Every year, I've looked forward to coming home back to LA. From the first day I went to Berkeley, to the seconds ticking by as I sit here typing this out, I've always pushed myself through whatever might come with thoughts of coming back to the niche I've carved for myself here in LA. For well over 6 years now, it's symbolized everything that I've liked about life. Whatever there was wherever I happened to be, it didn't hold a candle to what was waiting back in LA. And for a long time, I've thought about the day when I'd be coming back here to stay.
But now, I've come to understand that I can't come back here. Not for a while, at least.
When I'm here in LA, my desire and drive to make something of myself whispers away and vanishes in the clear blue skies. My unease with not being greater than what's expected of me evaporates in the warmth of the sun. Everything about life here is good and easy, and it's so very comfortable. Too comfortable.
And so, until I've made something of myself, I can't let myself come back to LA. I have to push on where I'm dissatisfied, where I feel the need to do something magnificent. It reminds me of when I was taking psych, and the professor talked about how extroverted people typically had less going on internally, and thus were driven to interact with something external to themselves; introverted people were the inverse.
When there's nothing on the outside to comfort you, it's up to you to do something within which you can find solace.