At one time I had this really clear plan. My whole future was laid out. I could see it so clearly; all I needed to do was to close my eyes, and the certainty was there. It would happen. What happened to me?
I’m good at zooming in. I can focus on one thing for hours, and be oblivious to everything else. Mark says that I’m in the zone when I’m like that. It’s as if I’m not really there. It’s true, I can shut out everything and focus on a task or a goal. My mother tells me I am incredibly stubborn when I want to be, almost like my dad.
This morning when we woke up, Mark and I talked about plans and stuff. You know the scene. You lie there in bed staring at the roof, and partitioning life into manageable little bits that you can control. Each bit has a sub-task, and the completion of each sub-task means you’re closer to the Big Goal.
Structured, analytical, methodical, and steady. That’s how I’d describe the path to The Goal. My mother made me into a quasi-scientist after all, didn’t she? At least the methodical side of her rubbed off on me. Except…
Except for the fact that I don’t have a Big Goal. Not a concrete one. Not like I used to have where every single little detail could be turned over and observed. I haven’t had a Big Goal since college, have I? I’m into my second year at university, and I have never found the goal to replace the bright, shiny, clear one, and by now I wing things.
“Be a writer” is a vague, opaque, and inscrutable goal, isn’t it? What kind of writer is that? I don’t know. Do I want to be a journalist? A novelist? An essayist? An archivist?
This morning, I thought about that, and about the lack of a Big Concrete Goal. Like I used to have, and I realised it doesn’t really matter. Does this mean I’m not hungry for achievement? Does this mean I’m lazy? Content? I’ll never amount to anything? I’ll be a burden on Mark as I dabble in my meaningless little projects?
I don’t know. And I don’t know if it really matters that much any more. Maybe this is who I am now. Maybe people change so much from one year to another so that one can seem to be totally different at different times. Can a sloth become a busy bee? Can a glutton become an ascetic? Can a thinker become a dullard? I don’t know.