You have to write things, sometimes, to get them out of your head. I’m 27 years old and I’ve written far less than I’d have liked to by now. Which may be why I have too many things in my head. 

27 is an arbitrary age, but I am starting to get a little nervous that I haven’t figured much of anything out. I keep going to work, eating my oatmeal with seeds and worrying about the quotidian tangles of my life, and in the background life passes like an accident. If so much time has been able to pass while I figure nothing out, surely a lot more time can pass just as easily, and still nothing will be figured out. 30, 50, 75. These markers could all pass like roadsigns while I’m rummaging around the hypothetical backseat of my car trying to find something out. 

I get the feeling I’m approaching a terminal velocity, which to me means the amount of cumulative energy invested in taking my life one direction has gathered such momentum that I’m stuck going in that direction until I reach a natural terminus like heart failure or a car accident. I know this isn’t true, really, but in some ways it is. Once you have a job that gives you health insurance and a 401k, it’s really hard to say nah I’m good. But it’s harder to say nah when you’re married, or have kids, I think. 

None of this is funny or interesting but I need to put it on page before it leaks out of my ears. I’m going to die one of these days. And I better not have a marketing job when I do.