One of the writing blogs I follow posted recently about our day jobs. What we fill our hours with besides writing. And do we like it?

I was surprised to see so many people had more than one job and that the majority enjoyed them.

“Sure, if I could be a full time writer, that would be awesome, but I’m pretty content.”

This seemed to be the gist of responses. Contentment. The weaker part of me wishes I was so lucky. I’d love to be content. But contentment, at its core, is evil. It is the decision to settle surrounded by a thick, confusing cloud of comfort, and sometimes comfort is all we need. I need more. Maybe that makes me greedy in this life. I think it makes me alive. I’ve been (relatively) comfortable for a while now. Shelter, food, nice, safe job (even though I’ve quit two already, and for no good reason other than just not wanting to be there). But contentment kills. It is the silent epidemic that creeps up and pierces our beating hearts, suffocating our need to dream, to ask the universe for what we really want.

What do I really want?

I want the opposite of contentment. I want to exist.

And God wants me to as well.

The universe has been speaking to me. It has been for a while, but it’s up to me to choose whether I want to listen. Just like you. You may not realize it, but you’re given signs everyday, as answers to prayers you don’t realize you’re asking. Or maybe you do. But how can you receive an answer when someone doesn’t physically reply? You’re given hints, guides. Signs that direct you this way or that, helping to keep you on the path you’re meant to tread.  And these guides happen in all different ways, from songs to movies to things that drop (not so accidentally) into your life. All of them are speaking to you, requesting that you follow their direction if you merely open your eyes and pay attention. I believe signs are everywhere, and appear in different forms to different people. But the method I’ve come to understand and rely upon the most is numbers. I just read the numbers.

222.

This is the one I’ve seen most recently. Over and over and over since I had a mini breakdown a couple weeks ago because I was just miserable that I had to get up and do something that didn’t even keep me content. Why is this such a struggle? Why can’t I just wake up every day and write? I know what I want… why can’t I just go for it? Like my nurse and teacher friends who are already settled in their careers. Why do I have to keep a day job when it’s doing nothing other than occupying time? Why, why, why, why, why? To pay bills? To keep this life of non-contentment going? What’s the point?

I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t want this.

It was like a prayer, a sacred chant that began to build upon itself, festering until it grew from the outside in, and eventually, blossoming into a silent request to the universe:

I want to write, I want to write, I want to write.

I want this badly enough to sell my car. To eat Raman Noodles every night. To covet every single dollar so I can take a year off and just go for. Just go for it. Am I supposed to just go for it?

222.

On license plates and word counts, telephone numbers and addresses. Clocks and countdowns, it’s everywhere I look.

222. 222. 222.

What? What is the universe trying to tell me?

If you believe, like I do, in reading the numbers, then you know what I’m about to say. That God, or the universe or whatever deity or higher Being you believe in is agreeing with me. 222 is the number(s) associated with life purpose, with aligning thoughts and truth. I’m being told to focus on these thoughts, these wants, these desires because I’m made up of them; they’re part of my physical and spiritual being and so when I concentrate on them, it’s God or the universe or whatever deity or higher Being you believe in telling me that I’m on the right path, that I’m connecting with my life purpose, that I’m in tune with why I’m here, what I should be doing.

That’s a lot to go off of by just seeing three numbers repeatedly. But what else is there to rely on? Contentment? A job that offers no satisfaction or life fulfillment? I can’t do that. I can’t just work in spare moments and late hours and be content with my day job, thinking “it would be awesome to be a full-time writer.” That’s simply not a possibility. The weaker part of me wishes it was. If writing was a hobby, maybe it would be different. I could acquiesce. I could breathe all day long and delight myself with fun projects in the evening. I could be content.

But I want the opposite of contentment. I want to exist.

And it looks like the universe agrees with me.