Blank Screens, Empty Purposes
My Journey Through the Void of Lost Meaning
"We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be." —May Sarton
A blue glow bathes my face at 5 AM, reflecting off a half-empty coffee mug. The desktop screen stares back at me—a digital void peppered with icons, folders, and forgotten screenshots. Each one reminds me of projects started, intentions set, and words once flowing like a river that's now run dry.
Do you know that moment when the familiar becomes foreign, and your desktop feels like someone else's notepad of abandoned thoughts?
The folder labeled "Blog Posts 2025" is accusatory in its emptiness. I hover over it, cursor trembling slightly, but I won’t double-click into that void.
I find myself rearranging icons, a shuffle of procrastination. I switch from dark to light mode and back again, as if changing the skin of my digital world might somehow reignite the spark. The clock ticks another minute, another small reminder of time passing without purpose.
I open my browser and am automatically taken to my blog's analytics dashboard. The numbers glow healthy—engagement is up, bounce rate is down, and time on the page is climbing. Empty metrics that once felt like validation echo in the hollow space where meaning used to live.
Here's the thing about losing your "why" - it's like waking up one morning to find your native language has become unintelligible. All the words remain, but what is the connection between thought and action, intention and expression? That's slipped away, leaving you to wonder if you've been speaking the wrong language all along.
Do you ever catch yourself staring at your screen like this? When the digital space that once felt like an extension of your mind suddenly feels like a stranger's window?
The harsh blue light softens as I dim my screen, trying to ease the growing headache behind my eyes. Somewhere between midnight and morning, between purpose and routine, I think about the architecture of motivation.
It's funny how we often don't notice our "why" until it's gone—like background music in a café that's only noticeable in its absence.
The gentle whir of my desktop fan fills the silence as I contemplate this thought.
I remember how writing used to feel like breathing—natural and necessary. Now, each word feels like navigating a familiar room in the dark, bumping into furniture I could have sworn wasn't there before.
Purpose functions as a compass and fuel.
The compass is the direction, the true north, that guides every choice and every sentence. But the fuel is trickier. The deep current of meaning transforms routine into ritual, obligation into opportunity.
I pull up my old posts, scrolling through them like a tourist in my history. Here's one from six months ago, vibrating with conviction. Another from last year, each word charged with purpose. Were you different then? I want to ask my past self. Or were you just better at pretending?
The truth about losing your "why" is that it doesn't just empty the present moment—it casts doubt backward and forward through time.
Every past action gets questioned, and every plan feels suspect. It's like discovering that the map you've been following was drawn for another country.
My screen reflects my furrowed brow as I consider how many of us are going through these right now - typing emails, filing reports, updating spreadsheets - all while harboring a quiet void where purpose used to live.
How many of us are running on the fumes of old motivation, muscle memory carrying us forward when meaning has long since left the building?
I take another sip of coffee, mouthing at its temperature and thinking that this emptiness isn't a crisis but an invitation. After all, isn't questioning the "why" the first step to finding a truer one?
The dawn has fully broken now, painting my room in watercolor washes of pink and gold. I start thinking about how many of us borrow our "whys" from others, fitting ourselves into purposes that were never meant for us—like trying to live in a house built for someone else's soul.
The morning light catches dust dancing above my desk as I consider this strange alchemy of purpose. Two writers, sitting at identical desks, typing identical words - yet one might be writing to heal their wounds, another to light the way for others: same actions, different meanings. The "why" transforms everything it touches.
I open my journal, flipping through entries from years past. Here's one from when I first started writing—all excitement and clear purpose. Another is from last year, confident and sure. The evolution of my "why" traces itself through these pages like rings in a tree trunk, each layer telling its story of growth and change.
The courage it takes to author our meaning - that's something they don't tell you about in workshops or productivity seminars. It's easier to borrow purpose than to build it. Following the prescribed path is safer than going through the wilderness of self-discovery.
My screen dims to black, reflecting my questioning face. In that darkness, I see something I've been avoiding: the terrifying freedom of defining my meaning. There are no gods or algorithms to blame, no external authorities to validate or condemn—just the quiet responsibility of answering that fundamental question:
Why do I do what I do? Why does it matter to me?
