I had a fight with Father Time. The scythe-wielding bastard tried to kick me up the backside. 'What are you doing with your life? Time is ticking. You'll be thirty before you know it.' At which point I threw his hourglass to the floor, scattered glass and grains of sand. It probably explains why I went to sleep in July and woke up in September. Blog wise, that is.
Reader, I appear to have reached that stage. The mid-twenties alarm has bleeped. Of late, everyone has a question about the direction of my life, questions swathed in the fabric of time. 'When are you going to settle down?' 'What career path do you want to follow?' 'You know you're not getting any younger...?' And so on and so forth.
Seemingly, the countdown has begun. A peaked sense of urgency to abide by conventions. I'm stuck in The Game of Life. I'm a little pink peg in my little plastic car and, apparently, I need to put my foot down. Marry a blue peg. Buy a house. Have 2.4 children and live happily ever after. Roll the dice, take these steps and do as others must.
But what if you want to take one step forward and three back? Appreciate the journey, ignore the destination. Enjoy the unexpected. Are you going against nature just because you deplore the stereotypical sense of life's expectations? If I don't tick a box on the list of lifetime achievements, is that a life half lived?
The truth is I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing. There is no dreaded sense of urgency or desire to conform. No fear of setting down roots before I wilt. I appreciate the unknown, the randomness that is my life. I enjoy playing the game, just not by the rules.
To ask me what I'm doing with my life is like asking a monkey for the square root of pi. You'll never get the bloody answer...