PivotalSyntax
Spiritual Luftmensch
It seems like I'm losing all motivation to do anything, for the most part because of my spirituality. Even my creative side has no inspiration to play music or to write or anything. All I seem interested in doing is searching for truth, meditating, gaining knowledge, and exercising the spiritual side of my being. Besides that I only sit in reverence of the moment. I'll go to the park and just bask there in nature and the calmness and beauty of it all. I don't do ANYTHING with practical results. My life is basically one big introspect. It is difficult to know if it feels right or not, because through introspecting you do not see many changes or results because it is gradual and from within. Has anyone gone through something similar?
I wrote a metaphorical poem to try and describe this.
The solitary tree muses in the sun,
Yet it grows, reaching up, immeasurably so.
Its action, is that of no action.
Yet there it is, extending out to embrace the firmament.
Its sluggishness, its lack of motivation,
Is due to the eternal breathlessness of all that is One.
Its mysticism, its search, its reverence,
Gracefully inhibits it from action.
Reality carries it away, its spirit glowing bliss.
But it's strong and meek, and young and wizened.
Wise
But Simple
Only when it is realized for work does it lose its splendour.
When it's cut down and made into things.
Its rise into new creations is not warranted.
It is regrettable.
It has lost its way.
That is its raw, unedited form. It's not meant to be a literary masterpiece, but a conveyance of how I felt at the moment. Help.
I wrote a metaphorical poem to try and describe this.
The solitary tree muses in the sun,
Yet it grows, reaching up, immeasurably so.
Its action, is that of no action.
Yet there it is, extending out to embrace the firmament.
Its sluggishness, its lack of motivation,
Is due to the eternal breathlessness of all that is One.
Its mysticism, its search, its reverence,
Gracefully inhibits it from action.
Reality carries it away, its spirit glowing bliss.
But it's strong and meek, and young and wizened.
Wise
But Simple
Only when it is realized for work does it lose its splendour.
When it's cut down and made into things.
Its rise into new creations is not warranted.
It is regrettable.
It has lost its way.
That is its raw, unedited form. It's not meant to be a literary masterpiece, but a conveyance of how I felt at the moment. Help.