I always delight beginnings. A new job. A new year. Starting a new blog.
But then as you slowly past the days on the calendar, the fire you had when you were just creating your bucket list or year goals start to fade away and the list overwhelmed you like it defines what you will become in the future.
February was the month when you say, you should try again. Harder this time.
Then comes March.
And like the previous years, I would always wait for the first days of the months to set new rules for myself and eventually fail my todos.
The burst of ideas were all in my head. I wanted to start a business though haven’t saved a penny on my bank account. I wanted to write a book but haven’t started even a single page. I wanted to read more books but I spent my leisure hours sleeping or watching Netflix.
I would feel a surge of motivation from Ted talk or watching the movie Julie and Julia but no amount of inspiration could make me accomplish anything within the day.
I’m lazier than my bish cat and my focus is scattered like brains blown out from the skull.
Will I ever be good at anything? Maybe, at negative self-talking in the form of blogging.
I remember the short story Sketches for a Life of Wassily from the book Break it down.
It was like Lynda, the author, knew me and reincarnated Wassily. A guy in his thirties who can’t get anything done. He always believes in the things that he could do and what will do in the future, like me, he waited for when the time is right. He’s a daydreamer and a mediocre employee, one you wouldn’t employ for having these two adjectives in an employee is such a waste of money and kindness.
Just got a call from my Boss. I messed up and sent the applicants the wrong physical address of our company. Also, wasn’t able to double check if my boss’ calendar was blocked off for the interview. I’m double dead but I’m glad that it’s Friday today. I can start again in becoming the best version of me on Monday.
Then somehow the thought of becoming like Wassily scares me and the way I think about time as if it was —endless. Some doors will close as you age they say. Veins get clogged mostly at 40. Sex will run dry.
Wassily let life passed through his eyes and while he was just a fictional character, I am real.. and I’m well aware of what I’ve let slip through. Chances. No more. A tragedy in progress.