It appears that my fears of my contentment vanishing is turning into a reality. I will try to stave this off by relaxing and taking a break from working on my new book for a while. Time will tell if this will be enough.

    My discontentment started last night when I realized that I would have to continue with the book writing instead of becoming an evangelist. It may be hyperreligiosity, but all I can think about is God and all I want to do is to talk about God with people. I have a need and a passion for evangelism. I have thought about several other books to write, but the nonfiction book (not the novel) I’m working on is the best possible book for me to write. And yet, I don’t have any motivation to write it. That is because it has nothing to do with faith. Even if I knew ahead of time it would sell a million plus copies, I still wouldn’t be motivated to write it.

    Much in this life seems so meaningless. I get very little enjoyment out of the things most people find enjoyable. Are you doing anything meaningful in your life? I know I am not, at least not to a level I find worthwhile. I suppose I help people here and there with understanding mental illness. Still, I know the most important thing they need to know is the Gospel.

    It is as if I walk down the street and see dying people. They are disfigured from spiritual starvation, and I know where they can find the spiritual bread that satisfies. I want to tell them, but they are in a daze. I want to shake them and scream at them. “It’s here; the bread you need is here!” But they keep on walking by, as if I hadn’t said a thing. And they will starve, and I cannot do anything about it.