Today I am forcing myself to write something just to write. Just because I want to say, “Today I wrote something”. So, I write. I am writing. The sentence that is never true because its false the moment you finish writing it.
I am still writing my biography.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t built for hard work. It would be so nice to be the type of person who could just lay about all day and not worry about anything at all. But does that person even really exist? Sometimes I wish the path was clear because if the choices are already made for me then why does it feel like I’m wrestling with multiple consequences?
Maybe some will buy sports cars or speed boats or take up hang-gliding or girlfriends – but me, my crisis is vocational. My madness driven by loss of purpose and sense of being permanently liminal. Or worse, locked in a prison of my own design.
This is to the end of 42. The answer to everything, Jackie.