I want to be a writer. I want to create all day. I want to extricate myself from the minutia of suburban drudgery so I can live in a rustic mountain cabin, surrounded by natural beauty and beasts, subject to the whims of swirling winds and the gradual, graceful erosion of time. I want to know what it’s like to breathe in the purest air and sip from stone-filtered creeks. I want to observe the changing seasons, the birth and growth and death of animals and plants, turning these experiences into prose and poetry and song. I want to choose words drenched in meaning, indelible phrases that resonate today and for generations to come. I want the gifts of wisdom, peace, and tranquility, until the end of my days at which time I lie down on the soft blades of a sloping bluff, beneath a warm summer sun, showered by the scent of native flora, drawing joyfully my last breath.
But I can’t. I have things to do. So many things to do...
Like finish the brochure, launch the website, edit the video, pay the invoice, look for a better job, reallocate retirement accounts, pay bills, update the budget, prepare tax returns, take the Highlander in for service (and probably new tires), refill prescriptions, kitchen cabinet quote, landscaping quote, fix the front porch light, fix the drainage in the backyard, patch the concrete, get those pants hemmed, return calls, return emails, reschedule the dentist, refinance student loans, clean the garage, clean the basement, back-up the hard drive, paint the dining room, check the HRA balance, check the spam filter, replace the furnace filter (and the water filter), schedule the pool opening, take my meds, take a walk, have a talk, take a crap, take a nap, worry, scurry, hurry. There’s just so much to do.
Sure, I’d like to live the life I want. But I’m too busy living the life I’ve created.
That sounds...kinda...stupid. Doesn’t it?
Think it might be time for a change.