Doing nothing

I have always wished for a purpose. For as long as I can remember I have believed that if I just knew what I was supposed to do, I would do it and then move on. Then, fulfilled in my purpose, I could address the less pressing decisions, like where to live and when to have a family.

The problem is that my purpose remains elusive. I may have seen its shadow but I'm not sure how to get my hands on it. Am I supposed to let it come to me, or should I give chase, like a cheetah pursuing an antelope? I'm told that if I listen to my instincts, I'll find my purpose. But how can that be true, when obediently listening to them landed me here?

I need to learn acceptance. This is how things are for me; this is where I am. On the map, my arrow indicates Point A. I don't know what Point B is, so it's pointless to search. I am ashamed to be here still, floundering, when doors just ahead that were once wide open are closing without a sound. And imagining that this existence which makes me squirm at night in my dreams *is* my purpose is just as unacceptable as the thought that we live in Sartre's version of hell in No Exit. I'm not an existentialist but an idealist; in terms of levels of difficulty the two are evenly matched. We are defined by what we do, not by what we dream of doing, and I am doing nothing as I wait, wait, wait.