An impossibly rotten night. It’s early and I went to bed late, but I’m done — I want out of bed. I must have waken up fifty times, tossing and turning. I had one long, continuous dream that bridged each of these interruptions. I wouldn’t call it a bad dream so much as a reckoning, a ledger of my past and present.
The result, after having waken up, is the realization that I am right now as forgotten as I have ever been, and this state of affairs will likely continue well into the future. It is the existential angst of adulthood, staring me full in the face.
I suppose middle age is about time to start worrying about these things. In a few weeks, I’ll be twenty-nine, so it probably shouldn’t suprise me that I begin to want to build my castle — that I begin to measure compulsively.