Sometimes I feel like I’ve almost decided to become very rich and very famous.

Someone who reads papers, wears designer jackets, and attends polo games, and knows which vintage year the Chateau Haut-Bryon was particularly good.
One of the fashionable doctors, you know?
In fact, the embodiment of the wealthy elitist, the person everyone wants to be but loves to hate.
I would be good at that.

But most of the time I want to join an organization like “Doctors without Borders.”
Practise with the bare minimum, amongst people who lack even that.
I don’t really have a good reason for it.
It is not a question of dedicating my life to humanity.
I have no interest in feeling morally buoyed by my work.
I am not as weak as that.
It isn’t even that I am dispelling some of the misery that pervades our times.
My interest in mysticism is strictly academic.
And I have proved experimentally, to my own complete satisfaction, that Karma does not exist.
It is just that then my life would mean something.
To someone.
Anyone.
That is important to me.

At other times I want to drift.
Stop trying to be the best.
Stop needing to win the approval of my teachers.
Stop striving to be the person that everyone thinks of when they try to remember my group, my batch, my year.
Let go.

I don’t know.
What is better? Or worse?
Fame, but surrounded by vapid, contemptible people?
Or purpose, but with a profound lack of the comforts that make life worth living?
Or oblivion, but with oblivion?

Sometimes life is inconclusive.
Posts, too.