I often think about my younger self.
I’m in awe of my levels of energy, zeal and spirit.
But I also question why I was obsessed with getting somewhere when I had no idea where that might be.
Law is a case in point.
I threw my hat into the “ring” even though I only went to University to prove that I could get a degree.
The “ring”, such as it is, has turned out to be oceanic in its levels of disappointment. I’m not sure what I was expecting but not to be crippled by the inability to find myself somewhere in the melee.
I suppose that begs the question: if that’s the purpose of work?
I’d like to think so; but far from finding myself, I lost myself in the need to bill like the bejesus, and paid scant attention to my beliefs — such as they were at the time.
And I’m still at it but this time with time on my hands — too much time, sadly.
This means I’ve this midly quixotic notion that there’s still time to do something constructive with my life, but as I edge towards 60, I have this unerring sense that it’s too late.
Why?
Because:
I don’t have the energy to rebrand myself;
I don’t feel strongly drawn to anything more than living a nice quiet life;
It seems so pointless;
I don’t want to work despite the imperative to still generate money; and
I don’t think it would make any difference to my life.
If the foregoing sounds depressive, then mea culpa but there’s no point pretending that stopping one thing to do something else is a necessity. In fact, the way I feel about things, I could just as easily sell everything I own, including the matrimonial home, buy a small parcel of land, erect a mobile caravan or park a van on the land and do as little as possible save perhaps write, read and walk.
Did I think this is where I’d end up?
I’m not sure but as I look into the maw of my past, I realise how much of my life has been spent working for no other reason than I couldn’t think of what else to do with my life.
How sad is that?
Onwards, as they say, forever onwards.
Blessings,
Julian