The closest I get to feeling without purpose is when I realize that my chosen career (by default, I stumbled into it 8 years ago as a part-time solution that allowed me to leave K-mart while still in college) has absolutely zero redeeming artistic qualities. I've never wanted to make it Big via music because that would kill my hobbyist outlook toward the whole thing, which is what I utilize it for. Having to rock for money just isn't my idea of keeping kosher, even if I do respect some of the dudes who can make a living off such things. But at the same time I should at least perhaps be writing about music for some dimwit magazine, or maybe even going back to that whole jazz thing I flirted with for a month a few years ago, or at the very least attempting at twiddling a few knobs in Ye Olde Local Pub for Thursday Night Cockrock. Instead I price and sell masonry veneer to companies I gladly await the demise thereof. Most of the time I recognize it as a job just being a job, thankfully paying the bills and then some. The other 7.256% of the time, I sulk and yearn for a more fulfilling career, even if it would send me to the poor house.
Or, you know, like, whatever!