I have these moments where I think, “What I need is a plan. A plan to get back on the horse. A plan to pull it back together. A five year plan. A one year plan. A ten year plan. Whatever. A plan.”
And then the next moment, when I think about doing it, I feel tired.
I feel tired, tired, tired.
Too much living. Too many things. Too many people.
When life was simpler, lives were livable.
How many people can you love and lose? How many towns can you live in and leave? How many caskets can you carry? How many memories, tragedies, diaries, trajectories can one lifetime hold?
How much is too much?
I’m tired. Do I want to make a plan? Do I care to make a plan?
For what purpose? To do it all over again?
I’m tired of loving people. I’m tired of living places. I don’t like where I am, but the proverbial definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over again and hoping for a different result.
How many plans have there been?
How many books have I written? How many degrees have I earned? How many homes have I outfitted? Plan after plan after plan, executed over decades.
I always end up here. What will be different this time?
I know, I know. Try a different genre of plan. As in, way different (I mean, I’ve done the date a dominatrix and the move to New York with $200 to your name and the promise to write a book in a month without knowing how things).
Join a monastery? Hike from the top of Alaska to the souther tip of Chile with only the clothes on my back?
I mean, I’m not twenty any longer.
Somebody drop the meaning of life in my lap, please.
I have a lot to give but no fucking way to give it.