Found at Work; Lost after hours

Just had an epiphany.

 

My boss keeps praising my reports and emails. Saying that they're intelligent and well-thought.

 

But when I write about personal stuff I hardly feel the same. Even though I'm my toughest critique, I can tell the difference in quality of what I write personally and professionally.

 

And I remember reading somewhere that writing without purpose is just stuff, writing with is an art.

 

Wouldn't the same apply to life? That must be the reason why professionally I excel because there is a pre-defined purpose, there is a method to the madness, all the madness to achieve a goal set by people who've had it all thought out.

 

But my life? It's aimless. Hence all my sheer existence is just…"stuff".

 

I am just "stuff".

 

Wow.