list of reasons why I keep on going, and fear of death isn’t really one of them.
The something inside, my motivation is called hope. While I’m alive, there’s still a chance, however slim, that it could turn out right. I may not rise as rich as Rowling. I may not become successful. There’s a long list of writers who struggled with depression and decided to leave early. I have personal favorites, both female and male: Sylvia Plath. Robert Ervin Howard. I don’t want to go out like they did, even if I’m crashing and burning at the moment. And it’s true:
My life feels like it’s already in ashes.
I want to be a phoenix.