something something mortifying ordeal of being known something something

i was washing the dishes and  had this weird thought about what being driven means. so often i have been driven by  self hatred, motivated by fear that others wont love me if i dont do great things. and thats not true. my mere existence  is enough. but then what drives me? i want to be great as an expression of my love for the world, not as a way to validate my own worthiness of it. artistry, mastary, nuance, they are an expression of something deeper and greater that prove how beautiful things can be. i want to do great things because i love the world that gives me the opportunity to do them, i love the people that help me do them, i love you.

and now the next part, being known.

i want to be a lighthouse keeper. solitude but at peace with the whim of the universe. never a master but always capable of find peace in the chaos of existence. the wind, the sea, they are companions.  i am never lonely, thinking is a good thing. few know me, and those who do apreciate me. i feel like now i am known but it is all artiface. i want to some day write a book about my life and if so it would be anonnymous mostly because i dont want my parents to know me. which is sad, because i should want them to, but dont. i want to at once be wholly/holy transparant and yet also shrouded in mystery.  i love the aesthetic of the quiet kid who seems interesting that you talk to, but in reality no one ever does. honestly i feel i may be an introvert who kept waiting for people to come notice me and eventaully i got tired of waiting.
i want my absence to be noted.
i feel it may be impossible, but the only truly ethical and beautiful way to live. i want to fall in love with the universe and all that is in it. i want to count the stars and name each blade of grass. people, ideas, life, death, all arbitrary and temporary. i want to make friends with the abyss and friends with those who see their reflection in it.

i am aware that people worry about me. and honestly if i were them i would worry about me too. but i dont worry about me, because i know that i have others who care about me but also because i am so much more than myself. my flesh is but a form, my soul but a prison, my life just a muse to articulate something grander that effaces me the closer i get to it.

sometimes it saddens me that no one reads this. maybe its narcicism that compels me to think its pretty, or just disapointment that there is so much beauty in this world (that of others, not mine) that is sadly never seen. i want to be seen and then disapear, i want you to notice that im gone but left something great in my wake. there is just so much beauty in this world that it washes over me. i am suffocated by my tears as i look in horror at my own insignificance in comparison to the greatness that surrounds me. and no one will ever know that, and that makes me sad. honestly i am surprissed i havent just killed myself already, but then again i wouldnt be able to arrange my body in such a way that i feel captures who i was so i will let time do its work! it always tends to leave a last word better than i could ever imagine

notes: i was planning on writing this in my notebook but i decided (my cousin is in my room and im sleeping on the couch and cant get to my notebook) to write it here for some reason. maybe its fate. but i think i figured out  my whole greatness thing. i know look at me go. also i fear this is all rooted in deep narcicism and obsession on how others percieve me but indulge me if you will. also i am fine dont worry i would never do anything drastic or anything, just fun to play with possibilities. i love this world too much to let myself hate myself. there are more grains of sand to count, why would i waste my time with myself?  truly i could talk for an eternity, goodbye.