I woke up at 4 this morning, and unable to go back to sleep, decided to stare at the ceiling of my hotel room. It’s a stark, but very modest room with white walls, a large bed that takes up most of the room, and some old furniture that props up my suitcase. Indistinguishable voices on my TV murmur against a backdrop of roosters and motorbikes: I keep the TV on when I sleep because it reminds me of home. What the fuck am I doing here?, I think, and begin making mental notes of how exactly to begin my work here in Southeast Asia.
I try to chase greatness, to do good and be good. But I constantly stop myself, too scared of the dark, of mosquitos, of mud and myself and pick pockets and ghosts. I wasn’t made for greatness, I think, because I’m too scared of what greatness needs of me. I’m not smart enough, good enough. I still need to leave the light on in my hotel room when I’m sleeping by myself, still need the TV humming in the background.
Greatness is lonely and volatile, requires self-sacrifice and a compassion that I don’t yet understand.
So, what the fuck am I doing here?