Each time I go back to reading the Autobiography of Mark Twain, Volume 1 ( I’ve been reading it off and on over the last month – it’s a tome – takes a while ), I think about my own autobiography. It’s ok to fantasize and I’m not entirely certain I want to write it – or whether I even want to start.

Then I think maybe my Twitter stream, when put together, could be an autobiography in itself. I post updates on Twitter regularly and more often than not, they reflect my “mood” at that instance. ( It’s not pretty sometimes, and I worry how it affects my “brand” but then I also know that life doesn’t really give a fuck – about the “brand” I mean. As you can probably tell, it’s a tad confusing. )

The place I am in life right now – as I see it – is that my work is doing great ( both photography and the blog are doing well, paid gigs, collaborations with brands, personal projects, etc. ), my personal life is going great ( time with the parents, with the sister, with the husband, it’s all great really ), my health is ok ( considering that I don’t exercise, it’s probably only a matter of time before something goes wrong – hence the “ok” – I need to work on this area but looking at my history, I probably won’t ) – I really don’t have anything to complain about.

But there’s this hole. This sense of dissatisfaction. With myself. I react too strongly or I don’t react soon enough. I don’t talk enough or I talk too much. I didn’t shoot enough or I shot too much. I don’t care enough or I care too much. There’s this constant jostle and it’s exhausting.

I read about Mark Twain’s life and wonder if I could try to be as literal as he was. At least in retrospect. But I’m not. I look for hidden agendas, I look for deeper meanings, I look for “more”. At the same time, I also accept things for what they are – sometimes there really is no hidden agenda / freak happening – things just are.

A prospective client cancelled an assignment today – just hours after they confirmed what flight I would be on. And it was one of those “I can’t believe I’m getting to do this!” gigs. I’m not inconsolable, neither am I wallowing in self-pity ( although the latter is tempting ). Instead, my head is wringing it’s hands to know, “What’s the inside story here?” As if, knowing those reasons will somehow turn back time and give me a chance to “convince” the client to not cancel the assignment.

It’s a wonder I balance my life between the urgency of doing meaningful things and running around like a headless chicken. Both are important – the former obviously because of “meaning” but also the latter because of serendipity.

Life is random. And that’s my consolation. The one thing that keeps me from self-flagellation. Till the other side kicks in and is convinced, “It was my fault somehow.” These demons rear their heads once in a while. For the rest of the days, it’s coffee-time and I’m a woman on a mission.

The mission of staying busy, for if I stop for even one moment, I will have to ask myself why I’m here and not having an answer is getting old. And I’m no longer so sure whether I’m even supposed to have an answer, in which case, What The Actual Fuck?!

You see what I’m talking about? Confounded.

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