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I am so confused right now. I am bombarded on all sides by noise both inside and out. I can’t think straight. I don’t know what step to take. Analysis paralysis has set in. I am frozen in fear.

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What if what I do doesn’t work out? What if my labor is in vain? What if this is all meaningless? What is the point anyways? I grab for solace in drink, drug, human interaction, entertainment—anything to occupy my attention so I don’t have to deal with what is stirring underneath.

What do I have to offer back to the world? I look in the mirror. Who am I? Why am I here? What do I even have to give?

My whole life looking back feels like chaos. Like a pinball machine. I get hit with the paddle, sent flying in one direction until I smack into another bumper, ricochet, spin, get knocked into another trajectory. Sometimes I slip right past everything, down into the gutter, no man’s land. Then suddenly—BANG—I’m launched back out again, into the madness, into the game. Over and over.

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I’m sitting in a hotel lobby right now, on vacation, writing this. I woke up what felt like 58 times during the night having conversations with my ego, telling it to shut the fuck up. It replayed the day: what I should’ve said, what I shouldn’t have done, what I need to fix later. It berates me, self-deprecates, makes new resolves, only to tear them down. My Self watches it spin around like a carnival ride from hell, while I bargain for another hour of sleep. I lose.

It’s 4:33 a.m. I head downstairs hoping the coffee is brewed. Success. Normally I take it black; today I do half-and-half and honey. A tiny act of rebellion. Vacation rules.

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I open my journal and pour out two messy pages of straight gibberish. If someone found it, they’d think I was losing my mind. That’s fine. Journaling doesn’t make the chaos poetic—it scoops it out of my head and onto paper so I can breathe. It’s a mental drain. All the “ok” / “not-ok,” the job stuff, relationship needs, to-dos, regrets, the shit I did wrong, what I did right—it lands on the page instead of swirling inside my skull. And in that space, I get a few inches of clarity.

Then the old question shows up: what is my purpose? Yes, to enjoy life, to love, to serve. But specifically, what am I here to do?

From The War of Art (Steven Pressfield): “[Your purpose is] nudging the human race one millimeter farther along its path back to God.”

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One millimeter. That’s it. Just show up. Hold space. Be human. Which, in truth, I already do. But then the ego chimes in: not enough. Be richer. Be famous. Do more. Be more. My momentum dies right there. Energy gone. I close the laptop and go find something to eat or move my body—anything to numb the ache of “not enough.” It never really goes away. It just gets Novocained.

What would it look like to create for the sake of creation?

Conscious Casey is a vehicle. A character to talk about the raw stuff: trauma, addiction, depression, confusion, the insanity of chasing false identities, and the waking up that happens when you stop running.

And here’s the kicker: what makes me low vibe isn’t the chaos; it’s my expectations. The reaching. The longing to be elsewhere. Staring at 3D instead of feeling the state of the wish fulfilled.

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Here’s the truth:

What if it really is enough?
What if creation itself is the point?
What if showing up as I am — writing this, breathing, sipping coffee in this lobby — is already fulfilling the mission?

Because the low vibration isn’t life — it’s the expectation.
The constant wanting to be somewhere else.
To be someone else.

The shift comes when I let myself be.
When I realize I already am.

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Be the one who has.
Be the one who is.

You already are who you long to be.
You already have what you think you lack.

Let that sink in.

Think like it. Act like it.
Or don’t.

Either way, you’re here.
Right here.

And maybe that’s the miracle.

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Much love,

Casey

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If you want more messages like this, I’ll keep sharing them here and on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@ConsciousCasey​