How did I get here from there? Just pure, blind luck I guess. And crowd following. And fitting in. And uninformed decisions. And non-decisions.
There was a lot of not knowing what I wanted, I do remember that. Or who I was. Or who I wanted.
There was a lot of thinking about what I wanted to do, and then doing something else. A lot of planning not followed through with. A lot of “someday, I would sure like to…”
It’s not that I’m nowhere. Or no one. I’ve done things. Parents are proud, as are former teachers. I’ve fulfilled plenty of other people’s dreams, overcome obstacles that were not mine, accomplished things many would find impossible. I am living a life that many, many other people would be perfectly delighted with.
But then, aren’t we all?
“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” Oh, what a cliché! I can’t stand it. Can barely stand to type it. But isn’t it true? What is more true?
This is what I am writing while I really should be writing something else.
Work is what I do when I would rather be anywhere else. Doing anything else. Yet I keep getting out of bed every morning. Getting up. Going in. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Why?
Is it inertia?
Is it some strange form of overworking laziness?
Or is it just paralyzing fear that all paths, all choices, lead back to this familiar, unshakeable sensation that this isn’t what I thought it was, isn’t what I wanted, isn’t who I am, yet there is nothing else to do, too many things to want, no one else to be?
“But it’s not too late,” they say. Is it not? Isn’t it always? Aren’t we always both too old and too young to escape the singularity of our one personal life experience? Every choice precludes other choices. Every book read is another book you’re not reading. Everything you do is something you’re not doing instead.