What’s up, you may ask, and I’ve been asked one too many times.
In the past I would have rattled off a list of things I’d rather be doing, or would be doing sometime in the near future, and these declarations too often tend to lie near the improbable — if only for my tendency to be completely enamored by something one moment, only to disregard it fifteen minutes later. I’ve always joked about having the attention span of a five-year old. It exempts me from any real responsibility whatsoever, plus it grants that insatiable charm exuded only by those eternally in flight.
But to what end? At the end of my days, I want my life to speak of conquests, not one abandoned pursuit after another.
I’ve learned a thing or two about the proverbial real world, but perhaps the most important is this: that you are only as good as the things you’ve actually done. For years I’ve always admired those who can easily fill in late-night conversations with tales of the multitude of things they want to do with themselves, and while this admiration has yet to waver — I like people who know exactly what they want, I’m already too indecisive to want someone as random as I am — I have a deeper respect for people whose eyes light up when they speak of the last place they’ve been too, the stories they’ve actually written aside and apart from those they have yet to tell.
And so, what’s up, you may ask. A lot, actually, I’ll respond. But let me just tell you when I get there.