The train was delayed. I’d grown tired of my book and even more tired of skipping songs that didn’t fit the moment. Then something outside the window caught my eye – I’m not even sure what, and suddenly my mind slipped into a spiral. The words that followed poured straight from my head, through the pen, and onto the page.
I just had a moment of what is the point. The train driver is a train driver because? The accountant is an accountant because? What is the point? We’re just cogs. Are we making the world go round? No. Are we making life go round? Kind of. But who for? Really? For us? What is the point of life? Seriously? I honestly have no idea. I wish I knew. I suppose there is no point. So what’s the point? What is the point in everything, if there is no point?
I’m having an existential crisis on board this train.
Maybe the point is there is no point and I’m born to just be. To just live. Unapologetically me. Just live.
Go through the motions of being human. Feel emotions. Love too hard, too much. Laugh and cry. Hold and be held.
Just be.
The more I think about this writing, I can’t help but feel like saying “what a load of shit.”
The point is there is no point? Is that really true?
Am I meant to find my own meaning in this world? Am I meant to just live how everyone else is? Is this seriously my life for the next 50 years?
I don’t know, but it seems a load of crap. The world is so beautiful. Humans are beautiful. Yet, my life is the same mundane thing everyday? I’m meant to choose a career or something and say “yes, the reason I was put on the earth is to do this 5 days a week, 9 hours a day”?
I’d love to believe what I wrote, to “just be” – but honestly, I don’t think it’s possible.
Becoming, Lucy 
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