My Problem Was A Lack Of Purpose

*I’m on a two-month blogging vacation while I backpack around Southeast Asia. Until I return, I’m posting excerpts from my book, Freedom Twenty-Five: A 21st-Century Man’s Guide To Life. If you like this post, you should buy a copy for yourself and everyone you’ve ever met in your life.*

One year ago, I had just finished a half-decade of school and cannonballed into the life of suits, ties and cubicles. I took a hard look at my twenty-five-year-old self, and the path that I was on. I didn’t like much of what I saw:

– I had gone from working out and playing competitive sports constantly, to spending 50 hours a week sitting in a cubicle, and my body was showing it

– I had stopped seeing my job as a temporary means to earn enough money to pursue my real dreams, and started visualizing my slow climb up a conventional and lucrative career ladder

– I was getting bored of the easy, insecure girls I spent most of my time fucking, while doing my retarded best to push away the good ones

– I had started reading fewer books, and filled up the time watching TV, playing video games, and reading bullshit on the internet

Most importantly, I realized that I had almost completely lost the sense of purpose and drive that had once animated my life. Several half-finished novels lingered on my hard drive. A box of business cards and promo material from a failed entrepreneurial venture collected dust in my closet. Waking up in the morning and falling asleep at night became difficult. I caught myself making excuses to avoid life – friends, girls, new experiences and challenges – so I could sit at home and watch my limited hours in this world slip away.

My problem was a lack of purpose. I was, like so many in my generation, adrift. I had no mission. No destiny. I was a sack of flesh and DNA waiting to expire, no matter what my job title was or what degrees I had earned.