Things I want to do differently in the second half of my 20s
How to not regret, part 1
I had a weird dream a couple of weeks ago.
I don’t really remember it, of course . . . Something about being stuck on a space ship with one of my family friends, drinking something from an unfamiliar red can I got out of a vending machine (they have vending machines in space??), talking about how we might not make it back.
Apparently, my name was Jesus, and apparently, I had named myself (yeah: uh-oh). I’m not exactly sure how I picked up on this detail—it was apparent in the way that dreams make things apparent. I didn’t think I was the Messiah or anything; it’s just that, for some reason, I decided to call myself Jesus.
From what I gather thus far, this detail holds no weight in the story. It is quite simply, for how bizarre a detail it is, something I must take note of.
And so, my friend was asking me, because death seemed imminent (since, for some reason, a part of the ship was broken, and we were not able to get back down to Earth), “You call yourself ‘Jesus’—are you prepared to die?”
I wasn’t. I wasn’t prepared to die. I wasn’t scared, necessarily, but I wasn’t ready.
There’s so much more to do! So much I’ve yet to experience! And why did I name myself Jesus?
When I woke up, right after taking a sip of whatever it was I got from that vending machine, a subtle, peaceful, but discomforting emotion came over me. It wasn’t super intense. But it was real, visceral—it was trying to tell me something.
Since I was on the couch, I propped myself up and looked to my right, out the window, at the big blue sky, painted with whisps of white clouds and specks of what could only have been birds.
The world, I thought to myself.
“Under that very same sky,” I continued, rather dramatically, “is both peace and war, riches and poverty, pleasure and pain, good and evil. Under this same sky—the sky I slept so peacefully underneath last night—bombs have been detonated, triggers have been pulled, lives have been torn apart. Deaths, hospitalizations, the most gruesome experiences endured . . . And yet, I slept peacefully. Last night.”
Again, I really don’t know what this has to do with the story. It’s just what happened.
Then I noticed, as I was looking out at the sky, that each time my heart beat, my vision shuddered, just a little.
Caffeine, you see, messes me up a bit. My cardiologist says it’s okay to consume as long as it’s not in excess. And because it “helps me” write, I keep drinking it. But I know, deep down, that it’s not absolutely healthy, at least every single day of the week—despite how dang-tootin happy it makes me.
I’ve noticed this shudder for a while. And I’ve done things to minimize it. I’ve toned my consumption back, I’ve started drinking more water, I’ve tried taking magnesium. But I still shudder.
It’s not comfortable, and I don’t like it. But I don’t stop drinking coffee. Because I want to be a successful writer. And probably also because I’m addicted.
Now, perhaps I could still “succeed” if I didn’t drink coffee; in truth, I’ve not really given abstinence my best shot. But, I mean, c’mon. Am I actually gonna write without a cup o' joe by my side?
Maybe I’ll give it a try one day.
Regardless, as I was looking out the window, having been subtly overtaken by that rather discomforting feeling, and having taken notice of this familiar shudder, I wondered to myself, “When will this stop?”
In other words, when will I again experience life as I used to, devoid of some artificial barrier between myself and reality, without the pressure to wake up each morning and “get shit done?”
I’ve known for some time now that by consuming coffee, I’m placing a sort of pane between my perception and life in its purest form. I’ve thought to myself on many an occasion, “What was my visceral experience like when I was a boy? Before I let the world intoxicate my body and spirit? How joyful could the simple sight of leaves rustling in the wind have made me? Will I ever come to experience things that purely ever again? And how old will I be when I grant myself the freedom to step away from my keyboard for even a week and live life as a human is designed to live it?"
I know, I know: it’s coffee, not heroine.
Nevertheless, it’s a barrier.
More pertinently, though, it has indeed been many years since I’ve not spent almost every morning at my computer. Even though I’ve willingly opted to embark on this journey myself, the fact is that it has been a long time since I’ve experienced life devoid of obligation, free to sit there in nature and be with God’s creation, no strings pulling my mind elsewhere.
I’ve wondered many times if this is how I’d be living my life if I were an old-world human . . . Would I not, instead of sitting before my computer as if it were a portal to the divine, wake up in a coastal forest, early with the sun, and make my way to the water’s edge to hunt for seafood to feed my friends and family?
I would.
But I don’t.
When will this stop?
I’ve had many thoughts throughout the past year or so since I graduated college . . . Thoughts about what in the shit I’m doing with my life.
Now, I wouldn’t say I absolutely loved college. I mean, I was a horrible student. And I was quite simply experiencing throughout that time a whole lot of inner turmoil.
But I did feel like I was a part of something . . . Like I was, at least at certain points, where I was meant to be. Since I’ve been out of college, though, I’ve felt much more like a leaf in the wind.
While I’ve been able to, with my newfound freedom, give a heck of a lot more time to what I’d call my “purpose,” I feel, in a way I didn’t before, like life is slipping through my fingers.
I wake up every single day, as I have for a good long time, and head straight to the cafe to write for three or four hours, after which I Uber (or, as is the case of late, sell life insurance), after which I exercise, after which I eat dinner, after which I go to bed. Day in and day out.
Sure, I do things on the weekend. I go out with friends—though not as much, nor as intensely, as I once did—and I’ll head out every now and then to the islands, and sometimes I’ll eat at a nice restaurant, but I don’t do anything crazy awesome. At least, as of late.
It’s not that I don’t love writing, but that I don’t really feel, as I did in college, like I’m a part of anything special, anything meaningful. I’m just kind of grinding my life away.
I know this is what I signed myself up for. I know the journey to “financial freedom” isn’t always sunshine and rainbows. I know we have to do monotonous work one way or another. And I know, too, that some small adjustments would generate incredible differences in this feeling. A day more socializing, a night with a church group, a morning with the sunrise . . .
I must acknowledge that my goal here, indeed, is to make enough money—or create something that’ll forge a sustainable income so I may do with my time whatever I want (and do work I love day in and day out)—to be able to live free of the weight that I carry being perpetually broke and, almost more importantly, travel and do those cool things that’ll make me feel like I’m “living life to the fullest” (like waking up in a coastal forest). I know, in other words, that I must sacrifice in the short term for the long term.
But it still feels like I’m missing the point a little. Because, like, how long will this go on for? Am I willing to go another five years like this? And do I really need to be missing out on some of these things to make my dream a reality anyway? Can’t I just, like, chill out a little? Might it even be productive for me to take my foot off the pedal on some days?
Of course, what I’m experiencing is undoubtedly natural for a 20-something . . . not only a part of the journey of life, but a process we all must endure to find our place in the world. I’ve realized, the older I get, especially after reading writers from times past, that I’m not so alone—despite my visceral reaction to things—in my experiences . . . That all this pain is quite simply a part of growing up.
Nevertheless, these feelings are asking for change. A transformation.
It is a fool who puts off what he’d like to do now in hopes he can do it later.
So what do I do? What do I need to change to feel more like I’m living it up? How do I make sure I don’t regret?
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