I have very little idea of what purpose means, but today I’m writing about it anyway. This is how I make sense of things. I’ve addressed it in this column before: purpose, meaning, being 21 and utterly confused. My dedication to seeming continually lost is less of an artistic choice, and more of a direct representation of what takes up the majority of my brainspace lately. Most weeks, when I see my editor’s deadline approaching on my planner, I crack open my journal and scan through my most recent scribbles and streams of consciousness until I find something that might be just substantial enough to lengthen into a readable column. But the whole precedent of my writing, in my head at least, is that it will never be read or given hardly any weight. Yet as these things go, from time to time, an odd column of mine will be discovered by a family member and sent to an aunt in New York, a cousin in Seoul. On a recent phone call with one such family member, I was offered the heartening redundancy of well-meaning assurance: You’re meant to be figuring things out right now. Then, the question: So what do you want to do?