The afternoon sun slants through my window, casting long shadows across my keyboard. My third cup of coffee sits untouched, gone cold like the trail of my retired certainties. I've spent hours scrolling through old drafts, each one a fossil record of who I used to be and why I used to write.
The warning signs were there, weren't they? Like checking your phone while having dinner with an old friend or skimming instead of savoring your favorite author's new book. The subtle symptoms of disconnection. First, writing became a must. Then, the sentences started feeling mechanical. Finally, the words began to taste like ash in my mouth.
I don't remember noticing the exact moment it happened. Like watching a sunset, you can't pinpoint when day becomes night. One morning, you wake up and realize you're going through the motions, muscle memory masquerading as meaning.
The ripples spread quietly at first. Writing is just writing, after all - until it isn't. Until you realize it was your anchor to something more meaningful. Your way of making sense of the world, connecting dots, and reaching across the void to touch other minds.
When that tether frays, other connections start to loosen, too. Reading loses its savor. Conversations feel shallow. Even your dreams become prosaic like your inner world is running on backup power.
Losing your "why" is a gift wrapped in devastation. Like a forest fire clearing dead undergrowth, it burns away everything that isn't essential. All the borrowed purposes, inherited shoulds, and accumulated expectations all turn to ash, leaving only the bare earth of possibility.
I feel something stirring beneath the ashes of my old certainties. Not a new why—not yet—but something more valuable: the courage to sit with its absence.
I opened a new document, and its blank white expanse was no longer an accusation but a mercy. Maybe this is what they mean by rock bottom—this strange peace that comes with having nothing left to lose and no pretense left to maintain. The cursor blinks, patient as a therapist, waiting for whatever wants to emerge.
Outside, clouds drift across the sun, their shadows racing across my desk like thoughts I can't quite catch. In this moment of empty purpose, I feel strangely full - of questions, possibilities, and the lightness that comes with laying down a burden you didn't know you were carrying.
Do you know this place? The fertile void where old purposes go to die, and new ones wait to be born?
A week has passed since that moment of reckoning. The same desk, but something's shifted—like the subtle change in air pressure before the weather turns. I'm watching my cursor blink again, but its rhythm feels less like an accusation and more like a heartbeat this time.
Here's what I've learned about reconstructing a "why": it's less like building and more like archaeology. You dig through layers of should-haves and suppose-to, brushing away the sediment of expectations, until you uncover something that feels genuine—not borrowed, not prescribed, but carved from your soul.
The file is no longer empty. Words have begun to flow again, but differently now. They come slower, perhaps, but with the weight of examined truth behind them. I'm writing about losing my way—not because it's trending, but because it's the honest thing I can do now.
A new "why" is taking shape, though it feels presumptuous to name it yet. It's more fragile than the old one but somehow more resilient - like a young tree that bends with the wind instead of standing rigid against it. It whispers something about authenticity, the courage to be lost, and the value of questions over answers.
The sun has set again, but my screen's glow feels warmer. I've written a few paragraphs about losing my purpose, and for the first time in months, each word feels necessary—not because they're perfect or profound but because they're true.
The cursor still blinks, marking the time between what was and what could be. But now it seems less like a metronome counting empty beats and more like a lighthouse beam sweeping across dark waters, illuminating small patches of possibility.
I saved the document—not in my usual "Blog Posts" folder but in a new one labeled "True Things." The name makes me smile. For now, that's purpose enough: to write what's true for me, light small fires in the darkness, and leave honest markers for others who might pass this way.
Outside my window, the city hums with its endless rhythms. Another night, another blank screen waiting to be filled. But this time, as my fingers find their place on the keyboard, I'm not searching for my "why" anymore. I'm creating it, word by word, in the only way that matters - by staying present and trusting that meaning isn't something you find but something you forge.
The cursor blinks. And I begin again.
For further exploration…
To learn how humans create meaning, even in life's darkest moments, turn to Viktor E. Frankl's “Man's Search for Meaning.” Through his experiences as a Holocaust survivor, Frankl illuminates how purpose isn't something we stumble upon but something we actively create. His development of logotherapy—finding meaning as life's motivational force—offers comfort and practical guidance for anyone who has lost their sense of "why."